“I’m not laughing. Call Henry and tell him Charles got sick and you found a replacement.”
“Won’t work. He knows you. He has pictures. Remember?”
“He’ll have more than pictures by the time I’m finished with him.”
Chapter 9
How could anyone be so pickled on so few beers? As we struggled to get Chucky up two flights of stairs, I knew Harry was thinking the same thing. He kept cursing the “Out of Service” elevator. The tall, lanky chauffeur lost his balance with each step, until we were almost dragging him. His heavy breathing sounded like his lungs were full of boiling water.
“Oh, for crissakes!” Harry wheezed and stopped.
Our “passenger” slid from his hold. Unable to maintain the weight by myself, I eased Chucky onto the steps. Harry bent closer to him.
“What’s the matter?”
“This is more than a beer problem, Bob. He’s not breathing too good. And he’s getting paler by the second. Shock. Yeah, maybe from his heart. Get your butt to our phone and call a rescue squad.”
I designated Harry to ride with Chucky to the hospital, so I could notify Henry. As I climbed those stairs again, I wondered how much money he would take from my allowance for getting his chauffeur drunk enough to land in the hospital. Maybe I had caused more than a drunken stupor. The paramedics hadn’t wasted any time once they stuck wires on his chest to check the poor guy’s heart. How could someone have so many problems because of a few beers?
Finding the answering machine light blinking, I punched it as I hunted for Henry’s cell phone number.
“I’m using the limo phone, Bob! Why in hell didn’t you call Henry before I got here? He didn’t recognize me like you thought he would. He almost called the cops on me! I finally got him to believe I’m Charles’s niece, but he’s still waiting to hear from you about how his precious driver got sick. So do it! Oh, he can be reached at his office at Ashland Steel. I feel like a friggin’ secretary!”
Henry’s real secretary answered in her prissy monotone. I smiled, thinking of how Lori could liven up that office.
“Well, Robert?” Henry’s voice demanded. “Where is Charles?”
“Rescue squad took him to St. Matthews Hospital.”
A moment of silence. Henry cleared his throat. “Is this another of your non-humorous jokes?”
“Afraid not. I talked him into a couple of beers—”
“Charles drinking?” he interrupted me.
“Just a beer or two.”
“I’ve never known Charles to consume one drop of alcohol. And, he’s been taking medication for pack pain! He wouldn’t think of mixing alcohol with that! What did you do to make him take a drink?”
I was glad Henry couldn’t see my grimace. “I did nothing, Henry! He downed the beers! I didn’t pour them into him! Calm down. I wanted to inform you before I follow the squad to the hospital. Join me there, if you’re so damned concerned! Goodbye!”
“Wait, wait, wait!” Henry ordered.
“What?”
“Do you know this girl driving my car for him? She claims to be his niece. I know for a fact he has no family in the area.”
“No, I don’t know her.” Give up art for acting, Norris! “He called her before he passed out. She was there in minutes. Is there a problem?”
“I do not associate with anyone I have not had investigated, though . . .” —I heard the sigh— “. . . she is courteous and an excellent driver. I’ll check her out . . . perhaps hire her until Charles can return to work. And, yes, Robert, I will see you at the hospital!” He slammed the phone down as if beating me to it this time.
I rubbed my hands over my face. My mind filled with visions of Henry, Lori, and Harry conversing in a hospital waiting room. A wave of nausea surprised me. I burped the cheap beer.
Pulling into the hospital’s U-shaped drive I spotted Harry lounging on a stone bench. He slid into the Ferrari’s passenger seat with and exhausted sigh.
“So Chucky’s okay or what?”
“He’s alive and doing better.”
“Is Henry with him?”
“Yep. Just got here.”
“And Lori?”
“Didn’t see her, but don’t worry. I talked to Chucky before Henry arrived. He appreciates Lori trying to save his job. We didn’t know what she told Henry, so he’s claiming a memory lapse.”
“Well, Henry didn’t recognize Lori, but he didn’t believe the niece bit either. Seems Chucky doesn’t have any close relatives.” Why did that idea cause a distant ache inside me?
“Tough to keep the lies straight, ain’t it!”
“Very funny! Henry told me Chucky was taking some medication. It obviously didn’t mix well with the beer.”
Harry grunted. “That and the fact the old guy’s got a heart problem. The next time you take someone drinking, Bob, why don’t you ask a few questions. You almost killed the guy!”
“Me? I didn’t make him drink all those beers, one right after—”
“Hey! Just like Alabama, right?” Harry grinned at me.
“Go to hell!” I scowled, he laughed.
Finally, I spotted Henry’s limousine in the Bus Loading Zone. Lori waved us over. Harry lowered his window. She leaned in, her eyes sparkling beneath the uniform cap’s brim.
“Henry’s on his way down. Charles is in Coronary Care at least overnight, maybe longer.”
I nudged Harry. “Thought you said he was okay.”
“He’s in the hospital and alive, ain’t he?”
“Shut up and listen,” Lori snapped. “Henry’s got some weird crap going on. All the way over, he had that glass down so he could ask me questions between phone calls. Tonight I have to take him to a real spooky place.”
“He’s putting his investigators on you, just like he does to everyone else. You better get out of this before he catches on to you.”
“No. I can lie through my teeth and Charles will help. I know it. No, I’ll earn my money from you . . . or good Ol’ Henry . . . or whatever. My fuckin’ point is I said I would help you. He mentioned your name and Eileen to whoever he was talking to. I can’t walk the street and talk to snitches, so I’ll find out what your father-in-law is up to.”
Harry glanced at me and shrugged. No wonder her eyes were lit up. She had found a purpose and was determined. I had unintentionally set her up. This was not good.
“I do not want any more accidents or dying because of me!”
“What the fuck are you talking about? I’ll just be driving and listening . . . well, and I’ll call you every once and a while. Does that make you feel better? How else am I going to earn my money?”
I groaned. “Be careful! Henry is one devious and powerful son-of-a-bitch!”
“I’m warned. Now, get outta here before he spots you!”
* * *
We stopped at the Tickled Pink before going home. The flame-grilled burgers weren’t as greasy as Jake’s, but the limp fries provided what we missed. After our second round of beer, Harry belched, patted his stomach, and headed toward the restrooms. Pam set another beer in front of me.
“Sorry. I don’t think I need another,” I spoke up.
“It’s from the red neck at the bar.”
Turning, I counted ten possible red neck biker-types. Not a one acknowledged me. Harry returned. He sat down with a frown.
“Hey, where’s mine?”
I shrugged. “Pam said some guy at the bar bought me this one.”
He looked around. “That one?”
A tall, slender man about my age threaded his way around the tables. His dark hair showed a line or two of gray and hung straight down the back of his leather vest. His full beard covered the opened neck of the plaid shirt. He took the chair next to mine and stared at Harry.
I rapped my knuckles on the table. “Ah, do we know you?”
His light-colored eyes shifted to me. He waited a long intimidating moment. “I’m Roy. You Picasso?”
Use of my n
ew street name meant this was street business. Harry shifted in his chair, as if ready to jump if I gave the word. I cocked my head at Roy. “Yeah. What’s, ah, what’s up?”
“Can we talk without your friend here?”
“What does a cop want with Picasso?”
I blinked. “A cop?” I asked Harry then turned. “You’re a cop?”
The stranger’s expression didn’t change, his eyes didn’t leave mine.
Harry leaned onto the table. “He’s got a Desert Eagle holstered under his vest, left armpit. Bad guys can’t afford guns like that, not even on the black market. So, I say he’s a cop.”
Roy still didn’t look at Harry. “Very observant, friend. Now move your ass somewhere else. I need to talk to this man.”
“I don’t know you. Harry stays. So, talk.”
“This is between you and me. I don’t like audiences.”
“Tough. Harry and I are a team. Got that? Whatever you’ve got to say, we’ll both hear.”
Pam stopped the conversation as she set down two more beers. When she left, Roy relaxed. “Your friend Harry’s right. I’m a cop. I saw you talking to Fox.”
“Are you following me?” I immediately thought of Henry.
“Only after you visited Fox. What’s your connection with him and who are you? I haven’t seen you working this area before.”
“You must be deep undercover if you can’t get my identity from your own people.”
“You could say that.”
“I have no connections with Fox. I talked and agreed to dinner sometime.”
“Bullshit! That’s not how Fox does business. And the word was out he had ‘business’ with you. So, who are you?”
“No, you tell me first why you want to know.”
“I don’t have time for games. I can make your life a bitch or rewarding. Your choice.”
Harry smiled. He always smiled when he expected a fight. My armpits itched with collected sweat. Wishing for something stronger, I gulped the beer.
Harry’s finger tapped the table in front of Roy. “Hey, mister! Me! You listen to me. Get away from us. If you don’t, I’ll go to that phone by the can and have a dozen uniforms crawling all over this place in minutes. I’ll just tell ‘em to look for a tall, long haired bastard with a big gun.”
“Really.” Roy hadn’t even blinked at the threat. My sweat turned to bullet-sized beads. Bad analogy, Norris. “You seem calm, level-headed, Harry. On the other hand, Picasso here looks ready for a nervous breakdown. Why is that?”
“I got no idea what they teach you at cop school about this undercover crap, but in Vietnam, fighting gooks, we learned give a little info, get a little info. That means it’s your turn to talk.”
“Lost that arm in Nam?”
“No, trying to saving some stupid hero’s life. There. Like I said, it’s your turn.”
“I don’t have time for amateurs. I want to give a warning. Picasso, you are stepping onto dangerous turf. Fox will chew you up before you can even think what’s happening. You need drugs, women? Find ‘em somewhere else. Fox is on a short fuse. He’ll kill you first, then take your money. Simple as that.”
A bitter laugh rumbled from Harry. “You are so off base, man! What kind of a cop are you? Maybe just a stupid one!”
Roy’s gaze shifted from me to Harry and back. I shivered. “So what was the visit about?”
I couldn’t hide the sheepish expression. “Did you know Alabama?”
He nodded.
I spilled my guts.
“Fox believed you stole the kitty. So, if you didn’t, who did?”
“Morten. Detective Sergeant Mor—”
“I know who he is!” Roy interrupted. “Look, Picasso—”
“Bob. That’s my name, okay?”
He nodded. “Bob, it is very interesting how things twist and weave together. In my book, it happens because it was meant to be. The department has been sniffing after Morten a long time. Bad cops get real good at covering their tracks. Out of nowhere someone, a civilian, trips him up. Interesting.”
“So, do you have to take me in for questioning?”
Roy laughed. “Hell no! I’ll make a few calls. I’m undercover. I carry around a lot of baggage from informants. Think I would have each one hauled to the station? Speaking of calls . . .” He took a pen from his vest pocket and wrote on a napkin. “That’s my cell phone. Call any time you might need a little help.”
“Why-why, thanks.”
He pointed a finger at Harry. “You watch over this guy. He doesn’t have the street look.”
Harry grunted. “Yeah, I know. He bought me a Mustang and a Ferrari for himself!”
Roy pinched his eyes shut as if blocking the image. “Bob, pay attention to Harry. And know this. I’ll work through my informants for you. With some teamwork, we’ll find Eileen’s killer.”
As he stood, the cop aimed a finger Harry. He returned the gesture. My mouth almost gaped when Roy pulled a roll of bills from his jeans pocket and peeled off a couple. Loud enough for the bar flies to hear, he announced, “You get me some really high grade shit by Saturday and I’ll add a bonus to that.”
Harry palmed the money. Roy sauntered toward the door, patting Pam on the butt as he passed.
“You believe him, Harry?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Why?”
“It’s in the eyes, Bob. We’ll see that man again.”
The afternoon melted away in a haze of more cheap beer and Harry’s never-ending lectures on surviving the streets. At closing, we guided ourselves back to the apartment by keeping the curb to our left. I vaguely remembered glancing at the Ferrari in the Tickled Pink parking lot, its alarm light winking at me. Ernie’s All-Nite Donuts across the street always had at least one cop car in front. They’d hear the car’s goddamn alarm if it went off.
The climb up our stairs sobered me a little and sickened Harry a lot. He pushed me out of the way in his rush to the bathroom. I was grateful he made it. Turning toward my room with its blessed bed, I saw the answering machine light.
A rewind whir later, I heard Maggie’s frantic voice. “Mr. Norris, call me right away. I have important information. I found out why Eileen was killed.”
My beer-fuzzed brain couldn’t recall her home phone, so I wasted time fumbling with my address book. Finally, I punched in the numbers, their accompanying tones piercing my ear drum. Two, five, ten rings. No answer and no machine pick-up.
Chapter 10
After coating my stomach with some pink stuff, I stretched out on my bed and begged for sleep. Maggie’s message would not leave me alone. Back in the living room I picked up the old paperback novel. Words drifted before my eyes, but images would not focus in my brain. Focus.
A freight train slammed into my thoughts. Maggie had finally broken into Eileen’s computer file. Of course, she found something incriminating. The file was about Frank Harper, the bastard who might have committed insurance fraud . . . killed his own wife . . . to collect her insurance. And I had the real goddamn thing in my closet!
I dug through the cramped storage space, shoving aside clothes and waiting art supplies. Finally, I looked up and there was Maggie’s box on the top shelf. Setting it next to the coffee table, I settled on the couch with anticipation pounding in my head.
One by one, I pulled out file folders and looked at them. Some were crammed with forms, lots of forms with tiny print, insurance bullshit. I did see the names Franklin Harper and Carol Harper. Those had to be the policies, the contracts between the company and the insureds, so their folders went in the bullshit pile. Then I opened a slender folder and stared at a computer print out, only it wasn’t in plain and simple English any idiot could read. It was in code, some encrypted computer code. Eileen’s neat handwriting along the margin gave me the shivers. Frank Harper. Harper. Check date. Numbers with a question mark. Harper in town, question mark. Harper. Numbers . . . again. At the top of the margin of the next series of prints, she had writ
ten Harper in big letters, like she was angry, then drew an arrow pointing down. Below the arrow, more numbers and exclamation points then dashes, more dashes and question marks. At the bottom of the page, she had hurriedly scribbled “Ask secretary to look for this” and more exclamation points.
I slammed the folder closed and slapped it on the coffee table. I probably had the evidence of whatever Eileen had found and I couldn’t read it! A bubble rose in my throat. I belched pink stuff and old beer.
Throwing myself back on the couch, I dug at memories. Eileen had come home furious the Bison directors had picked Harper as a Vice President. Why? She hadn’t liked his work ethic, whatever the hell that meant. I remembered telling her to complain to her dad, since he was the big honcho. She rolled her eyes and gave me one of those “You don’t know what you’re talking about” looks. Maggie had said this file was all about Eileen’s investigation of the death of Mrs. Harper. The husband VP was waiting to collect a five hundred thousand dollar policy . . . waiting on Eileen to verify the facts of his wife’s death. Only Eileen had found something suspicious. She had told Maggie that Harper may have contributed to the death . . . for the insurance. That would be one murder. What would prevent him from going for two? Greed led to the first murder . . . if that’s what the files in front of me proved. But how would that connect him to Eileen being shot down in a robbery of a convenience store . . . as in conveniently shot down.
The Giorgio Italian shoes flashed into my mind. I stiffened. Bang! The memory crap had gone far enough. I sat up, opening and closing my shaking hands. My eyes settled on the folders littering the low table before me. I stared at the one holding the computer prints-outs. Damn stuff was like a foreign language! Who did I know who spoke “computer?”
Maggie, of course. But she wasn’t home. At least she hadn’t answered her phone. I had called her shortly after midnight. She was not exactly a party animal. So why wasn’t she home?
I looked at my watch. Six a.m. Where the hell was Lori? Driving Henry around all night? Hardly! She mentioned he expected her to take him to some sort of “spooky” place. Why hadn’t I asked her what that meant? Probably because my gut instinct told me not to hint that she could take care of herself.
To Find a Killer Page 10
