by Mike Faricy
I could sense her getting worked up again.
“What are you saying, that it wasn’t you who left them in my kitchen?” she asked.
“I didn’t leave flowers or anything else for that matter.”
“So who did? And how the hell did they get in here? I still think it may have been that dreadful slut.”
“I’d say it’s a pretty slim chance, besides I’m not sure she can even read let alone write something on a card.”
“Charming. You sure you didn’t leave them? Cause that means someone broke into my house and left me flowers, which doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.”
“Seeing anyone else?”
“None of your business, Dev. Besides neither one of them is really the flower type.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
I closed my eyes about ten that evening with the idea I’d catch a few winks before I dealt with Candi. I couldn’t sleep and found myself sitting in the Fleetwood in front of her place a little after midnight. I was casing the joint. She came down the street and gave me a wave as she pulled into her driveway a little before three in the morning.
I wasn’t sure what I was going to do, but I was sure of one thing, she’d set me up.
“Hi, Dev, how long have you been sitting out here?”
“Not long, just a few minutes.”
“Silly, why didn’t you just let yourself in?” she said then gave me a kiss on the cheek and a little rub on my back. “Missed you.”
“Let myself in? You don’t lock the place?”
“No, your key,” she said as we walked up to her front door. She placed her key in the lock, unlocked the door, stepped in and hit the lights.
“You never gave me a key, Candi.”
“I thought you took the spare, it was hanging in the kitchen. Besides, you left me those flowers. They were so beautiful, see I put them on the table,” she said and turned on the dining room light.
There in the center of the table was an unattractive glass vase with small red roses. They looked like a discount dozen; a bit dark along the edge of the petals like maybe they wouldn’t last more than another half day. A number of petals had dropped and lay scattered around the vase on the table.
“Thank you, they’re beautiful and you didn’t have to do that. You are so sweet,” she said and gave me a kiss on the cheek then lingered against me suggestively.
“When were they delivered?”
“What are you talking about, delivered? You left them in the kitchen, remember? On the counter. Look, I even put your card on the refrigerator. You want a drink?” she asked, walking into the kitchen. She opened the freezer door, pulled out two chilled glasses, and the ever-present bottle of Grey Goose Vodka.
“Let me see the card.”
She gave me a funny look then pulled a little note card from behind a refrigerator magnet and handed it to me.
“Had a great time! Ride ‘em cowgirl! Dev”
“Just wanted to make sure I spelled everything correctly.” I said.
“It was so sweet, Dev. To tell you the truth I haven’t gotten flowers from someone for so long. Well, almost since forever. Here’s to you,” she smiled then handed me my frosted glass and we toasted.
“I wasn’t sure if you liked roses,” I fumbled, wondering what in the hell was going on.
“You kidding? Like I said, it’s been so long since I got flowers. You could have given me dandelions and I would have been thrilled. It was really sweet of you. You are a wonderful, wonderful man, Mister Haskell.” Her eyes suddenly watered and she looked away.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
She just waved her hand and turned farther away, her shoulders began to shake, she was crying.
“Candi?”
“It’s been so long since somebody cared. Oh damn it, why am I being a big baby? Thanks, Dev, thank you so much,” she said then kissed me. She looked at me for a moment then took a big sip, grabbed my hand and led me upstairs to her bedroom.
***
“You feel like some breakfast? I got bacon and eggs,” she said, but gave no indication she was interested in rolling off my shoulder. It was sometime past midmorning. I’d been lying next to her for quite a while tying to figure out what in the hell was going on and coming up with absolutely nothing.
“Breakfast sounds good, be okay if I grabbed a shower?”
“Take your time, I’ll bring some coffee in to you,” she said then rolled out of bed and slipped on a short black robe.
I laid there for a minute or two longer then quickly looked under the bed, I checked her closet, peered into the heating vent, searching for some sort of recording equipment. I didn’t find any. I did find the riding crop, along with a mask and set of handcuffs under the far corner of her bed. Who knew she was a superhero? She’d apparently forgotten to remove the price tag on the riding crop. Eventually, I hopped in the shower.
We chatted about nothing specific over breakfast. I noticed a larger pile of rose petals littered her dining room table but didn’t mention anything. We kissed good-bye at the door.
“Thanks for coming over, Dev.”
“Thanks for having me.”
“Thanks for being had,” she winked. “Don’t be a stranger,” she said and flared her eyes.
“Not to worry,” I said and went out the door. About halfway to my car she called out my name and when I turned round she smiled, opened her robe, and flashed me.
I laughed, waved, and wondered what in the hell was going on?
Chapter Forty
I phoned Detective Manning. Usually, when he knew it was me, he left me hanging on the line for ten minutes then he’d come on to say he was too busy to talk and hang up. Today he picked up after about thirty seconds.
“Haskell? Ready to come in and sign a full confession?”
“Actually, Detective, I was wondering if Swindle Lawless had withdrawn the rape charge she filed against me.”
“Not that I’m aware of. But, then again, I’ve had a few more things on my plate to deal with than the status of your personal relationship with Miss Lawless.”
“I was under the impression she was going to drop all charges sooner rather than later,” I said.
“Gee, I can hardly wait. I’ll be sure to alert everyone in the department. Anything else?”
“No, not at this time, thank you. You’ve been extremely helpful, Detective.” My tone suggested otherwise.
Manning hung up.
“Did she withdraw the rape charge?” Louie asked through a mouthful of chocolate doughnut.
“No.” I put the binoculars back up and studied the three women getting off the bus for a moment.
“Does it make sense to you that someone is giving these women flowers with my name on it? I mean, what the hell.”
“Nothing makes sense to be quite honest.” Louie was in the process of picking up chocolate doughnut crumbs one by one off his picnic table and placing them in his mouth.
“Why would someone do that?” I wondered out loud.
“Why? I guess to set you up, but then you’re back to the same question. Why? I mean if someone has an in for you it seems to me there are better ways to get at you than sending flowers to women.”
“They weren’t sent.”
“Fine, whatever. The question still is why? Well, and then who? Whoever it is can get in and out of at least two homes apparently without a problem.”
“Maybe three if he placed that doctored stuff on Rockett, plus took the photos of me and Swindle.”
“And, don’t forget, had the time and ability to drown your pal, Rockett. I don’t know, it sounds like an awfully busy individual and I still don’t get why?”
“What about Cazzo?”
“Cazzo? No, he’s capable of doing a lot of sleazy stuff, but this isn’t his style. Would he beat Swindle up? Maybe, if Tommy D’Angleo gave him the okay, but murder, Dudley Rockett? No, I’d say that’s out of Cazzo’s league.”
“Then the D’Angelos?”
“Perfectly capable of all of it, especially the violence. The only problem is Gino has a monitor on, they can track him. And Gino can’t go anywhere without Tommy taking him there. Hell, the poor guy would never be able to find his way back home. The cops know where and when the guy goes anywhere. He probably has a limited amount of places he can be, and I’m guessing he’s required to be home after hours.” Louie sat back and put his feet up on the picnic table.
“By the way, the monitoring company also contacts him at random times. Some sort of message he has to respond to within a certain time so they can check to see that he’s where he should be. No, Gino’s on a short leash. Tommy rarely if ever let’s him out of his sight, so they’re both essentially under lockdown. Call your pal LaZelle, he’ll tell you.”
I thought that was probably one of Louie’s better ideas.
“You aware you’re a person of interest in an on-going investigation? That means I really can’t talk with you, Dev,” Aaron said.
“That’s why I’m calling.”
“Because I can’t talk to you? The person you should be talking to is Detective Manning?”
“Actually, that’s not such a good idea. I just had a question.”
“And I’m jammed. Like I said, if you were paying attention, I’m not at liberty to discuss your involvement in an on-going investigation. Look, Dev, we’ve been friends for years, but you’re over the line on this one. Like I said, you should be talking to Manning.”
“Aaron, I just wanted to know if Gino D’Angelo was wearing a monitor bracelet.”
“Gino D’Angelo? No offense pal, but maybe you should be paying a little more attention to your particular horseshit situation. Don’t let the person-of-interest line fool you. Manning is getting all his ducks in a row, and then he is going to lower the boom. And he’s good, Dev, very good.”
“Great. What about Gino?”
“Yes, your friend Mister D’Angelo is wearing a monitor. By the way, he’s one of about twelve thousand individuals currently being monitored. Look, Dev, concerned citizen that you are, please forget about Gino D’Angelo. In fact here’s some free advice, stay as far away from him and his brother as possible. Hey, I know, how about just getting your own act together?”
“My act?”
Yeah. Because right now, Dev, all roads in the Rockett and possibly even the Gary Ruggles cases seem to be leading to you.”
“But I haven’t done anything.”
“Then help us out by proving it, Dev. God damn it. It would sure be nice if we had photos of you going to church services or helping an old lady across the street instead of a rape charge, bondage photos, and a security camera shot of you pissing on Rockett’s house.”
“All that shit is bogus.”
“Well, then there certainly seems to be a lot of bogus shit piling up. Damn it Dev, get this straightened out. You’re running out of time and there is nothing I can or will do to help if you’re guilty. You hear me?”
“Thanks, Aaron. Thanks a hell of a lot.”
“Nice chatting,” Aaron said and hung up.
“Anything?” Louie asked.
“Nothing we didn’t know, Gino D’Angelo is wearing a monitor and I’m in deep shit. Aaron said all roads in the Rockett murder and maybe even that Ruggles hit-and-run seem to lead to me.”
“And maybe Swindle,” Louie offered.
“Yeah, Swindle. If you were Swindle, where in the hell would you be right now?”
“She seems to be incapable of functioning on her own for more than about thirty minutes. If I were looking for her I’d try and find Tommy D’Angelo. Swindle will most likely be in the immediate neighborhood.”
Chapter Forty-One
Swindle wasn’t just in Tommy’s immediate neighborhood, she was in his pool.
I had left the office, debated about wasting time in The Spot but instead, ended up driving down Summit Avenue to Tommy D’Angelo’s home.
Tommy’s place was a long, rambling, two-story brick structure encompassing three very pricey wooded lots on the Mississippi River Boulevard. The house sat along the river bluff a little south of Summit Avenue overlooking the Mississippi and the city of Minneapolis. The front of the lot was surrounded by an eight-foot high wrought iron fence sporting very sharp-looking spikes. The fence was posted with “Private Property” and “No Trespassing” signs placed about every ten feet.
I rang a buzzer at the front gate then looked up and smiled kindly into the security camera when the green light blinked. I rang the buzzer and smiled four separate times but never received an acknowledgement.
I drove around to the far side of the lot. The rear area was walled off by a wood fence that matched the height of the wrought iron out front. Just like a grade school kid, I peered through a knot hole that looked into the lavish backyard and an elegant pool area.
There, floating on an air mattress in the far corner of the pool was a female figure that looked an awful lot like Swindle Lawless. She was topless.
I groaned, grunted, and hoisted myself up to the top of the fence then wobbled a bit before I dropped to the brick patio. I landed next to a round glass-topped table sporting an umbrella. Any noise I made didn’t seem to have an effect on the woman in the pool.
What remained of a drink tray sat on the glass-topped table. Next to the tray was a bowl of sliced limes looking less than fresh, an almost empty bottle of vodka that had probably been sitting in the sun for a couple of hours, and a silver bucket with about three inches of water that must have held ice cubes at one time.
I remained crouched next to the table waiting for a watch dog, a security guard, or the D’Angelos to come storming out after me. But nothing happened.
Swindle remained napping on the air mattress as I quietly approached. Closer examination had me reassess my evaluation. She wasn’t napping, she was passed out and snoring. Based on the scarlet sunburn blistering her figure everywhere but her postage stamp thong area, she was going to be in some real pain whenever she finally regained consciousness.
Her knees hung off the air mattress so that her lower legs were submerged in the water and remained lily white. The position she was in as she lay there had exposed her inner thighs to the rays from the sun and made the thought of her walking in the immediate future a painful proposition.
Her eye was only slightly swollen, and the bruise had faded from mostly purple to more of a yellow-brownish cast. It still did nothing to improve her appearance.
Her air mattress had apparently drifted into the sunny corner of the pool, and Swindle had lain there comatose for God knows how long. She rested a large, empty stemmed glass directly over her navel and her sunburst tattoo. The glass had apparently deflected the sun’s rays leaving a white area the size of a small doughnut surrounding her body art. The rind from a slice of lime nestled in her hair alongside her neck.
Her implanted breasts rose up from her chest like two large mounds of dessert that had been slathered in a scarlet, sunburned glaze. She must have been passed out here for hours.
I double checked the open sliding glass doors leading into the house for any movement then gently called her name.
“Swindle, hey, Swindle, wake up, you’re getting sun burned.”
She wiggled her nose but gave no indication of regaining consciousness.
“Swindle, Swindle, wake up. It’s time to get out of the sun. Come on, honey,” I said and gently shook her knee.
She batted my hand away. Then, like déjà vu all over again, made to roll over as if she were in a large bed, only she wasn’t, of course. Instead, she rolled off the air mattress and down toward the bottom of the pool before I could even attempt to catch her.
She surfaced a second later looking like a boiled lobster and shrieking.
“What the hell are you doing? Are you crazy? Get me out of here, God. I feel like I’m on fire,” she screamed.
I reached for her outstretched arms and hoisted her up out of the water onto the brick patio.
“Nice, Swindle. Gee, I really missed you.”
“Oh God, blick.” She groaned and coughed a few times. “Blick, blick, blick, get me a drink, quick.”
“Yeah right, a drink is just what you don’t need. Come on, get up. Let’s get you out of this sun. You’re really sunburned.”
“I don’t feel so good,” she whined.
“Go figure. How long have you been out there?”
“I just had a little pitcher of martinis.”
“A little pitcher?” I looked around the patio for the thing and finally caught sight of it on the bottom of the pool. I gently took her by the hand and led her into the house.
The house felt like it would have been nice and cool in the air conditioning if Swindle hadn’t left the double glass doors open. I closed the doors behind us as Swindle staggered toward a flowered upholstered couch. She stumbled over the leg of a coffee table and landed on the floor.
“I feel like I’m burning. My skins on fire.”
“You passed out in the sun, Swindle, and earned yourself one hell of a sunburn. You got any cream around here we can use to cool you down?”
“Down that hallway. There’s a bathroom off my room, the pink bedroom. Maybe check the medicine cabinet in there,” she said and sort of half-pointed toward the ceiling.
I walked down the hallway until a nuclear pink bedroom exploded into view. The bed was unmade. There was a vodka bottle on the dresser with maybe an inch of vodka sitting in it. An empty bottle had rolled halfway under the bed. A couple of empty drink glasses sat on a night stand. Dirty clothes were strewn all over and covered the floor. Swindle’s room no doubt. I wondered how anyone could go to sleep with the pink walls in the place let alone wake up and still remain sane. Then again, we were talking Swindle here.
The bathroom was the same violent pink color with white subway tiles half way up the walls. The vanity boasted two sinks set in an eight-foot length of white marble. The marble was completely hidden beneath a variety of makeup containers, hair driers, about twenty different makeup brushes, and some sort of dreadful silk kimono with a modern art design that looked more like splattered paint. About a dozen prescription bottles were mixed in amongst all the clutter. Three different sandals lay scattered across the bathroom floor next to a towel dropped over the bathroom scale. One-half sheet of tissue was all that remained on the toilet paper roll.
