Peter pulled into the small parking lot beside Overstreet’s car, still fuming. Junior had gel lifters waiting for him, tacky plastic sheets designed to pick up footprints and other fragile evidence. But he had to make this detour first for his peace of mind.
He’d made a mental leap, one worthy of an action film where the star jumps from one building to the next and grabs the gutter with his fingernails, clawing his way up from certain death. But his hunch had been right. He needed to follow up now or implode.
It hadn’t occurred to Lia yet that her attacker couldn’t unlock the attic door while he was restraining her. The attic door had already been unlocked, which meant the intruder hadn’t been in Peter’s apartment, he’d been in the attic.
The only things in the attic were the remnants of Ruth Peltier’s estate. Lia would have noticed if the Beanie Baby army had been disturbed. Whatever he’d been after had been in the boxes they had yet to sort. Boxes a historian might want to get his hands on.
Terry, whose photo was next to “open source” in the dictionary, had spent several hours with an expert on local history three days before, an expert whose ethics Peter suspected were on the sleazy side.
He shouldn’t blame Terry. Their house was two blocks from Millionaire’s Corner, where four of the richest men in Cincinnati once made their homes. It was natural to mention a potentially historic house to a historian.
Terry had told Overstreet he’d been wondering if the original owners of the property might also have been important. Overstreet had asked if the original owners left anything behind, and Terry told him about the boxes of cherry-picked items José and Alma culled from tons of junk one step ahead of the crowd that ran through the house like Sherman in Atlanta.
The story of Lia and Alma disposing of a hoarder’s lifetime achievement in less than a day had been told and retold often enough. No reason for Terry to keep quiet about it.
Peter sat in his department-issue Taurus and took several deep, cleansing breaths to drain the anger building since he’d gotten Alma’s call. He couldn’t afford to go gonzo on Overstreet, not when all he had was the timing of a conversation. If he kept his cool, he’d know in a few minutes if Overstreet was his guy.
Peter rounded the building and badged the man mowing the lawn—the manager, it turned out—who then let him in.
He restrained the urge to pound Overstreet’s door, opting instead for a friendly rap. Overstreet responded, opening the door with a question on his face. Curiosity, not fear.
“Hey, Detective. What’s up?”
“I have a couple quick questions you could help me with.”
“Sure, whatever you need.” He stepped aside, inviting Peter in. Overstreet scanned the pile of work on his dining room table, likely ensuring he’d left nothing important in plain view.
“Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink? I think I have water and, uh, water, unless you’re off duty.”
“I’m good, thanks.”
Ashtrays and wastebaskets still overflowed, but a new load of laundry piled on the end of the couch. No scotch bottle on the coffee table. Peter sat next to the heap of clothes.
Overstreet sat opposite, his face relaxed. “What can I help you with?”
During Peter’s prior visit, Overstreet had displayed a number of micro expressions, tics that told Peter Overstreet was holding out on him about Heenan. Not a guy who could fool his aunt Sally, much less a lie detector.
“You been in all day?”
Puzzlement showed on Overstreet’s face. “What happened? Is this about Heenan?”
“Maybe, maybe not. Humor me and I can rule out a troubling possibility.”
“No problem. I took a run. On the way home I stopped for breakfast at Price Hill Chili. You can check, they know me there.”
“What time did you get back?”
“Around ten, give or take. What was I supposed to have done?”
Something loosened in Peter’s chest. “Nothing as far as I know. This is exclusionary.”
“If you made a report, I’ll figure it out by Friday.”
Peter ran the math in his head. Overstreet was smarter than the average bear about accessing public records. Might as well win points with the guy since he’d find out anyway. “First tell me your shoe size.”
“Nine.”
He pulled off an ancient sneaker and handed it to Peter. The aroma it exuded reminded Peter of a drying swamp.
“Go ahead, check.”
Peter already knew it was too small for the prints in Lia’s basement. Still, he examined the shoe. Overstreet could have worn a larger pair and stuffed the toes to throw off investigators, but if the waitresses remembered Overstreet, he was off the hook.
“Last weekend you spoke with Terry Dunn about items of historical interest at a Victorian house that was burgled today.”
“Yeah, by Millionaire’s Corner. What was taken?”
“We don’t know yet.”
Overstreet remained relaxed. “Wasn’t me. Stuff I want, most folks are happy to give to anyone who has a use for it. That way they don’t feel guilty about throwing it out.”
“What kind of stuff do you mean?”
“Old papers, photos. Say something happened on Glenway Avenue fifty years ago. The area’s changed since then, more than once. Someone entirely unrelated to the crime might have a photo that shows how it was at the time, and that helps me understand what might have happened. It gives context and can produce leads. Business names, license plates.”
He waved at a row of archival boxes on the bottom shelf of the nearest bookcase. “I have hundreds of old photos, organized by neighborhood and date.”
“Anything that pertains to Heenan?”
“No photos of Malachi. Clifton Hills hasn’t changed. As for Mill Creek, you might check the Bengals to see if they have construction photos of the area.
“The Mill Creek Alliance are the only folks interested in old photos of the creek, for comparison. You might luck out with the Metropolitan Sewer District. Everyone else just wants to forget the bad old days.”
“It occurs to me there’s a lot I don’t know about investigating cold cases.”
“Threw you into the deep end, huh? I can help.”
Peter stood to leave. “I’ll talk to the homeowner and pass along your phone number. If she has old photos she doesn’t want, she might call you.”
“That would be great.” Overstreet accompanied him to the door. “Detective? Be sure to tell your girlfriend I’m sorry she was burgled.”
Peter changed his mind. He was going to kill Terry.
Rain drummed the darkened windows of Peter’s man cave as he stretched, his back cracking vertebrae by vertebrae. The time he’d spent dealing with the break-in meant hours hunched over his laptop that evening, following dubious Heenan tips and writing reports. Pure busywork to satisfy the powers that be when he itched to find the dirtbag who violated his home and attacked Lia. It didn’t help that there were no witnesses, no cameras, and nothing to pursue.
By his feet, Viola lifted her head. Peter looked at the clock. 11:43 p.m. Lia had to be asleep.
She’d been a trooper, holding the light while he photographed and lifted footprints. Later, she and Bailey installed a steel plate over the coal chute. His Lia did not get the vapors, though she was more fragile than she acted.
Figuring she wouldn’t be up for much, he’d brought Kung Pao chicken and rainbow shrimp for dinner. Bailey had stayed, and when he’d come upstairs to work, they were looking for a rom-com to download.
He ghosted barefoot through the dark house with Viola a shapeless black blob padding behind him. Lia’s bedroom door stood open, a signal for him to join her. Gypsy curled on the pillow, snuggled in the curve where Lia’s shoulder met her neck, her face in repose.
Gypsy lifted her head and yawned. She stood and came to the edge of the bed, wagging her tail, asking him to let her down. Chewy woke and all three dogs followed him into the kitchen for late night
biscuits.
Viola snorted as Gypsy pawed the water in her bowl, splashing it on the floor. Peter shook his head and poured a glass of water from the jug in the fridge, carrying it to the kitchen door to watch the deluge. He stepped in something warm and wet, the scent of urine drifting up. Gypsy paused her splashing and cocked her head.
Peter pointed at the dog door. “You’re a freaking menace. Can’t you go outside?” The rain continued to pound. He sighed. “I wouldn’t want to pee in that, either.”
He hopped over to Gypsy’s bowl, swished his soiled foot in the puddle of water on the floor, then swiped the bottom of his foot on the rag rug in front of the sink to dry it off.
“I’m not enabling you. You’ll have to work this out with her.”
Gypsy tipped her head the other way, looking at him as if he spoke a foreign language. He thought about Lia’s day, sighed again, and pulled two pee pads out from under the sink to soak up the mess.
The mattress shifted, waking Lia. She emerged from sleep as Peter spooned behind her, one arm pulling her against him.
He enfolded her: love, wrapped in a blanket with chicken soup and all the boo-boo kisses and attagirls she’d never received. He was rain in the desert, while she ached with thirst and feared drowning.
The edifice she’d held in place since a stranger threw a blanket over her head crumbled. She shook, hiccuping soundless sobs. Peter’s arms tightened, containing her spasms until they passed.
His breath whispered against her ear. “Thank God.”
“For what?”
He ran a hand up and down her arm, comforting himself as much as her. “You’ve been such a trooper, I was beginning to think you didn’t need me.”
She stopped his hand, laced their fingers together. “I’ll always need you. I just wait till it’s safe to fall apart.”
“Very considerate of you.”
“It’s not like I do it on purpose.” He’d said nothing over dinner. Now she was afraid of the answer, but had to ask. “What’s happening with the break-in?”
“Besides getting chewed out for handling it myself? Nothing.”
Lia turned in his arms, read frustration in his face. “Tell me.”
“The footprints are worthless until I find the shoes they came from, and there’s nothing else to work with. I filed it. Now we forget it until something comes up. It’s the best I can do.”
“It’s hard, isn’t it, not being able to do more?” He said nothing and she continued, “I ordered security cameras, one for each side of the house.”
“I thought we were going to talk about it.”
“The movie was boring so Bailey and I did research instead. We found cameras that alert your phone when anyone moves in the yard. We can both watch the house from anywhere. They’re so cheap it seemed silly to wait. They’ll be here by Friday. Bailey and I can install them.”
Peter chuffed a laugh. “There’s my stand-up girl. I feel my balls shriveling as we speak.”
“You can be manly anytime upper-body strength is required.”
“I feel so much better.”
She became aware of her hand on his chest and flexed her fingers, enjoying the slide of hair between them. She dropped her eyes.
“Peter?”
“Hmm?”
“You know that life-affirming thing people do after near death experiences?”
“You have a near death experience lately?”
“More of a mugging, really.”
“Not much of a mugging. No mace, no duct tape, no guns, no blood. Hardly worth mentioning.”
“I got an owie on my head. That counts for something.”
His lips pressed against her hair. “There. I kissed it.”
“That life-affirming thing? Do they do it after muggings, too?”
He rolled onto his back, folding his arms. “I’m not sure what life-affirming thing you mean. You’ll have to show me.”
At the Barn
Thursday, August 25, 1938
The sound of a car horn woke Mal. Sunlight sliced between the boards of the barn, heating the air in the hayloft. It had to be noon, at least. Mal stretched joints achy from sleeping on the cot he kept for late nights. The horn tooted again, impatient.
“Hold your damn horses.”
He sat up, spat on the dirty floor, pulled on his pants and shoes, then stuffed his flask and cigarettes in his pocket before he climbed down the ladder. The horn sounded a third time as he reached the door and peered through the gap.
Pete was alone.
There were too many ways they could be found out. Pete’s driver talks to his girl after sex and one of Dalitz’s goons grabs her and puts the squeeze on her. Maybe her granny needs an operation, so she sells out. They beat the driver with a tire iron until he squeals. Or the story about how Pete’s pulling a fast one on Dalitz is too good not to repeat, and it gets around.
So Pete left his driver at home.
Mal pulled the barn door wide. He took a slug from his flask and lit a cigarette while Pete drove into the barn.
The first words out of Pete’s mouth as he hopped out of his car were, “Where is it?”
Mal nodded at the hearse. “Under the floor. Nobody can get to it until I move the car.”
Pete stared at the hearse as if willing it to levitate. “I thought you were nuts when you said I should put the Chinese squeeze on my own take, but this takes the sting out of getting hit last night.” He pointed a thick finger at Mal and grinned. “You’re the bee’s knees. Let me see my money.”
“Let’s talk first,” Mal said. “We’re safe as long as it stays where it is. We’ll load it when you’re ready to leave.”
Pete gave him a long, steady look, then sat on a crate, unconcerned about the state of his suit. “You’ve been thinking.”
“Yeah. This gag could work half a dozen, a dozen, maybe two dozen times before they start wondering. We have to stay ahead of them.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Cash takes up too much space. We need to turn it into something else.”
“How do you propose we do that?”
“More misdirection. I heard sometimes customers want to sell their watches and cufflinks to keep playing.”
“Go on.”
“You turn your cash into something else and let other people walk out the front door with the money. You have big rollers from all over the country coming in every weekend with briefcases full of money they plan to lose in your casino.”
He took a long drag as he read Pete’s face. So far, so good.
“Get a handful of middlemen from outside the Syndicate’s turf to play big rollers, only instead of money, they bring in small things that are valuable: gold coins, rubies, even art. They blow some cash at the tables, then you conduct a private transaction in your office like you usually do.”
He took another drag, drawing out the reveal to allow Pete time to think about this new proposal.
“It’s business as usual to anyone watching. Only instead of grandpa’s watch, they sell you loose stones, a lot of them. Your money leaves with one of those fine patrons Dalitz doesn’t want to upset. Instead of a truckload of money, you only have to hide a handful of stones. Then you have lots of options.”
Mal deliberately didn’t mention the guests who came straight from the airport, leaving suitcases in Stu’s custody while they disappeared into back rooms for high-stakes poker.
It was better if Pete didn’t realize how much Mal knew about the operation. But it hadn’t taken long to figure out a few of the private poker games were shams to cover a money laundering operation, with the dirty cash they brought in run through the casino and returned—minus a percentage—in winnings.
Pete would make the jump without Mal’s help, that Dalitz had no desire to disturb one of the BH’s cash cows, that what looked like men bringing in money to launder could be couriers with pretty baubles to sell. Dalitz would be none the wiser.
Pete pulled on his chin. �
�Doesn’t have to be loose stones.”
“Anything smaller than a breadbox will be easy to hide. I build secret compartments in my tricks. I can put some in the hearse, in places they won’t look because they’re looking for a truckload of cash.”
Mal’s people had been smugglers back in Ireland. Before Da died, he’d told Mal all the old stories and gambits. But Pete didn’t need to know he came from a long line of criminals. Better for him to think Mal came up with the scheme because he was a magician.
Pete frowned, shook his head. “That means bringing in outsiders. Outsiders who might talk.”
“They don’t have to know what’s going on. You pretend you’re a middleman for someone else. You don’t tell them you’re stealing from the jerks who are stealing from you before they get a chance to do it.”
“This is complicated. I like things simple.”
“Confuse and conquer. That’s what I do every night on stage. It’s either that or get on your knees every day and pray no one finds the warehouse you have to buy to keep all the cash hidden, because before long it’s gonna be like hiding an elephant.”
Pete pulled out a cigar, tucked it in the side of his mouth. Pete whipped out his lighter and lit it without thinking. Pete looked at the rafters, blew a smoke ring.
“Confuse and conquer, huh?”
“Just like magic.”
Day 19
Wednesday, May 8, 2019
Susan’s Snippets with Walter Miller
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The tall, stoop-shouldered man resting a gnarled hand on a tripod cane appeared desiccated next to Susan’s vibrant, unlined youth.
“Walter, who do you believe killed Andrew Heenan?”
Walter lifted his head, fierce eyes boring through the screens of thousands of electronic devices as he growled a single word. “Aliens.”
Swamp Monster Page 21
