Scarlet Fever

by David Stever

“Katie, most guys in this business are cops first. This is not something you learn in a couple of weeks.”

  “I know. But I’m not most guys. I can do this. I’m smart, and I learn fast.”

  Those eyes were the problem. It’s hard to look into those eyes and not give her whatever she wanted. “This is not like what you read in detective novels. It’s really boring most of the time.”

  “It wasn’t boring when you rescued me.”

  “That was different. Usually I’m sitting in my car for hours at a time, watching middle-aged married guys sneak into motel rooms.”

  “Do you take pictures?”

  “Yes, sometimes.”

  “I can do that. I even have my own camera.”

  Mike, not helping, offered, “Really? What kind?”

  “Nikon. The expensive kind. With three lenses and I took a couple of photography classes.”

  “Katie—”

  “What about interviewing suspects? I minored in journalism.” She was so jazzed she couldn’t even sit still. “Mr. Delarosa—”

  “Please call him Johnny. He’s never been Mr. Delarosa in his life,” chimed Mike.

  “Okay, stop, both of you. Katie, we run a bar. The PI work comes to us by word of mouth, mostly from old police connections. It’s not like we have a load of cases we’re working. And you don’t have any experience.”

  “Think of it like this—I’m a clean slate.” The blue eyes darted back and forth between Mike and me. “I don’t bring with me any…any…preconceived ways of doing things. You can teach me, mold me into what you want. Use me for whatever you need.” No way I could look at Mike after that line. “How many women PIs are there in this city?”

  I sat back in the booth. “I can’t think of any.”

  “See, perfect. You can use me on jobs and nobody will ever suspect I’m an investigator.”

  “She’s got a point there, boss.” Not helping.

  “Katie, me and Mike handle things our own way. I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I don’t think this job would be right for you.” She sank back in the booth.

  “Johnny’s right,” Mike said. “You need a police background. Plus, it’s not normal work. A lot of it is at night and in some not-so-nice places with not-so-nice people. You’re intelligent. You should be looking for a regular job with some better company.”

  She took a deep breath, let it out. As nice as it would be to have her around to look at, I hoped she was letting go of this idea. Instead, she geared up for round two. She looked at Mike. “Would you mind sitting down?”

  “Of course not.” He slid in beside me.

  She reached into her purse and put a copy of her resume on the table. “Would you consider this—you said you need some help at the bar on Fridays and Saturdays…?”

  “Well, I can use someone,” stammered Mike.

  “Okay, I’ll work on the weekends and you let me intern during the week. I can start with little small jobs as I learn. An internship. You won’t have to pay anything.”

  Intern. That’s all she had to say for Mike. “Well, there’s an idea. What do you think, Johnny?”

  I sat back without saying anything for a good minute. I think she could tell I was getting a bit exasperated. I drummed my fingers on the table, took another sip of bourbon. “Katie, why do you want this?”

  “All my friends have boring nine-to-five jobs. Offices and cubicles. I’d rather die than be an office drone. That’s all.”

  “Does your father know about this?”

  “I’m twenty-four. I’m my own person.”

  Mike and I both knew this was a stupid idea. He broke first. “I’m fine with you coming in and working the bar on the weekends. If Johnny can use you in some way, it’s up to him. But what he says goes.”

  She turned those eyes on me.

  Damn those blue eyes and long legs. This would rank up there with some of my dumbest ideas. “Maybe we can find some little things to start with.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Come back tomorrow,” I said.

  “You won’t regret this. I promise!” She was so excited the entire booth was bouncing. She grabbed her purse and tried to stand but bumped her drink. I caught the glass before too much spilled. Mike steadied the table. “Oh, sorry, sorry. I’m so stoked. Is there anything special I should wear? Anything I need to buy?”

  “Katie,” I snapped, my voice deep and stern. She stopped and stared. “Sit down.” She did. “Have you ever read about, or seen on TV or in the movies, a private eye acting the way you are acting now?”

  She got it immediately. She gathered herself, sat back in the booth, put the purse back on the bench, and folded her hands on the table. “No.”

  “I don’t need a flighty country club princess. I need a real private dick who will get the job done.” Her cheeks got red. The giant blue eyes were wide and fixated on me. I glanced at Mike and he was biting his lip. I stared at her. “Do you get it?” She nodded. “Come here.” I leaned across the table and she slowly leaned toward me. So close I could smell the scent of her shampoo. I put my hand on her forearm and squeezed. Physical contact makes it real. She glanced at my hand and then back to my eyes. “This is for real. Do you get that? Life-or-death real.” She nodded again. I squeezed harder. “I need to hear you say it.”

  She swallowed hard. “Yes, I get it. This is real.”

  Neither one of us blinked. I had her attention. “Your first lesson.” I slowed my speech. “Play it cool. Okay? Play it cool.” I let go of her arm and sat back. She did too. She didn’t say anything. Just looked from me to Mike. He crossed his arms in front of him and cocked an eyebrow. “Tomorrow. Ten a.m.”

  She kept nodding, but it was if she went into slow motion. Her movements were deliberate. She reached into her purse, and—cool as the coolest—put on her Donna Karan sunglasses. She slid out of the booth, stood, smoothed out her skirt, slung her purse over her shoulder, and turned toward the door. Mike and I sat in silence until she left the bar.

  “Are we out of our minds? We’re breaking our own rule,” I said. “Haven’t we learned our lesson already?”

  “I don’t care.” He got out of the booth. “Just don’t get her killed.”

  “Thanks, buddy.”

  “Play it cool? Really?” He walked to the bar, laughing. Then he stopped, turned back and pointed at me. “I’m proud of you!”

  I threw back what was left of my bourbon in one gulp.

  Chapter

  16

  Ten p.m. and time for a spin around the Harbor Court Motel. A light drizzle was falling, which was good. It kept folks off the streets. I turned right off Harbor Boulevard into an alley that ran along the right side of the building, and then made a ninety-degree turn left into another alley that bordered the back length of the motel. The back alley dumped me out to Fourth Street, and a left turn there took me back to Harbor.

  I drove around the block a second time, only much slower. Three trash Dumpsters in the back alley made it barely wide enough for my car to squeeze through. Large gray rats scurried across the alley and were in and around the bins. When my headlights lit up the trash bins, the rats stopped—stared at me for a second—and then went back to their scrounging. City rats all right. No car would interrupt their dinner.

  Each room had a small window that faced the alley. Lights were on in half of the windows, casting a pale yellow sheen through the mist. After the second reconnaissance trip around the building, I parked in the McDonald’s lot to gauge the scene. Claire’s Audi was in its spot. I connected a three-hundred-millimeter lens to my Nikon and zoomed into the front office. A telephone pole blocked part of the view but I noticed a hefty black guy behind the front desk. The ageing hippy was not on duty. Leaning on the counter was a rent-a-cop security guard. The desk clerk looked to weigh at least two-fifty, and I bet the security guard had a go
od fifty pounds on him. They must take turns going across for Big Macs and shakes. A TV in the corner had a ball game playing, and both of them were watching with rapt attention.

  I watched for thirty minutes and nothing happened. I thought I’d find Pinky on the job, but the rain kept the streetwalkers indoors. Anyhow, time to move closer.

  Damn my curiosity.

  I put the camera equipment on the floor of the car and threw a blanket over it. With my gun tucked into my waistband, I walked halfway up the block, away from the motel, crossed Harbor and then walked back down on the motel side of the street, out of the line-of-sight of the front office. I wore my black jeans and black jacket and pulled my cap down low. I walked up to Claire’s car and put my hand on the hood. It was cold; the car hadn’t been driven in a while. I went to the door of room 112 and stood and listened. A TV played the evening news broadcast but I couldn’t hear anything else. I stayed for another minute, listening for a voice or two, but I feared someone would come out of a room on a late-night run to the snack machines and spot me lurking.

  I went to the side alley and around to the back. Claire’s room was fourth from the end, so I counted four small windows and realized the first trash bin was perfect for me to boost up and peek into the window. The shade was drawn down to about two inches from the bottom. Judging from my height, the windows were eight feet from the ground.

  The trash bins had sliding doors on the side to throw in garbage. I slid the door open and it screeched—a tomcat came screaming out, bounced off my chest, and scampered away down the alley. I’m not sure who was more spooked, me or the cat. I took four good deep breaths to slow my heart and leaned back against the building to gain a little composure and make sure I didn’t wake the entire neighborhood. My night as a peeper was off to a bad start. I heard the rats rummaging. I faced the most hardened criminals over my career but there was something about rats—a lot of rats—that gave me great pause.

  I grabbed the top of the bin and pulled up to where I got one boot on the open door. From there, I could reach left and put a hand on the window sill to steady myself. I leaned left and only had a glimpse into the motel room’s bathroom. A lady’s hair brush and a tube of toothpaste were on the sink. That’s not going to blow the case wide open. The corner of a motel dresser was visible through the bathroom door. The lights were on in the main room but unless I stayed in my precarious perch all night, I wasn’t going to discover anything.

  “Hey!” A man’s voice sounded from the opposite end of the alley. The security guard. I don’t know whether someone saw me or whether he was on his normal rounds. I hopped down and took off toward the side of the building, only to step back to avoid being hit by a car coming down the cross alley. The car swerved and missed me by inches. It straightened itself and I darted out behind it. It turned in to the motel.

  I got down to the intersection and stopped. I glanced back to the motel lot only to see Claire get out of the car—an old Lincoln—and go into her room. At the same time, the security guard rounded the corner and yelled. At forty-eight, I’m not as fit and fast as I used to be but I’m damn sure faster than his three hundred pounds. I ran two blocks before I stopped and turned around. The guard lumbered back to the motel. He gave up after less than a block.

  I walked another half-block for good measure and then crossed Harbor to the McDonald’s side of the street. I took off my black jacket and cap. That left my white T-shirt and jeans—in case the security guy was keeping an eye for a man in all black.

  I got back to my car and started the engine. I sat for a while, disappointed. Did Claire see me? I doubt it with the rain and my cap pulled low but that was too close. My intuition was right. Unless she went out and left the TV and lights on, someone else was in the room and it bothered me. And who dropped her off? A friend? A lover? An accomplice? Somebody who knows where the money is but can’t access it?

  I smacked my hand on the steering wheel. Most cases, I know what the client wants: Is my spouse cheating? Is someone embezzling from my company? The target of the investigation is clear. The execution of the investigation is clear. On this case, there was thirty years between the missing money and the investigation. Nothing was clear and memories could get selective over thirty years.

  I needed to remember Carlo Bocci. Him killing himself pissed me off and made me real curious. He held the key. I knew it. Why did he kill himself? What did he want to avoid?

  Chapter

  17

  After last night’s almost botched fiasco at the Harbor Court, I needed a fresh head to begin the day and went for a much-needed run. Not only to loosen my aging muscles but to clear my brain. The rain stopped overnight, and the morning was cool and crisp. The temperature had dropped, and much of last night’s humidity had blown out to sea. The three miles went by quickly and I ducked into the bar before going upstairs to shower and change.

  Katie Pitts was there, sitting at the bar. I had forgotten about her and was annoyed with myself again.

  “Hi, Mr. Delarosa!” She jumped off the stool when she saw me.

  “Katie.”

  “Out for a run, huh? Good for you. A beautiful morning, too. Do you think I’ll have a set schedule? Nine to five or something like that?”

  Oh, boy. Mike had a grin on his face as wide as the bar itself.

  “You’re here. I did tell you ten, didn’t I?”

  “Yep, and I’m ready to start. I brought my camera and laptop, too.”

  “She got here before me,” Mike said.

  “I didn’t want to be late on my first day.”

  “No, of course not,” I said. “We don’t tolerate tardiness here, do we, Mike?” She wore a short jeans skirt, a white T-shirt, sandals, and her hair pulled back in a ponytail. Did I need a dress code?

  “Nope.”

  “What happened to the window? Fight or something?” She flashed the gorgeous pearly whites.

  “I wish it was that simple.” She had her laptop on the bar. I hoped she was as good on the computer as I was bad.

  “I tell you what. Set up in the back booth. You can plug it in back there. I’m going upstairs to change and I’ll be right back.”

  “You live here too?”

  “Condo on the fourth floor.”

  “Cool.”

  “While I do that, I have your first assignment. Some research.” I wrote our Wi-Fi access code and “Donny Dixon” on a note pad.

  “I want you to find news articles on this guy. He was murdered, and his body pulled out of the harbor thirty years ago. Try the Herald archives first.”

  “Sounds like a juicy mob hit.”

  “See what you can find. I’ll be back.”

  Mike gave me a thumbs-up as I left. I went up to the condo, showered and changed. I still had reservations about my distraction of an intern, but if I could figure ways to use her, it might be nice having someone handle the mundane stuff I hate.

  I got back to the bar, and Katie was tapping away on the laptop. She had a coffee beside her and some notes on the pad. I poured myself one and I slid into the booth. “Anything?”

  “You need to create an account with the newspaper. No charge, but I didn’t know what name I should use.”

  “I don’t want your name out there. I’m the licensed PI, so we use my name.” I wrote my info on the paper. “But stop for a second.”

  “Sure.”

  “That broken window in the front—somebody threw a Molotov cocktail through it two nights ago.”

  “Really?”

  “My point is this. We run across people in this business who don’t like us snooping around sometimes. You must realize there’s a dark side in this work. A dangerous side.”

  “I do. I understand.”

  “Good. It’s important. What did you tell your father?”

  “I told him you needed help in the office and I’m working at
the bar part-time.”

  I nodded. “Perfect. I need help with the computer, and I’m sure your skills are better than mine. My skills are on the streets, not in an office.”

  “Do you have an office?”

  “You’re sitting in it.”

  “Oh.”

  “You didn’t want a normal sit-in-a-cubicle job.”

  “I know. And I love it, but I thought you must have a desk or…something?”

  “Nope, just work from here. We’ll think of something. Mike will give you some employment forms. You are technically an employee of the restaurant.”

  “Yes, sure. I get it.”

  “Keep digging on Dixon. And by the way: the work you are doing now, the research, that’s ninety percent of your job. Got that?”

  “I got it.”

  “I need to make a call.”

  I walked over to the bar to call the Marquis and asked for Worthington. He came on the line and agreed to see me in an hour. I told him I had some questions about when he worked on the docks and he jumped at the chance to talk.

  I went back to Katie.

  “I found his obituary,” she said. “Here, look.”

  “That was fast.” She spun the computer around and showed me an obit for Donald Francis Dixon. We read through it. Tragic boating accident. Survived by his wife, the former Jacqueline Aletto, one daughter, Claire Elena Dixon. Funeral Mass to be held at St. Anthony’s. “Your first task as an employee of Delarosa Investigations and you aced it. Good job. It would’ve taken me three times as long to find that.”

  “Thank you, boss.”

  Elena is not a common name and now I heard it twice within a week. Elena Garver and Claire Elena Dixon. Were Elena Garver and Jackie Aletto sisters?

  After many years as a detective, I knew immediately if I tuned into a person or not. And as nervous as having Katie around made me, she seemed to be enjoying herself—and I was starting to enjoy having her around too.

  “Katie, I changed my mind” I said. “Let’s go for a ride.”

  Chapter