In the Worst Way (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 5)

by A W Hartoin

  I turned to face the front and screamed as Dad cut off a delivery truck while lowering his window and popping his old cherry on the top of the car, flashing like crazy.

  “Didn’t they take that away from you when you retired?” I asked while clutching the door handle for dear life.

  Dad gave me his evil Grinch look. “They tried.”

  “They’re the police. How could they fail?”

  “Oh ye of little faith.”

  I screamed as we narrowly avoided a woman walking six dogs. “Hail, Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners.”

  Where’s my rosary? I need my rosary.

  “Now at the hour—”

  “Stop that!” yelled Dad. “We’re not dying today.”

  “You just clipped a light pole.”

  “It deserved it. You want to get there or not?”

  “I want to arrive alive!” I yelled.

  “I trained for this.”

  “Was there a test? Did you pass?”

  “They said I was too aggressive,” Dad said.

  “No, shit!”

  “Watch your language.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I hit my head on the window as Dad made a sharp left onto Lindell Boulevard. “I’m telling Mom you tried to kill us.”

  “She failed the test, too.”

  “What is wrong with you people?”

  One minute and thirty long seconds later we drove onto Hawthorne Avenue. Lucky for us the street’s big ornate gate was open for another car or Dad might’ve driven straight through it. We careened down the quiet street, passing the Lexus and its astonished driver. Hawthorne didn’t get many out of control cars or police cruisers and it was a banner day for both.

  Dad passed our house so fast it was a blur and then slammed on the brakes in front of the Bled Mansion. Pick flew between the seats and landed on the console with his paws on the dash.

  “You almost killed the dog!” I yelled.

  “He’s a police dog. He’s fine.”

  “He’s a poodle.”

  “Close enough.” Dad jumped out. “I’m pumped. Let’s kick some ass.”

  I got out much more slowly, acutely aware of our audience, five uniformed cops and two detectives. Pick jumped out behind me, spun in a circle, and barfed in the gutter. Dad stepped over the heaving Pick and yelled, “What have we got, fellas?”

  The cops stared at Dad, even the ones that knew him well. I guess nobody gets used to my dad. I certainly didn’t. The detectives, Sidney Wick and Nazir, recovered the fastest. They walked down the long brick walk and Nazir flicked his hand at me.

  Oh, right. The light.

  I slipped around the car, popped the light off the roof, and tossed it into the backseat none too gently. If it broke that was just a darn shame. When I came back around, Dad was through the gate and talking to Nazir and Wick with big expansive hand gestures. I snagged Pick’s leash, gave him a soothing pat, and trotted past them.

  “Hold on, Miss Watts,” said Wick. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Are the EMTs here?” I asked.

  “Arrived about forty-five seconds before you did.”

  “Good.” I dashed toward the front door with Wick yelling, “Wait!”

  I wasn’t waiting. It was Lester. I’d known him my whole life. He’d handed out the cigars when I’d been born upstairs. Waiting wasn’t happening.

  The door was locked, but the alarm wasn’t activated. I unlocked the door with my key and, in an instant, saw that the alarm hadn’t been tripped. It simply wasn’t on. Weird. Dad programed his specially-designed system to be armed at all times since a guy named Jens Waldemar Hoff started sniffing around. He was the agent of a non-profit, The Klinefeld Group, who were suing the Bleds to get control of their extensive art collection. The Klinefeld Group looked like a solid organization if you didn’t look too closely. They were willing to say or do anything to get their hands on the multi-million dollar collection. Lately, they put out attack ads, slandering my dad and his police record and accusing the Bleds of stealing from the Jews before the Nazis arrested them during WWII. The lawsuit was all over the news and it was getting dirtier by the day because it didn’t look like the lawsuit would get anywhere. My adventure in New Orleans had come at just the right time. All the arrests stemming from my investigation made us look like saints and The Klinefeld Group like scumbags, which they were.

  I swung open the big heavy door. “Where is he?” I yelled to Nazir.

  “Kitchen!”

  Wick punched Nazir in the shoulder and began stomping up the walk after me. “Don’t tell her that, you moron. She’s corrupting our crime scene.”

  Dad waved for me to go in and I winked at him. I wouldn’t corrupt anything. I wasn’t some nitwit, despite what The Klinefeld Group said about me.

  I tightened up on Pick’s leash and we headed into the cool interior of my first home, my birthplace. Pick’s nails clicked on the gleaming hardwood and he sniffed the Egyptian dog’s head that made up the armrest of the bench next to a display of family pictures on a rosewood table. Stella and Nicky were safe in their gilded frame, smiling in front of a Venetian gondola in 1938. Stella was The Girls’ cousin and she linked my family to the Bleds, but I still didn’t know why or how. I’d discovered in New Orleans that she and Nicky had met with my ancestors, Amelie and Paul in Paris, a meeting that was concealed just like Stella’s activities during the war.

  We dashed into the receiving room first and I could see in a glance that all the art was intact. Myrtle and Millicent did rearrange the collection according to their mood and the current setup had been in place since I got back from New Orleans. My godmothers played everything close to the vest, but the minute I saw the Whistlers and Caillebottes come out of the attic, I knew they were angry. Gone were the warm Monets, Bazilles, and Guigous. Cold paintings in grey scale and jagged cubist works were in their places. It was the only indication of their deep upset at being accused of crimes that they abhorred.

  Pick tugged me through a series of rooms, all undisturbed, until we entered the kitchen. There was a cluster of EMTs and a couple uniforms standing by the wide marble pastry table.

  One of the cops pointed at me, “Stop right there. Who…”

  He realized who I was mid-sentence and began stammering.

  “I’m the goddaughter of the owners, Mercy Watts.” I tied Pick to a chair and walked over. “What’s his condition?”

  “Who?”

  “Lester Hodges, your victim.”

  “You know him?” He was talking to my breasts and I wanted to give him a swift kick in the shin.

  “Naturally. He’s the chauffeur.” I pushed past him and my breath caught in my chest. Lester was lying in a pool of blood while the EMTs tried to resuscitate him. The only blip on the monitor was manual, done by the EMT doing compressions on Lester’s narrow chest.

  Why? He’s so old.

  Another EMT readied the paddles and yelled, “Clear!”

  Lester’s body spasmed.

  “I’ve got a rhythm!” The EMT shouted stats into his radio and they brought the gurney in. They lifted Lester onto it without much effort. He weighed about a hundred pounds in the heavy chauffeur uniform he insisted on wearing. My last glimpse was of his thin face, slack jawed and unresponsive. An arm came around me and pulled me back. I breathed deep Dad’s cologne and said, “They got him back.”

  “Details?”

  “Blow to the back of the head. They brought the weapon with them,” I said staring at the blood.

  “How do you know?”

  “I know this kitchen. Nothing’s missing.” I pointed to the armchair beside the window. “He was sitting there. Probably asleep until they came in. He always snoozes here while The Girls bake. Do we know where they are?”

  Nazir and Wick came in. Wick sighed and looked at the ceiling for a second. “Neighbor called it in. She saw the owners get in a car service about two hours ago. Maybe you can tell us where they are.”

&nb
sp; I got out my phone and checked the calendar. “The cathedral fête starts this weekend. They’re probably working on it.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Organizing. Lester doesn’t drive them much anymore. He can’t see over the wheel very well. They just call a service. Which neighbor?” I asked.

  “Excuse me,” called out a refined voice.

  Mrs. Haase waved at me through the window. She had gardening shears in her hand and wore her usual floppy hat. She wasn’t as interesting as the broken window I was looking through. I walked around the pastry table and waved to her. The hole was the size of a mug and, sure enough, there was a heavy mug lying in the rose bed at Mrs. Haase’s feet.

  Wick came to my elbow. “We think Mr. Hodges threw the cup when they hit him. She heard the breaking glass.”

  I called to Mrs. Haase, “I’m coming out.”

  The cops, including Dad, stayed in the kitchen discussing the point of entry. I untied Pick and went out into the garden. Mrs. Haase shocked me with a hug and allowed Pick to sniff her hand. “How are you, dear?”

  “Okay. So you heard the breaking glass.”

  “I did and I came right over. There were two men in suits going out the back gate.”

  Suits?

  “Did you see their faces?” I asked.

  “Sadly, no. But there wasn’t a car. They just went out through the stables to the alley.”

  “Did they use a code to get in the stables?”

  “No. The door was open.” Mrs. Haase took off her hat and a lock of thick grey hair fell in her face. She tucked it behind her ear and leaned in. “The stable is always locked and alarmed. The cars are worth quite a bit.”

  “I know. Were they carrying anything?”

  “Like what?” she asked.

  “A weapon. Maybe a hammer. Something like that,” I said.

  “Now that you mention it, there was something in the larger man’s hand, but I couldn’t see what it was.”

  “Did he have it in the alley?”

  “I didn’t pay attention. I heard Lester moan and I called 911. The poor man. He wouldn’t have threatened them. He could barely see. What do you think? Will he survive?” she asked.

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “You must have some idea. You are a nurse.”

  “It doesn’t look good.”

  She hugged me again. “I’d like some tea. Can I have Bethany make you some?”

  “Bethany?”

  “Our new cook.”

  “No, thanks. I’m fine.”

  Mrs. Haase headed for her own Tudor-style mansion and I went for the stables. The door was unlocked and the alarm was in sleep mode. The lights were on. Whoever they were, they weren’t nervous or particularly sneaky.

  I checked the door to the alley and it was wide open, the entry point to the grounds of the estate. The lock wasn’t jimmied. How did they get in? I made a circuit of the entire stables. First the cars. They were all there and undisturbed. The keys were in the house. They wouldn’t be hard to find. Maybe they planned on driving off in the 1921 Maybach or Millicent’s Borgwald Isabella and the broken window ruined the plan.

  Since the cars were all there, I checked the stalls. The building had originally been a stable and The Girls kept the stalls their ponies used filled with fresh hay for sentimental reasons. I used to do my homework out there, lying in the fragrant heaps. The smell was soothing when I was struggling with statistics.

  Pick tugged on his leash and barked, dragging me past the stalls. They were all normal. Their brass plaques engraved with horses’ names were shiny and untouched. No. Not quite. The stall at the end, my Statistics study stall, wasn’t quite closed. Pick went wild as we got closer and found the bolt thrown open. I used my sweater sleeve to open the door. The hay was heaped evenly, except for one spot in the corner under the empty trough. Pick sniffed and began baying like a bloodhound. Maybe the poodle was a police dog. I tied Pick to the black bars of the stall, got down on my hands and knees, and slid my hand under the straw until I felt something hard.

  “Find something?”

  I glanced back at my dad. He was smiling.

  “Maybe. The straw was disturbed.”

  “Don’t touch it.” He called Nazir and he came in, gloved up, and felt around until he came up with a small metal pry bar with blood on it. “Huh?”

  “What?” I asked.

  Dad crossed his arms and tapped his foot, staring at the bar in Nazir’s hand. “It’s too small for almost everything. You can’t pry a door open with that.”

  “Or a window,” said Nazir.

  “They weren’t worried about getting in.”

  I frowned. “They had a key? How?”

  Dad called Uncle Morty and told him the Bled Mansion had been hacked. The cursing that came out of Dad’s phone was loud and colorful. Uncle Morty could probably hack the US Treasury if he cared to put the time into it, but there weren’t many guys like him. Whoever hacked the Bled Mansion was very very good. Spidermonkey was my cyber snoop and he was just as good as Morty if not better, but he knew the Bleds personally. So he wouldn’t do it and there was still the matter of the key.

  Uncle Morty bellowed about the system until Dad hung up on him. “He’s pissed.”

  “No kidding,” said Nazir. “But what’s it got to do with him?”

  “It was his firewall they breached. He thought it was impenetrable.”

  “Nothing’s impenetrable.”

  “Clearly.”

  “Hello.” I waved my key ring at them. “What about the key? The Girls have deadbolts on every exterior door. If they didn’t break a window or pry open a door, how’d they get in?”

  Dad blew out a deep breath in a whoosh. “There may have been a fault in the system.”

  “What kind of fault?” asked Nazir.

  “When Morty originally designed the system he was worried about the deadbolts. The Girls are getting up in years. Their manual dexterity isn’t what it used to be. Using a key to get out of the house in an emergency, like a fire, could be difficult.”

  “So?” I asked.

  “So we had the locks wired into the system so I, your mother, and the security company could unlock them in an emergency so they could get out and the authorities could get in.” Dad flushed to the roots of his red hair. He was almost purple like someone was strangling him but his voice remained calm.

  “Are you crazy?” I yelled. I don’t know what gave me the balls to yell at my father. Nobody yelled at Dad. It just wasn’t done.

  Dad stared at me, the blood draining out of his face.

  “I’m glad you said that and not me.” Nazir edged away. “Step away, Mercy.”

  “I don’t care! He made it so some dude in Pakistan can open the damn door if he has the brains to figure out the system!”

  Dad sucked in a breath and let out a string of curse words so fast I couldn’t make out any individual one, finishing with, “We disconnected the system!”

  “Apparently not! Did you physically cut the wires to the locks?” I asked, now strangely calm. I’m surprised my life didn’t flash before my eyes. Dad was that mad.

  “The security company was ordered to do it!” he yelled as Wick and two uniforms ran in.

  “Did you follow up?”

  “No!”

  “That’s insane.”

  “Son of a bitch!” Dad pointed a long finger at me. “You’re right!”

  Did my father just say I was right?

  “Huh? What?”

  Dad dropped his arm and his shoulders slumped. “You’re right. This is my fault. Is Lester going to die?”

  “Most likely,” I said softly. “But it’s not you who whacked him.”

  “I gave them access.” He walked away toward the cars and we all watched him in silence.

  “What’d I miss?” asked Wick.

  Nazir gave him the rundown and they bagged the pry bar. I doubted if they’d be able to trace it or find any prints. Whoever the suits worke
d for wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave evidence if it could be traced to them.

  “So,” said Wick, looking at the pry bar. “They wanted access to something, but the house wasn’t it.”

  Dad’s shoulders twitched at his words and I said, “Something small like a cabinet. They left great art on the walls. Small pieces. There’s a Renoir in the back hall. It could fit into a pocket and they had to pass right by it when they went to the kitchen. They wanted something in particular. Something hidden.”

  “Like what?” asked Nazir. “Why not just take the easy stuff?”

  “You can’t sell it for one thing. Not easily anyway. There are some collectors who’d have no problem buying a Renoir known to be part of The Bled Collection, but it’s not an easy sale. The point of having a Renoir is to tell people you have it. Stolen art must be hidden.”

  “What do they have that’s worth more than a Renoir or whatever else they’ve got in there?” asked Wick.

  I crossed my arms. “I don’t know, but I know who wants it.”

  Chapter Three

  I STOOD IN front of the desk and held the tiny gold key in my hand, but I didn’t need it. The suits had used their pry bar and it hurt my heart to see the damage. It was devastating. The cops had missed it on their first pass through the house. Millicent’s desk in the library had been wrenched open and the papers thoroughly gone through. It was a Biedermeier writing desk circa 1840 and they’d just ripped open the drawers like they were nothing instead of irreplaceable.

  Wick leafed through the piles of paper. “They went through pretty much every cabinet, closet, and drawer in the house, big and small. These drawers won’t fit anything but paper.” He looked up at me, his round face sweaty. “What was in here? All I got is receipts and some charity stuff.”