by AJ Nuest
Jesus. Kelly shifted his attention to the medical examiner, squatting over the body, and raked a dripping piece of hair off his brow. “Any ID?”
“No personal effects.” Ramirez turned to follow Kelly’s stare down toward the scene. “Time of death is still up for grabs, but DeFranco’s estimating three days based on water temp and rate of decomp.” Pivoting back toward Kelly, she lifted a brow. “He wants her back at the lab before confirming anything.”
Yep, that matched square with DeFranco’s MO. His Type A personality brought obsessive-compulsive disorder to a whole new level. Hell, if not for his coke-bottle glasses and missing pointy ears, the guy would make the perfect stand-in for Mr. Spock.
Good news was, DeFranco’s practice of trusting science over supposition made him the best damn medical examiner in the city, and Kelly trusted his guesstimate over scientific fact any day. He’d been lucky to pull DeFranco on the case.
He nodded and jerked his thumb at the unlucky folks who’d found the victim. “Put ʼem in a squad and get ʼem some coffee.” Doing so wouldn’t help. No amount of time or money could scrub the image of a violent murder from a person’s brain, especially when it came to the bloated remains of a floater. But at least they’d be warm, tucked out sight for when the local television jackals arrived. “Keep the press clear. I won’t be long.”
She dipped her chin and walked off as he started down the beach.
Thunder rumbled in the distance. Another wall of icy water hit his face, and Kelly yanked his jacket zipper higher as he ducked under the yellow police tape stationed around the scene. A black plastic tarp covered most of the body—no doubt DeFranco’s attempt to keep any more evidence from disappearing—and Kelly couldn’t help but razz the guy. Just to make him a little crazier than he already was. “Beautiful weather we’re having.”
The medical examiner glanced up from where he was bagging the victim’s hands and used the edge of his shoulder to shove his glasses back up his nose. “Damn rain makes everything harder.”
Tugging a rubber glove from his pocket, Kelly dropped to his haunches and flipped the tarp away from the victim’s face.
Shit. He lowered his chin to his chest, one hand hanging limp between his knees. The bright-red dye job, those huge brown eyes staring off into space…
Someone up there really hated his guts. This case just kept getting better and better.
“You know her?”
Kelly nodded. “Street name’s Ruby Slipper. She was one of Delroy’s girls.” Up until a little over a year ago, when the pimp had harassed the wrong John and gotten himself shot in the face. Another peek at the jagged wounds riddling Ruby’s body, and Kelly resettled the tarp. This wasn’t some drug deal gone bad. A death this brutal had rage murder written all over it. “Archer’s gonna be pissed.”
Of the two dozen or so girls in Delroy’s stable, Ruby had been the only one to take the asshole’s death for the blessing it’d been. While most of his prostitutes had shifted their regulars to other pimps, gone solo or disappeared altogether, Ruby had done the unthinkable and approached Archer for help. Being the stand-up guy he was, he’d agreed to her proposition, leveraging his status as Chicago’s lead narcotics detective by making sure she had a roof over her head and money to live on in exchange for information. Valuable information.
The two of them had worked well together. Thanks to Ruby’s tips, Archer had made several big busts over the past few months. Hell, he’d even called Kelly in to assist on a few of the arrests.
Telling Archer Ruby was their latest floater was gonna suck, but better he hear it from Kelly than anyone else. If such a thing as best friends existed, they were it. Besides, Archer would need Kelly’s okay to get involved in the case. Something he was bound to insist upon.
DeFranco’s CSI team wheeled a gurney over the sand and Kelly stood, swiping his hand down his cheeks to remove the rain trickling through the twelve-hour shadow on his face. “Tell me you got something I can use.”
God knew, the last thing he wanted was to interrupt Archer’s Monday post-game highlights with a whole lot of zilch.
The medical examiner reached into his jacket pocket and held a clear, plastic evidence bag in Kelly’s direction. “Just this business card. She was clutching it in her right hand.”
The expensive linen stock was both crumpled and water logged, but the embossed printing was clearly legible. Kelly flipped the card over and back. Only two words were printed on the front—Dirty Deeds, along with a Chicago area phone number.
He frowned. Sounded like a Sicilian clean-up crew. “Any idea what this is about?”
DeFranco peered at him over the top of his glasses, unrolling a body bag on Ruby’s left. “Um, that’s your job?”
Kelly grunted and slapped the evidence bag against his palm. Archer hadn’t mentioned Ruby being involved with the mob. Their deal focused more on the local pushers who ran the South Side. He shook his head and turned away, slogging up the slope toward where Ramirez stood watch over the waiting squad.
“Yeah, well, asking questions is my job.” Starting with the two witnesses who’d found the body. “Let me know as soon as the labs are in.”
“I always do.”
Kelly smirked, the wet sand dragging at his boots until he’d cleared the beach. A white news van pulled into the parking lot just as he rounded the squad’s hood, and he snatched the clipboard Ramirez offered him before quickly ducking into the front passenger seat.
Until he had something to go on, he had no intention of being stopped for a bunch of questions he couldn’t answer.
Drying his palms along the thighs of his jeans, he twisted to face the back seat. “Mr. and Mrs.…” he flipped through Ramirez’s report. “Weaver?”
“Why are we being detained?” Hostility glinted in Mr. Weaver’s blue eyes, and he jerked his head toward Ramirez through the side window. “We already told the other officer everything we know.” His wife pressed her fingers to her lips, and Mr. Weaver slung an arm around her shoulders, pulling her to his side.
“I just have a few follow-up questions, and then I’ll have Officer Ramirez drive you home.” Kelly smiled. “Standard procedure, I promise.”
Mr. Weaver’s thinning hair was plastered to his forehead. His wife’s dishwater blonde curls dripped over the collar of her white blouse and light spring jacket. Not standard attire for the weather by a long shot. “Can I ask why you were out walking the beach on a day like this?”
“We weren’t.” Mr. Weaver snuck a peek at his wife. She shivered and he pulled her in tighter, nodding toward the opposite window. “We live across the street. Clarice and I were having brunch when she looked out the patio doors and noticed…” He swallowed. “Something strange rolling in the waves.”
Kelly shifted his focus to Mrs. Weaver’s drawn face. “When you first saw the body, did you see anyone else nearby? Anything that looked out of place or even something that seemed normal for the time of day?”
“Of course not.” She shuddered a second time and Mr. Weaver reached over with his other hand to squeeze her knee. “I would’ve told the first officer right away.” Peering up at her husband, she shook her head. “Oh, Howard, this is just ghastly. How could something like this happen here?”
Howard Weaver patted his wife’s leg, murmuring softly, and Kelly glanced at the forms to confirm Ramirez had jotted down their address and phone number. “Chances are good the actual crime didn’t happen in this area, Mrs. Weaver. Keep in mind, tidal currents and wind can play a factor in where the deceased washes up.”
She gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, that poor girl.”
Yeah, maybe not the best visual to leave them with but, shit. Kelly’s senses had hardened over time. An unavoidable hazard of the job. Christ knew, after fifteen years on the force, he’d seen it all.
Still, a little diversion at this junction might go a long way toward making the Weavers more comfortable, just in case
he needed them for a later, follow-up visit. “One last thing and then we’ll make sure to get you home safe.” He held up the business card. “Do either of you recognize this?”
Mrs. Weaver reached for the evidence bag and studied the card a second before shaking her head. She handed it to her husband and his lips firmed. “No.”
Kelly hesitated, sliding the bag from Mr. Weaver’s fingers. If he trusted anything, it was his gut. His time on the force, coupled with the hell Jaclyn had put him through, made damn sure he could spot a lie fifty miles off. Considering how Mr. Weaver had barely glanced at the evidence, Kelly would place bets he’d just been handed a pile of bullshit. And he would win. “You sure about that, Mr. Weaver?”
“Of course, I’m sure. My wife and I had nothing to do with his heinous crime.” He waved his hand around the car. “Now if you’re done giving us the third degree, I insist you have someone take us home or I’m calling my attorney.”
Kelly nodded, grabbing the door handle. Whatever secrets the guy was hiding, they worried him enough to lawyer up. If he did, the small crack that had just appeared in the case would slam shut. Better to let Mr. Weaver go now and approach him later. After things had settled. Kelly slid his attention to Mrs. Weaver. And when his wife wasn’t around. “Thanks very much for your time. I’ll be in touch if there’s anything else we need.”
He stepped into the freezing rain and Ramirez turned as he slammed the door. He jerked his thumb in the Weaver’s direction, unzipped his jacket and tucked the clipboard and business card inside. “Take ʼem home and have a patrol swing by to make sure everything’s quiet.”
She nodded as he pivoted toward his car, waving off the slew of reporters that had arrived while he’d been interviewing the Weavers. Once behind the wheel, he cranked the heat, worked the clipboard and evidence bag from his jacket and tossed them to the passenger seat.
He reached inside his breast pocket for his cell. A glance down at the business card, and he thumbed in the number.
Long moments stretched, filled with dead air. A series of clicks like the line was being redirected to a call center in India, and he frowned, checking the screen to make sure he hadn’t been disconnected.
The call finally rang through, and he slapped the phone back to his ear.
“Password,” a male voice answered.
Kelly hesitated. “Uh…”
The line went dead.
He held the phone away from his face, scowling. “Damn, Ruby, what kinda shit mess were you in?”
Another tap of the screen to speed-dial Archer, and Kelly rested his wrist on the steering wheel as he waited for his friend to answer.
“What do you want, asshole? It’s my day off.”
“Hey, buddy.” Kelly dropped his head back to the seat, eyes closed. “I got some bad news.”
Chapter 2
Eden sighed, fiddling with the thick, gold choker at her neck. She leaned over the bar and tapped her cell to check the time. Darting a quick glance at the door through the dim interior of the piano bar, she twirled the stem of her cosmopolitan and shook her head.
Dammit, if her mark didn’t make his move soon, she’d have to leave and start over again another day. A woman like Pearl would never wait this long for her date to show up.
The piano player’s rambling melody settled into the first strands of Moonlight in Vermont, and Eden propped her elbow on the bar, lightly balancing her chin on the backs of her fingers. The heavy diamond bracelet she wore slid down her wrist, and she tipped her head while straightening the clasp.
At least she could console herself that, of all her personas, Pearl was her favorite. As the Grace Kelly of the closet, Pearl was refined, aloof, extremely stylish…and had a bankroll bigger than a sheikh.
Dressing as Pearl always made Eden happy. She centered the box of chocolate-covered cherries on the bar. For a small slice in time, she could pretend she’d enjoyed a cultured upbringing instead of the pinball bounce through foster care that defined her childhood.
She smiled softly. Being Pearl was always a lovely escape.
Her target slipped from the booth in the corner, sharing a laugh with his friends, and Eden stole another glance toward the door just in case satisfaction showed on her face.
Good. Finally. It was time to play.
He rounded the piano and dropped a twenty in the tip jar before approaching the far end of the bar. Their gazes met, and Eden returned his smile with a slight nod before fingering the short curls of her ash blonde wig.
Bingo. He’d just nibbled at the bait. Now to hook and reel him in.
She rechecked the time and rolled her eyes, shoved the chocolate-covered cherries to the back of the bar and stood. Lifting the mink coat from her chair, she folded it over her arm.
“I wish you wouldn’t leave.”
She smiled and turned.
Willem Trebout, or Will to his friends, was tall, muscular, recklessly handsome in an unshaven, overdue haircut kind of way. He was also Chicago’s latest up-and-coming artist, whose modern sculptures framed the entrance to the NBC Tower in a “stunning display of angles and raw emotion”…or so said the latest review of his work in the Tribune. He was also a parasitic leech, according to his ex-girlfriend Anna and the research Eden’s team had collected.
For six long years, the poor girl had worked two jobs to support his directionless ass. She’d set her own goals aside and given up nursing school because she’d believed in the beauty of his art. The minute Willem had gained the attention of a world-renowned art dealer, he’d dropped Anna and dismissed everything she’d done for him like yesterday’s trash.
Apparently, a secretary-slash-waitress no longer ran in the right circles to accommodate Willem’s taste or his sudden fame. But Pearl?
Eden brushed off his opening line with a laugh. “I’ve been waiting too long as it is. The man didn’t even have the decency to phone me with his usual inane excuse.”
Pearl was the epitome of sophistication and class. Eden had been spot-on to choose her society darling to snare the bloodsucker’s attention.
“Well, the man, whoever he might be, is an idiot.” Willem slanted his head toward the barstools. “Is there any way I can convince you to stay? I’d be flattered to keep you company until you finish your drink.”
Eden hesitated, stealing a peek at his friends. “I’m not entirely sure that would be appro—”
“At least tell me what’s in the box.” He eased his hip onto a nearby stool and tipped the neck of his imported beer toward the chocolates. “I’m dying to know what’s inside.”
She slumped, rolling her eyes. “Chocolate-covered cherries. They were meant to be an inside joke.” Twirling her seat so the padded back spun away from him, she placed her coat on the bar and joined him.
Willem’s dark brows shot up in surprise. “Oh, you’re kidding. Those are my favorite.”
Really. Well, fancy that.
Whenever he’d been brooding over the lack of interest in his work, Anna had made sure to have those sweets on hand. To make him feel better.
Too bad they were about to make him feel worse. Much, much worse. In fact, if this job worked out the way Eden had planned, Willem Trebout would lose more than just a couple of days glued to the toilet.
He’d stolen something from Anna. A part of her life she could never get back. It seemed only fair he give up something in return.
Eden peeked at him from under her lashes as if she wasn’t buying his line for a second.
“I’m not making that up.” He jerked his thumb toward the booth in the corner. “If you don’t believe me, go ask my friends.”
She laughed and shook her head. “No, I believe you. It just seems an odd twist of fate.” Lifting her drink from the bar, she wet her lips but didn’t swallow. To play her part, she needed to remain as sharp as a tack.
A boyish grin creased the stubble on Willem’s face. The same one that probably melted hearts all over the
city. “I’m Will, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Will. I’m Madeline.” Or Susie or Jane. Whatever floated his boat. Eden measured his charming appeal with a squint even though she already knew the answer to her next question. “So, what are you doing in a piano bar at three o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon? Time off for good behavior?”
He chuckled. “No, I don’t work a regular job. I’m here celebrating, actually. Later tonight, several of my pieces are being shown at this swanky art reception downtown. Lots of press, all the bigwigs flying in. My agent claims the show will be the perfect launch to a brilliant career.”
And a debilitating case of diarrhea.
“Wait.” She pointed at him in mock surprise. “You’re Willem Trebout. I read about you in Sunday’s paper just this past weekend.”
The man had the balls to blush. “Oh, that. The article was a puff piece. You can blame my agent for the nice things that were printed.” He swigged his beer and set the bottle on the bar, sliding the chocolates closer. “What about you? Why are you here on this cold and dreary day?”
“Avoiding detection.” She dismissed the comment with wave, as if those two words were self-explanatory, hoping he’d catch the drift Madeline was here waiting to meet her latest hook up. She was available, but not looking for a commitment. The ideal catch for a man in Will’s position.
“Ah.” He slid the card from beneath the bow and held it slivered between his index and middle fingers. “So, that would make this a note to your lover?”
Shrugging, she arched a brow. “Marriage to a powerful man tends to be extremely lonely. My husband doesn’t begrudge me my hobbies and I don’t bother with his.”
Willem flipped the card around and lifted the flap. “May I?”
Damn straight, he could. Eden had written the note specifically for him. She placed her hand over his. “I really wish you wouldn’t. I’m afraid you’ll think me incredibly crass.”
