Rest for the Wicked

by Ellen Hart

  She made a pained face.

  “Don’t like that one?”

  “A little too Oprah.”

  He nearly spit a chip across the room. “Good one.”

  “So which is true?”

  “All of them.”

  “How can they all be true?”

  “Magic.”

  “You’re hammered.”

  He held up the bottle, studied the label. “Now you.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Come on. Give me the real story. The real you.”

  She scratched her cheek, deciding what she should say. “Well, believe it or not, I happen to be the illegitimate love child of a household name.”

  “Brad Pitt.”

  She wrinkled her nose.

  “Tom Cruise. Bill Clinton. Jon Stewart.”

  “It’s a secret.”

  “You’re saying you’re famous by proxy.”

  “Or I’m lying. I’ll be famous in my own right one day, though.”

  “For what?”

  “You’ll have to wait and see.”

  For some reason, the comment seemed to turn him inward. The smile disappeared. “I went to see Elvio today.”

  Her eyes widened. “In jail?”

  “Real happy place. I can’t stand to think of him living in a pit like that for the rest of his life.”

  “You care about him, don’t you.”

  “I can’t stand the sight of him.” He raked tears away from his eyes with the back of his hand.

  “Then why did you go?”

  “I had to. I needed to understand why he did what he did.”

  “Did he tell you?”

  Dorsey’s head fell forward. “Not in so many words, but I got the message.”

  She wasn’t sure he’d remember the conversation in the morning. She took a chance. “You two were lovers, right?”

  “I’m gonna be sick,” mumbled Dorsey.

  “Not on my couch,” she said, leaping to her feet. “Get up. Up!”

  He was so unsteady that she had to help him. With a hand held to his mouth, he stumbled into the hallway that led to the bathroom. Once he’d sunk to the floor in front of the toilet, she shut the door and covered her ears so she wouldn’t have to listen to him retch.

  That had to be it, she thought. Dorsey was gay and he had a thing for Elvio. She assumed that their relationship must have been a heavy secret to carry around, especially after Elvio murdered DeAndre.

  As it happened, keeping secrets was a topic Avi knew something about.

  20

  In the predawn hours the following morning, wrapped in her bathrobe, with a cup of coffee in one hand and a bagel in the other, Jane finished Avi’s novel. To say she’d liked it was an understatement. The language struck her as beautiful, at times even poetic. The story was fresh, the characters sad and funny, idealistic and damaged—perhaps a lot like Avi herself. Ultimately, the novel had left Jane feeling glad to be part of the human race. There wasn’t much more she could ask of a novel, all of which made her wonder why such a compelling story had failed to find a publisher. Granted, Jane knew nothing about the publishing industry, but she did feel that she knew something about strong writing. She couldn’t wait to see Avi tonight to tell her that her fears had been groundless. After reading Skin Ticket, Jane considered herself nothing less than a flat-out fan.

  Later that morning, she crept into her guest bedroom carrying a boom box. She figured that, even with a slight hangover, it was time for Sleeping Beauty to wake up. After opening the shades to allow the sunlight into the room, she set the box on the nightstand. There were so many great choices on this particular CD. She’d decided to go with Sousa’s “Semper Fidelis.” The opening strains exploded into the silence.

  Sitting bolt upright, Cordelia opened both eyes wide and blurted, “Are we at war?”

  “Aren’t we always?” asked Jane.

  She surveyed the room, registered where she was, gave Jane a you’re-going-to-pay-for-this look, flopped back down, and pressed a pillow over her face.

  Jane patted the bed for Mouse to jump up. “Like you said last night, feels like old times,” she shouted over the music, sitting down at the end of the bed. “You used to stay over all the time before Hattie came to live with you.”

  “Turn that insane music off,” came Cordelia’s muffled shriek.

  Jane pressed a button and returned the room to its former state of tranquillity.

  “You know,” said Cordelia, grunting as Mouse settled on her stomach, “I expected you’d wake me at some ungodly hour, but not with auditory torture.”

  “I come bearing good news.”

  “I don’t smell coffee. Bacon. Fresh-baked caramel rolls. That’s the only good news I’m interested in.”

  “Your nose must be broken. I’ve made my famous black beans in adobo sauce. Prepped a bowl of fresh salsa. When you come down, I’ll make us huevos rancheros.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Flour or corn tortillas?”

  “Flour.”

  “Fresh lime juice in the salsa?”

  “Would I use anything else?”

  “A Mimosa or two?”

  “No Mimosas. We’ve got work to do.”

  “Define work.”

  “I made half a dozen calls last night to DeAndre’s friends. I hit pay dirt again this morning. One of them called me back.”

  “I’m being crushed,” grunted Cordelia. “Get this beast off me.”

  Jane snapped her fingers and ordered Mouse to get down. “I found out where DeAndre was staying while he was in town. I’ve got the key to his room. We need to get over there right away and check it out.”

  “Shouldn’t we call the police? Tell them?”

  “There’s no point. Their investigation into DeAndre’s murder ended. I read it in the morning paper.”

  “Oh, joy,” said Cordelia, stretching her arms over her head and yawning. “That I should be allowed to spend a perfectly good morning searching through some guy’s underwear—”

  “While you’re dressing, I’ll finish getting breakfast ready. Remember, you’re the one who’s always grousing that I don’t let you help me with my investigating anymore. You want in? You’re in.”

  * * *

  DeAndre had chosen one of the few economy lodgings in downtown Minneapolis within walking distance of GaudyLights. Parking across the street from the venerable Grant Hotel shortly after ten, Jane and Cordelia entered through the double front doors and walked up to the reception desk.

  “I need the number for DeAndre Moore’s room,” said Jane.

  A woman in a belted tweed suit studied the computer screen through her bifocals. “Room 348.”

  Jane thanked her and headed for the elevators.

  “This place takes the concept of threadbare to a whole new level,” said Cordelia, following close behind. “By the way, did you talk to Nolan this morning?”

  “No. I talked to his nurse. He still has a fever and didn’t feel like talking on the phone. If he’s not better by tomorrow, they’ll switch him to a different antibiotic.” Jane intended to visit him later in the day, after she’d met with Luis Ramos at the Xanadu Club.

  When it came to Nolan, Sergeant Taylor had been solicitous, probably because of Nolan’s connection to the MPD. Taylor’s approach to her was far less generous or forthcoming. She’d called him a couple of times, hoping to ask him some questions, but he hadn’t returned her calls. Removing the key card from her billfold, she inserted it and waited for the red light to turn green.

  “The thrill of the chase,” whispered Cordelia.

  Jane didn’t feel remotely thrilled. She felt apprehensive. Switching on the ceiling light, she moved cautiously into the room. Both of the double beds were made, and the curtains were pulled. A new pair of athletic shoes had been tossed on the floor next to the nightstand. Other than that, everything was neat.

  “Smells kind of musty,” muttered Cordelia, her nose twitching.

  Jane wondered
what DeAndre had been thinking when he left the room for the last time. Ducking briefly into the bathroom, she touched his travel kit. It was eerie to picture him in here, alive and well, with all his hopes and dreams still intact. His suitcase was open on the end of one of the double beds. She began to dig through it.

  Cordelia stepped over to the desk, where a small netbook sat open and plugged in.

  “This might be interesting,” said Jane, removing a file folder from the bottom of the suitcase. She slipped out a single sheet of paper. “Weird.”

  “I love weird,” Cordelia said, sitting down at the desk and powering up the computer. “Show me.”

  Jane handed over the paper. One word was written in the center.

  “It’s Greek,” said Jane. “Wonder what it means.”

  “Don’t know, but give me a minute and I might be able to find out.” After taking a picture of the page with her iPhone, Cordelia tapped in a number. “Mikolas?” she said, moving over to the window and opening the curtain. “Cordelia Thorn here. Listen, if I e-mailed you a photo of a foreign word, could you tell me if you recognize it? We think it might be Greek. Hey, excellent, my man. Call me as soon as you figure it out. Ta.”

  Jane took her turn at the desk. She scrolled through DeAndre’s e-mail, surprised that it wasn’t password protected. All the entries were from one person—a woman named Jazmin Lewis. The e-mail dates appeared to go back less than a week before he died, perhaps, Jane reflected, when he bought the computer in preparation for his trip. It seemed that Jazmin was teaching high school in the Czech Republic as part of a Fulbright Teacher Exchange program. “Lots of letters to and from a girlfriend,” said Jane.

  “Anything interesting?” asked Cordelia, pulling out each dresser drawer and looking inside.

  “Listen to this. He wrote this the night he died.” She read from the screen.

  Jaz, hi. I gave you most of the details on the phone. Sorry I didn’t tell you any of this before. It’s been a secret so long that it’s become my default setting. Still in Minneapolis, pretty much visiting the strip club every night. Sabrina isn’t happy about it. She told me to leave, that she’d get in touch with me back home, but I can’t go.

  After she admitted she murdered Tatum, I felt like someone had hit me with a two-by-four. Still can’t believe it.

  “Who’s Tatum?” asked Cordelia.

  “No idea.”

  I’m not sure I mentioned this. The cops found her prints on the copper, which is why they contacted me. She gave them my address when she was arrested a few years back. They had her prints on file so they came to my place to find her. Thankfully, she’d already left town.

  I can’t believe my bio mom never said anything to me about all this. It explains so much about her, about my childhood—about Sabrina. Knowing part of the truth, but not all of it, what do I do? I came here for an answer. She said she was close, but she keeps stalling. She’s sick, Jaz. Maybe she always has been and I never saw it. Sometimes she seems completely normal, but then she sinks into this awful, corrosive bitterness and there’s no getting through to her. I have to try, but honestly, I don’t see her changing. She’s out for revenge and nobody’s going to stop her.

  Truth is, I don’t blame her for feeling cheated, like her childhood was stolen. I feel the same way. But murder? Knowing what she has in store for those guys makes me feel like I’m a party to it. Do I contact the police? Turn her in? How can I? I owe her so much.

  With the way our justice system works, or doesn’t work, there’s not a prayer in hell that a judge would put those men away. That’s what she said, and she’s right.

  I plan to have it out with her tonight. One way or the other, this has to end.

  I love you, Jaz. I miss you so much. Write me and let me know me what you think. I feel so alone.

  D

  “Wow,” said Cordelia, sinking down on the bed as if in a trance. “We have to turn this over to the police.”

  “I agree, but I want to talk to Nolan first. The cops in St. Louis have to be looking for this Sabrina. We know where she works—we just don’t know who she is. If she’s thinking of murdering more people, I’ll bet money she’s here because one or more of the men she’s after lives in town.”

  “Try looking up Twin Cities homicides on the Internet.”

  Jane logged on to the netbook’s browser and typed in “Homicides Twin Cities,” and then she typed in the year. After scrolling through a bunch of articles that didn’t apply, she found one that did. “Here we go.”

  SECOND HOMICIDE FOR TWIN CITIES METRO AREA

  Tuesday, February 11—The Twin Cities Metro Area recorded its second homicide of the year last night when police found a man shot to death in a motel off County Road 6 in Brooklyn Center. No one has been arrested in the shooting.

  The murder victim, Royal Rudmann, 61, had recently been released from the St. Peter Regional Treatment Center.

  “Damn, we’re good,” said Cordelia. “Look up what it says about the Tatum murder in St. Louis.”

  Jane searched the Internet again, popping up an article that had appeared in the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. She read through it, then paraphrased it. “He taught eighth-grade science. The murder occurred in the basement of his home.” Returning to the Internet, she said, “It doesn’t look to me like it’s been solved.”

  “What do you suppose DeAndre meant when he talked about the police finding Sabrina’s prints on the copper?”

  “Maybe Taylor can tell us,” said Jane.

  Cordelia’s cell phone rang. Glancing at the caller ID, she said, “We may have a breakthrough. Hey, Mikolas.” She listened. “Let me repeat this so I know I’ve got it right. You say it’s New Testament Greek and it means morally impure or unclean. Huh. Okay, got it. You’re my man. I owe you. Later.” She clicked the phone off and then dropped it in the top pocket of her jacket. “There you have it.”

  “Why would DeAndre be carrying around the Greek word for morally impure?”

  “Beats the hell out of me.”

  Jane unhooked the netbook and closed it up. “We’re making progress. Let’s leave the rest of DeAndre’s belongings in the room until I can talk to Nolan, see what he wants us to do.”

  “Works for me. As I’ve said many times before—”

  “Cordelia Thorn does not haul.”

  “One of my founding principles.”

  21

  Vince pounded on the front door of Emmett Washington’s house. When nobody answered, he leaned on the doorbell, shouting, “Open up,” straining to peer through a crack in the curtained picture window.

  Emmett finally appeared, still in his bathrobe, all apologies for making him stand outside in the cold.

  “Where the hell were you?” demanded Vince.

  “Asleep,” said Emmett, holding the door open. His eyes were red and puffy, and his breath smelled rank, like he’d been eating raw skunk.

  “It’s nearly eleven.”

  “I was up late working on a report.”

  Vince followed him to the kitchen, where Emmett put on the coffee.

  “You heard anything more about Rudmann’s murder?” asked Emmett, opening one of the kitchen cupboards and staring at a row of cereal boxes.

  “No, but we’ve got someone else to worry about. Ken Crowder.”

  “I haven’t heard that name in years.”

  “I got worried since I hadn’t heard from him in a while, so I e-mailed him to make sure he was okay.”

  “Worried why?”

  Vince was appalled that Emmett didn’t get it. It was like he was walking around in a fog. Was Vince the only one who still had a working brain? Making himself comfortable at the kitchen table, he said, “It doesn’t bother you that Tatum and Rudmann were both murdered?”

  “Hadn’t thought about it,” said Emmett, rubbing his eyes.

  “It’s like you’re sleepwalking, man. Wake the hell up.”

  “People get killed. Doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”


  “They were murdered in exactly the same way.”

  “Gunshot, right? We got ninety billon guns in this country.”

  “That’s an exaggeration.”

  “Chill out, as my son would say. I’ve got more important things to worry about.”

  “No, you don’t. Something’s happened to Crowder. He called me after I e-mailed him, invited me out to visit him at the vacation cabin he owns above Park City, Utah. We agreed that I’d call him back last night with the flight information. He never answered his phone.”

  Emmett shrugged as he sat down at the table. “He probably went out.”

  “You’re not listening to me. He made a big deal out of what he had going on last night. He was making dinner for some neighbors, and then later a bunch of his buddies were coming over to play poker. He said he’d be in all evening.”

  “So he got busy, didn’t pick up.”

  “Man, I called him a dozen times. He knows I’m worried and he knows why. There’s no way on earth he would have blown me off. Unless?”

  Emmett closed his eyes. “You’re giving me a headache on top of the headache I already have.” Before he could continue, the landline rang. Grabbing the cordless off the kitchen table, he said, “Hello?” He listened for a few seconds. “Roddy? No, he’s at school. Isn’t that where you are?” He lowered his head. “Sure, I’ll tell him to call you, although you’ll probably see him before I do. Yeah, okay. You sound kind of … funny? Something wrong?” He listened.

  Vince drew a hand across his throat, gesturing for him to cut it off.

  “Okay, right.” After saying good-bye, he stared into space, seemingly dazed.

  “Who was that?” asked Vince.

  “Lukas Olson. He’s the quarterback and captain of the football team—one of Roddy’s best friends. Nice kid.”

  “Great. Let’s get back to business. I called the cops in Park City this morning, told them that a friend wasn’t answering his phone and that I was worried. They said they’d check it out.”