Stakeout (2013)

by Hall, Parnell

  Or stupid as shit.

  There was a crime scene ribbon over Vinnie’s front door. Aside from that, there was no indication that there had been a crime. There was certainly no police presence, at least that I could see.

  Not that it mattered.

  I wasn’t going in, was I?

  The front door opened and a young woman came out. An absolute knockout in a cheap and flashy way. That was prejudiced on my part, predicated no doubt on Vinnie’s Jersey Shore connection, but there’s cheap and flashy and there’s cheap and flashy. The girl had big boobs, featured in skin-tight spandex in a manner that seemed to imply she spent some money getting big boobs just so she could flaunt them in this fashion. Her blond hair looked like it came out of a bottle. She wore false eyelashes, thick eyeliner, and too much eye shadow. Her bright red lipstick was the only eye-catcher between the eyes and the boobs.

  She slipped under the crime scene ribbon, looked in both directions, and came down the front path. If she hadn’t glanced around furtively I might have seen the manila envelope in her hand for what it was, a manila envelope, and not for something she had just pilfered from the crime scene.

  She hopped into a red Prius and took off.

  I followed at a discreet distance. At least that’s what I keep reading in detective stories. Actually, I’m not quite sure what a discreet distance is. I think it’s one where you don’t get spotted on the one hand, or lose the person on the other.

  I followed her about fifteen miles south to a beauty parlor in a strip mall. I wondered if she was getting a haircut. It occurred to me she could use it. I chided myself for the thought. I was trying not to stereotype the woman, but it was hard.

  It was harder when it turned out she was a hairdresser. I mean she not only looked like that, her job was making other people look like that.

  Perhaps I was misjudging her. The first woman she worked on didn’t have teased hair at all. She had a wavy shag sort of thing, and from what I could see the Jersey Girl was giving it a perfectly conservative trim.

  Watching the woman cut hair was not exactly the optimal outcome I’d hoped for when I’d seen her coming out of the dead guy’s house. I wondered if I should get a haircut. That seemed a poor option. There were four women working, so I’d have to do some pretty nimble-footed maneuvering to make sure I got her. And I wasn’t sure they cut men’s hair. There wasn’t a guy in the place. Breaking the gender barrier didn’t seem the best way of being inconspicuous.

  I thought of calling Alice and asking if she needed a haircut. I can’t begin to tell you all the reasons why that seemed like a poor idea. It occurred to me if I were a real detective I would have a female operative I’d call in for just these occasions. Of course, if I were a real detective I probably wouldn’t blunder into such awful scrapes.

  I thought of my old buddy, Fred Lazar, the guy who actually got me into the game. He’d have had a female operative, only he, like Sallingsworth, was retired.

  I’d have retired too, if I didn’t need the money. Not that I minded working, but being a fall guy was wearing me down.

  So what could I do now?

  Watching the Jersey Girl as she wielded her scissors, there was one thing that occurred to me.

  When she went through the beauty parlor door there was nothing in her hands.

  The Prius was parked out of sight from the beauty parlor window. At least out of sight from chair number three, which was where Jersey Girl was working. The hairdresser in the chair closest to the window could see it, but then it wasn’t her car.

  I strolled down the street, walked casually by the Prius. Wondered how to get in.

  A clothes hanger down the crack between the top of the window and the doorframe used to be an option, back in the days when door locks were round and had a little heads on them you could get under and pry up. Jersey Girl’s door locks were shiny as a baby’s bottom with nary a lip of any kind. So Car Thief Trick number 101 was out.

  A police slim jim might have worked, since that didn’t grab the knob but slid right into the mechanism of the lock. Only I didn’t have a slim jim on account of not happening to be on the police force.

  I wondered if MacAullif had one.

  I wasn’t standing there thinking all this, by the way, I had continued on up the street. It was taking me away from my objective, but I needed a plausible reason to turn around.

  No, you don’t, I told myself. If I wasn’t being followed, no one could possibly give a damn. If I was being followed, they were already on to me, so what if they saw me change direction?

  I turned around, walked back to the car, tried the passenger side door.

  It opened.

  No coat hangers, slim jims, car thieves, or police officers involved.

  I slid into the passenger seat, popped the glove compartment. It was the first place I looked, largely because it was right in front of me. I found an owner’s manual, still in plastic, most likely unread, and a mountain of receipts. I wondered if knowing what this young woman had bought could possibly help me.

  I slammed the glove compartment, turned around, looked in the back seat.

  There was a lightweight overcoat wadded up in the corner, and that was it. I shook it out, patted the pockets, found nothing, checked for an inner pocket which the coat didn’t have. I wadded it up, threw it back in the corner.

  On the floor on the far side of the driver’s seat was the trunk release. I wondered if I should pop the trunk. Jersey Girl hadn’t, so there wasn’t much point. But I didn’t have anything else. I leaned over, popped the trunk.

  I got out, walked around the car. Tried to appear like a casual motorist as opposed to a car thief. I’m not quite sure of the distinction, but I gave it my best shot.

  I raised the lid of the trunk.

  Jackpot!

  Right there in plain sight was a woman’s leather purse, big enough to have held the manila envelope. I picked it up nonchalantly, as if performing a task for my wife, retrieving something she had sent me back to the car to get.

  I pulled the purse open wide.

  No manila envelopes sprang to view. But I couldn’t really see. I stuck my hand in the purse, was instantly disappointed. I could tell from how far my hand went in without encountering anything that, unless she had folded the envelope up, it was not there. Of course, all of that was dismissing the reality that since I hadn’t seen her open the trunk and put the envelope in the purse, there was no way it could be.

  On the other hand, unless she stuffed it in her pants on her way into the beauty parlor, it had to be somewhere.

  I fumbled deeper in the purse.

  My hand hit something cold and hard.

  I pulled it out.

  It was a gun.

  I immediately leaned further over the trunk, shielding my find from prying eyes with my body, as if I were a nervous husband not wanting people to see I was looking in my wife’s purse.

  All right, all right, that wasn’t my intention. The appearance of the gun had short-circuited my nervous system, rendering my dissembling and play-acting moot, and left me simply reacting on the basic instinct of not wanting anyone to see what I had found.

  I angled my body between the car and the sidewalk and inspected the weapon.

  It was a revolver. A Smith & Wesson revolver. A .38-caliber Smith & Wesson revolver, but that’s a guess. I’ve seen MacAullif’s gun, not his police issue, his private gun, and that’s a thirty-eight. I’d handled it once, empty.

  This gun was not empty.

  This gun had bullets.

  I popped the cylinder, dumped them out. In more time than it takes to tell it. I handled the gun gingerly trying not to shoot myself in the foot.

  There were five bullets and one empty shell casing.

  I sniffed the barrel.

  The gun had been recently fired. How recently, I couldn’t tell you, but there was the unmistakable smell of gunpowder. I’d have to do some research to find out how long the smell would last.

>   I jammed the bullets back in the cylinder, replaced the empty shell, and stuck the gun back in the purse. I knew I shouldn’t be doing it. I was leaving fingerprints all over the place. But there was no help for it. I couldn’t take out a handkerchief and start polishing bullets in the middle of the street.

  I put the purse back in the trunk, slammed it shut.

  The discovery of the gun had distracted me from my initial objective. I still had no idea what had happened to the manila envelope.

  I got back in the car again. Felt under the passenger’s seat. There was nothing there. I tried the driver’s seat. There was nothing there either.

  I got out of the car, opened the back door, searched under the seats from behind. There was nothing under the passenger’s seat. I tried the driver’s seat.

  My hand hit something.

  I reached down, tugged it out.

  It was the manila envelope.

  It was clasped. I unclasped it, reached in, pulled out an eight-by-ten glossy, color photograph of Jersey Girl.

  She was naked.

  She was sitting on the bed with her knees bent and her legs wide open. She was looking straight at the camera with a wicked, teasing, come-hither smile.

  I put the photo back in the envelope, clasped it, slid the envelope back under the seat.

  I got out, walked back to my car, whipped out my cell phone and called home.

  “Yeah?” Alice said. “What’s up?”

  “I won’t be home for dinner.”

  21

  SHE GOT OFF WORK AT EIGHT.

  I wondered where she’d go. Her boyfriend was dead. It occurred to me she might have more than one. I mean, if she could go back to work the day after he was killed, maybe he wasn’t that big a deal in her life, any rather revealing photos notwithstanding.

  I’d been staking out the beauty parlor from across the street and not feeling all that happy about it. I’d staked out the motel and someone wound up dead. I’d staked out the wise guy’s house and someone wound up dead. Not that I was getting a complex or anything, still I was mighty happy when the woman walked out alive. Of course the evening was yet young.

  Jersey Girl hopped in the Prius and drove out of town. I had no idea where she was going or what I was going to do. All I knew was I was following a hot babe with a gun. If she took the leather purse out of the trunk I was going to be on high alert.

  As we drove out of town the houses were bigger and farther apart. She turned in the driveway of one that was very nice indeed. It looked like more than a hairdresser could afford.

  It was. Jersey Girl didn’t live in the big house. She had an apartment over the garage. That was too bad. I was hoping I could just look up her address. But, no, she wasn’t the one who lived there. Of course she would have the same mail address, unless she had a post office box, which was probably a good bet. There was only one mailbox out by the road, and the hoity-toity owners of the big house wouldn’t want her stuff mixed in with their mail. I was unfairly maligning them, but nothing in this case seemed fair, at least not to me.

  She got out of her car, opened the rear door, reached under the seat and pulled out the manila envelope. She closed the door, popped the trunk and retrieved the leather purse. She zapped the car locked and went up the wooden steps.

  So, I was dealing with the type of ditz who locks it in the driveway with the trunk empty and leaves it unlocked on the street with beaver shots and a loaded gun.

  Jersey Girl went up the steps, unlocked the door to her apartment over the garage, and went in.

  Okay, what did I do now? Stake out the garage. At least it only had one exit.

  The minute I thought that, I immediately began to doubt it. What if that’s not the only entrance? What if there’s an interior staircase leading down into the garage? So she goes up the stairs, into the apartment, down into the garage, through the breezeway, and even now she’s romping around in the great big house.

  But why in the world would she do that?

  Unfortunately, I had an answer. Because she spotted me following her and she’s playing a game.

  Nonsense. She’s a hairdresser and she’s alert enough to spot a tail?

  Well, she did have a loaded gun in her car. People with loaded guns tended to be wary. Particularly people with loaded guns which had been recently fired and whose boyfriends had been recently shot.

  Bullshit. She lives over the garage and she hasn’t got a clue.

  I got out of my car, slammed the door, crossed the street. I figured I’d better do it before I thought about it. Because if I thought about it I wouldn’t, and I clearly had to do something. I went up the wooden steps and banged on the door.

  She opened it a crack and peered out. “Yes?”

  I flipped open my leather folder with my ID. “Detective Hastings. Sorry to bother you. Just a few questions.”

  “But I already told you everything I know.”

  “Sorry, ma’am, just routine, I won’t be long.”

  “I’m making dinner.”

  “I won’t stop you. Just doing my job.”

  She sighed, opened the door, let me in.

  Jersey Girl had changed out of her working gear and slipped on a baby blue kimono. It was tied at her waist with a sash, but it was rather loose and tended to gape. I got the impression she had taken off her bra. In light of the picture I had just seen, the effect was disturbing. I felt an electric tingle through my body in general and some areas in particular.

  She padded ahead of me into the room.

  Jersey Girl lived in a modest studio apartment. It had a double bed against the far wall, a small couch and coffee table, and a kitchen nook in the corner. If she was really making dinner, she was just getting started, because there was nothing on the kitchen counter.

  She led me to the kitchen table instead of the couch. I got the hint. If I were asking her questions I could damn well get it over with and not make myself comfortable. She sat at kitchen table. I opted to stand, not entirely so I could see down the kimono.

  “When was the last time you saw Vinnie alive?”

  “You asked me this already.”

  “I didn’t ask you anything,” I corrected. “I can’t go on someone else’s report. They could be wrong. I need it firsthand. When was the last time you saw him alive?”

  “The day before yesterday.”

  “How come?”

  “What do you mean, how come? We weren’t living together. I wanted to move in, but he wouldn’t let me.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. I think he wanted to be free to play around.”

  “You don’t seem too broken up.”

  She looked up angrily. “What’s the matter? You want me in tears? I’m sure if you work hard at it you can make me cry. Is that what you really want to do?”

  “Not at all. I just want some answers to some questions.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Do you own a gun?”

  “Of course not. Why would I own a gun?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I told you. I don’t own a gun.”

  “You ever carry one?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You may not own one, but did you ever use one? You ever carry one around?”

  “Only target shooting. Vinnie used to teach me.”

  “Vinnie had a gun?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Ever loan it to you?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Vinnie was shot. So far we haven’t found the gun that did it. So we’re interested in any gun he was connected with.”

  “You think he was shot with his own gun?”

  “We don’t know what gun he was shot with. We’re investigating all possibilities.”

  “Yeah, well that’s not possible. Try something else.”

  “You don’t have a gun on you?”

  “No.”

  “Vinnie never loaned you his gun and forgot to take it
back?”

  “Of course not. Why would he do that?”

  “I don’t know why. I’m asking if he did.”

  “I tell you, no.”

  “I can’t search this place without a search warrant. But let me ask you something. Is there anything here you don’t want me to see?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then do you mind if I take a look?”

  “Of course I mind. I don’t want you going through my things.”

  “But you don’t have anything you don’t want me to see. For instance, the roaches in the ashtray on the coffee table. You wouldn’t want me to look at that and come to the conclusion you’ve been smoking pot.”

  Her face fell. “Oh, come on.”

  “It’s a good thing I didn’t see them. You know why I didn’t see them? I didn’t see them because I’m not looking for them. I’m not looking for anything but a gun. Anything I find that isn’t a gun I don’t give a tinker’s damn about. You know what that means?”

  She frowned. “No.”

  “Neither do I, but it’s something people always say.”

  She crinkled up her nose. “You’re weird.”

  “No, I’m single minded. I want to find out who killed Vinnie. I’m betting you do too.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “So help me out. Let me look around, convince myself you don’t have a gun. I’m not interested in your intimate apparel, sex toys, or recreational drugs. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Now, see here.”

  “All I care about is do you have a gun.”

  “No.”

  “Prove it.”

  The leather purse was on a chair by the door. “Your bag over there. That looks big enough to hold a gun. If I were going to carry a gun, that’s where I would keep it. Is there a gun in that bag?”

  “No.”

  “Would you mind showing me?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m asking nice. If it’s nothing, I’ll leave you alone. If it’s something, I’ll have a few questions.”

  She gave me a look, flounced over and picked up the purse. On her way back to the table she frowned.

  “What’s the matter?”