Mr. Paradise

by Elmore Leonard

  ELMORE LEONARD

  Mr. Paradise

  HarperTorch

  An Imprint of HarperCollins Publishers

  Mr. Paradise

  In hindsight, Victoria’s Secret model Kelly Barr thinks maybe it wasn’t such a great idea to accompany her callgirl roommate Chloe to Tony Paradiso’s house. The wealthy, eighty-four-year-old retired Motor City lawyer’s idea of fun was innocent enough: watching old Michigan football games on TV while a sexy companion shakes her pom-poms and prances around topless in a U of M cheerleader’s outfit. On this particular night, though, two killers decide to get into the action, leaving Chloe and “Mr. Paradise” dead in the old man’s living room while Kelly is elsewhere with Tony’s right-hand man. There is a bright spot, an opportunity for a very profitable score, provided that Kelly can convince the cops she’s somebody else. But Homicide Detective Frank Delsa isn’t stupid, even if he is lonely, good-hearted … and about to sign up for more trouble than he ever bargained for.

  Contents

  1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30

  To the Detroit Police Homicide Section

  1

  LATE AFTERNOON CHLOE AND KELLY WERE HAVING cocktails at the Rattlesnake Club, the two seated on the far side of the dining room by themselves: Chloe talking, Kelly listening, Chloe trying to get Kelly to help her entertain Anthony Paradiso, an eighty-four-year-old guy who was paying her five thousand a week to be his girlfriend.

  Now Chloe was offering Kelly a cigarette from a pack of Virginia Slims, the long ones, the 120’s.

  They’d made their entrance, the early after-work crowd still looking, speculating, something they did each time the two came in. Not showgirls. More like fashion models: designer casual wool coats, oddball pins, scarves, big leather belts, definitely not bimbos. They could be sisters, tall, the same type, the same nose jobs, both remembered as blonds, their hair cropped short. Today they wore hats, each a knit cloche down on her eyes, and sunglasses. It was April in Detroit, snow predicted.

  Now they were lighting the cigarettes.

  •

  The waitress, a young blond named Emily, came through the room of white tablecloths and place settings with their drinks, alexanders straight up, with gin. She said as she always did, “I’m sorry, but you’re not supposed to smoke in here. It’s okay in the bar.”

  Kelly looked at Emily in her black pants and starched white shirt. “Has your boss said anything?”

  “He hasn’t yet.”

  “So forget about it,” Chloe said. “He likes us.” She brought a Ritz-Carlton ashtray from her coat pocket and placed it on the table, Emily watching.

  She said, “They’re always from a different hotel. I like the one, I think it’s from the Sunset Marquis?”

  “It’s one of my favorites,” Chloe said. “Next time I’m in L.A. I’ll pick up a few more.”

  Emily said, “Cool hats,” and left.

  Kelly watched her moving through the empty tables.

  “Emily’s a little weird.”

  “She’s a fan,” Chloe said. “Fans are weird.”

  “I’ll bet anything she comes back with a catalog.”

  “What’re you in this month?”

  “Saks, Neiman Marcus—she’ll have Victoria’s Secret.”

  “Remember she asked if I modeled,” Chloe said, “and I told her now and then but mostly I did hands? She said, Oh.”

  “You called it hand jobs. Show her your Playboy spread, she’ll freak,” Kelly said, and saw Emily coming back through the tables with a catalog, holding it to her breast with two hands, Victoria’s Secret, a look of pain on Emily the waitress’s face, hesitant now as she stood before Kelly.

  “I hope you guys don’t think I’m a pest.”

  “I don’t mind,” Kelly said. “What page?”

  Emily gave her the catalog and a Sharpie. “Sixteen, the Second Skin Collection. Could you sign it like right above your navel?”

  “I’m in the Seamless Collection,” Kelly said, “Second Skin’s the next page,” and wrote Kelly in black over bare flesh. “I’m in another one somewhere.”

  “Page forty-two,” Emily said, “the new low-rise bikini. And on the next page, the low-rise v-string and low-rise thong?”

  Kelly turned pages until she was looking at herself in white panties. “You want each one signed?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind. I really appreciate it.”

  Chloe said to her, “Which one do you have on?”

  Emily made a face, clenching her teeth. “I’m trying the v-string.”

  “Feels good?”

  Emily squirmed a little. “It’s okay.”

  “I can’t wait to get them off,” Kelly said. She handed Emily the catalog.

  “I kinda like the way a thong grabs you,” Chloe said, “but haven’t worn one lately, and if you want to know why, ask the old man.”

  Emily left.

  And Chloe said, “Aren’t you glad you’re not a waitress?”

  “Yeah, but I think I’d be good at it,” Kelly said. “I’d take orders for a table without writing anything down. The woman with blue hair, the whitefish, the scotch drinker, pickerel. And I wouldn’t call them ‘you guys.’”

  “Your style,” Chloe said, “make it look easy. But you fly to New York to work instead of living there.”

  “The traffic,” Kelly said. “You spend most of your time waiting for it to move.”

  “So what? You’re sitting in a limo.”

  “I like to drive.”

  “You could work for Vicki’s full-time, make a lot more money.”

  “I do okay.”

  “Go to parties with movie stars—”

  “Who want to jump you.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “I have to be in love. Or think I am.”

  They sipped their alexanders and smoked their cigarettes and Chloe said, “Hon … I desperately need you.”

  “I can’t, I have to take my dad to the airport.”

  “He’s still here?”

  “Playing the slots all day and giving me advice at dinner. He thinks I should get a new agent.”

  “Isn’t he a barber?”

  “He has time to think about things.”

  “Get him a taxi.”

  “I want to be sure he makes the flight. My dad drinks.”

  “Can’t we work around it? I’m talking about three hours, max. By midnight the old guy’s asleep in his chair. He even nods off while we’re talking, drops his cigar. I have to watch he doesn’t set himself on fire.”

  “Not tonight,” Kelly said, but then began to let herself give in a little because they were good friends and had been sharing a loft the past couple of years, Kelly saying, “If I did go with you sometime, would I have to do anything?”

  She wouldn’t mind getting a look at Mr. Paradiso.

  The way Kelly understood the arrangement, the old man was laying out five thousand a week to have Chloe available, all to himself. It was a lot for not having to do much, almost twice what Kelly made in her underwear. What didn’t make sense, Chloe kept saying she was tired of thinking up ways to entertain the old guy, but wouldn’t quit, and the five grand a week had nothing to do with it. Chloe had money. She’d paid cash for the downtown loft with a view of the river.

  Kelly didn’t ask, but had to assume the reason Chloe didn’t walk out, she was looking for a big payday when the old man died.

  “His favorite entertainment,” Chloe said, “he loves cheerleaders, live ones, with all the cute moves? I’ve got routines worked out.”

  “We stand in front of him,” Kelly said, “and do cheers?”

  “We stand in front
of the TV set, on each side of the screen while he’s watching a University of Michigan football game, a video. He must have a hundred of them, but only games U of M won. Tonight he wants to watch the ‘98 Rose Bowl, Michigan and Washington State. He pauses the game while we cheer. I’ve got little pleated skirts we wear. Tony’s idea was to get real Michigan cheerleaders, so he sent Montez to Ann Arbor, see if he could talk a couple of girls into doing it and get paid, like once a week.”

  “Who’s Montez?”

  “I told you about him—”

  “The houseman?”

  “That’s Lloyd. They’re both black. Montez is Tony’s number one, he takes him places, gets things for him.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like me, off my Web page. So Montez tried to get a couple of real cheerleaders to come to the house. He’s a cool guy, but could be a pimp in a business suit and the cheerleaders turned him down. He offered to buy their skirts, got turned down again and had a couple made to my size. With pleats, maize and blue. In fact one of the cheers I made up is, ‘Go maize, go blue, we’re the chicks who’ll go down on you.’ Tony likes the cheers spiced up. ‘We’re Big Ten and we are flirty.’ Do a double clap, twice. ‘When we go down, we go down and dirty.’”

  “Yea, team,” Kelly said. “You have sweaters with little megaphones on them?”

  “It works better topless.”

  “Uh-unh, not me. Get somebody else.”

  “I’ve tried. The one girl I know who loves to do it’s out of town this week. I’m hoping,” Chloe said, “Tony gets tired of cheerleaders, or one of these nights he gets excited—you know, his old ticker finally quits and he goes out with a big grin.”

  “I thought you liked him.”

  “I’m not hoping he’ll die. It’s just that I can’t help having mixed feelings about it.”

  “You’re in his will,” Kelly said.

  “Not even if I were a nun. Tony’s a widower with three married daughters, grandchildren, and a son who’s a prick. The guy scares me to death. Tony wanted to put me in his will and I said, ‘You know your son’ll take me to court after you’re gone.’ I didn’t say, ‘Or have me fucking killed if he has to.’ Tony Jr. runs the old man’s law firm, all criminal and personal injury.”

  “But he’s leaving you something,” Kelly said, “and that’s why you don’t walk out.”

  Chloe, smoking, nodding, said, “He won’t tell me what it is, but I think it’s a life insurance policy, like one that he’s had for years and recently made me the beneficiary? Otherwise, if he just took it out at his age, they’d turn him down.”

  “You think it’s a lot of money.”

  “Well sure. He said get a good financial adviser and I could be set for life. I’m thinking it’s for around five mil, if it’s like enough to retire on.”

  “He has the policy?”

  “He doesn’t want Tony Jr. to know about it. He might’ve been the beneficiary originally—if that’s what it is, insurance. But what else could it be?”

  “Where’s the policy?”

  “In a bank deposit box.”

  “You have the key?”

  “The box is in Montez Taylor’s name.”

  “The guy,” Kelly said, “who looks like a pimp in a business suit? You trust him?”

  “What’s in the box is mine, not his. Tony dies, Montez will see that I get whatever it is. Why’re you making a face? Tony trusts him. He says Montez is like a son to him, even if he is colored. Tony hasn’t caught up yet with being politically correct. Montez is a cool guy, mid-thirties, nice-looking. He takes Tony everywhere, all the U of M games, ten years he’s been doing it. Tony says he’s leaving Montez the house, since none of his kids want to live in Detroit. It’s in Indian Village off Jefferson, not far from here.”

  “Is it worth much?”

  “I’m not sure. If it was in Bloomfield Hills it would go for a couple of million, easy.”

  “He has servants?”

  “Maids come in but they don’t stay. I mentioned the houseman, Lloyd? He’s not as old as Tony but he’s up there. Lloyd looks like a cross between Uncle Ben on the rice box and Redd Foxx. He’ll say goodnight and Tony’ll call to him as he’s leaving the room, ‘I’m gonna get laid tonight, Lloyd.’ And Lloyd goes, ‘Be careful you don’t hurt yourself, Mr. Paradise.’”

  “Do you call him that, Mr. Paradise?”

  “When I’m sucking up. Montez and Lloyd’ve been calling him Mr. Paradise forever. The old guy loves it.”

  “Can he … you know, perform?”

  “Once in a while he seems to get off. His specialty is muff diving.” Chloe slipped off her sunglasses as she looked at her friend the catalog model, hope in Chloe’s blue eyes. “I’ve mentioned you to Tony. I mean that you’re fun, you’re smart, you’re interesting—”

  “Trustworthy, loyal.”

  “Good to your dad.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Kelly said. “If you can put off the cheerleading till tomorrow night, and if I don’t have to do it topless …”

  •

  They drove out 94 toward Detroit Metro, snow swirling in the Jetta’s headlights, Kelly keeping it close to sixty, anxious to get her dad on his flight; her dad enjoying the ride, talkative, a fifth of vodka in his carry-on; her dad wearing a nylon jacket, a straw hat and sunglasses, nine o’clock at night, snowing in April, the dude barber from West Palm who drank and chased women, now wanting to know why he wasn’t introduced to Chloe, and Kelly saying she wasn’t around.

  “What’s she do?”

  “Takes care of an old man.”

  “That don’t pay. How’s she afford to live with you, even going halves?”

  Kelly was tired of being the nice daughter who lived with her nice friend.

  “It’s hers. She paid four hundred thousand for it, cash.”

  “Jesus, her daddy leave her money?”

  “She earned it. She was an escort.”

  “A what?”

  “A call girl. She started at four-fifty an hour, was featured in Playboy and her rate jumped to nine hundred.”

  “For one hour?”

  “Plus tip. Three grand for all night, and she gave it up to entertain the old man.”

  “Jesus Christ,” her dad said, with maybe ten bucks in his jeans from the six hundred she’d given him, “and you didn’t introduce me?”

  2

  DELSA GOT THE CALL FROM RICHARD HARRIS AT home, six in the morning, barely light out, Delsa in his skivvies and a wool sweater, cold in the house, waiting for the coffee to perk. Harris said the firemen had to secure the place before anybody could go inside. Mostly smoke and water damage, windows broken.

  Delsa said, “Who’s dead?”

  “Three guys in the basement we saw through the window. You go in this pen around back, all mud and dog shit. A pit bull in there’s shaking he’s so scared. A pit bull. There’s a dog treadmill in the living room, a big-screen TV, PlayStation, X-Box, coloring book and crayons, and this rig called a Love Swing, still in the box. You know what I’m talking about?”

  “I’ve heard of it,” Delsa said.

  “I’ll bring the instructions, show how it works.”

  “Just the three guys in the house?”

  “Yeah, but they don’t live here. It’s an old duplex two blocks west of Tiger Stadium, an empty building on the corner and then this house. The woman in the other half is Rosella Munson, thirty-four, medium dark, chunky. She says the guy rents the burnt-out flat goes by the name Orlando. Mid-twenties, slim, light shade, wears his hair in rows. Lives here with his girlfriend Tenisha.”

  “Kids?”

  “No, but Rosella’s got three, none over seven years old. She called the fire department around four A.M. and got her kids out. Now she’s back in there packing to move.”

  “The guys in the basement,” Delsa said, “what are they?”

  “I thought at first they brothers. See, the fire was started down there, so parts of ‘em are burnt good, other
parts just blistered. You know, like the skin’s peeling? But they got tats on ‘em make ‘em Mexican, some southwest gang. I asked Rosella did she see them. No, she minds her business, but let me know this Orlando sells weed. Meaning what we could have here’s a busted deal.”

  It didn’t sound right. Delsa took time to pour a cup of coffee. “They were shot?”

  “Stripped and popped in the back of the head, all three. But one of ‘em had a chain saw taken to him, the chain saw still in the basement, scorched but brand-new, the box sitting there. The tech says there’s human tissue in the teeth of the saw. No shit. Cut a man into five pieces, I imagine so. But why didn’t they finish the job, do the other two?”

  Delsa said, “Would you want to? You’re covered with the guy’s blood? I think after doing the one somebody said fuck it. But was it Orlando? He’s selling weed, or he’s buying from his source. There’s a disagreement. He takes the three guys down to the basement—by himself? Makes them strip, shoots them and then sets his own house on fire. What’s wrong with that?”

  “I see what you mean,” Harris said.

  “Get next to the neighbor,” Delsa said, “Rosella Munson. Get her to tell you about the girlfriend, Tenisha. Maybe they like to have coffee. Maybe Tenisha had the kids over to play video games and color—you say there’s a coloring book. Richard, get us Tenisha quick as you can.”

  “Hold on,” Harris said. He was back in less than a minute saying, “Two guys from Six just arrived and Manny Reyes from Violent Crimes.”

  “Manny might be able to I.D. the three guys,” Delsa said. “What’ve you got for time of death?”

  Harris said, “The three panchos, late last night, they’re in and out of rigor, removal service is on the way. Frank, the M.E. death investigator—was Val Trabucci—took his pictures and then laid the dismembered guy back together. I said, ‘What you doing that for?’ Val goes, ‘Make sure the parts match.’ Hey shit, huh?”

  •

  Frank Delsa, thirty-eight, acting lieutenant of Squad Seven, Homicide Section, Detroit Police Department, had been living by himself in this house on the far east side since his wife’s death: now almost a year alone after nine years with Maureen, no children, Maureen herself with the Detroit Police, lieutenant in charge of the Sex Crimes unit. Married nine years when they decided they’d better start a family if they were going to have one, Maureen, already forty, three years older than Frank, went to see her doctor and was told she had cancer of the uterus. The hardest time for Frank was coming home, walking into the silence of the house.