A.R. Winters - Valerie Inkerman 01 - Don't Be a Stranger

by A. R. Winters

  There wouldn’t have been any excitement in my life, and I’d have no ambitions at all, but at least I wouldn’t be strapped for cash, perpetually single, and terrified of growing old and living with ten cats who, after I’d died, would feast on my dead body.

  I checked my private investigations website in the morning, but I’d gotten no hits. I brushed up my resume, and signed up on a freelancing site – maybe I could write some articles, or do some admin work, while I waited for my PI business to pick up.

  Jerry was home because he was practicing for an upcoming audition. It was a part for an Italian gangster, and since Jerry was Italian-American, I figured he had a good shot. Until, of course, I stepped out to make myself a coffee, and ran into Jerry in the kitchen.

  “Ah,” he said, waving his hands about. “You make-a de coffee. De espress-so.”

  I made a face.

  “You make-a de face-a. I take-a care of de face-a. I take care of de beez-ness.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Not with that accent, I don’t think you do.”

  I pushed a pod into the tiny Nespresso machine I’d bought myself years ago.

  Jerry’s face fell. “You don’t think I’ll get the part?”

  I waved my hands mockingly. “Not-a. If you keep-a doin’ it like diss-a.”

  “I don’t sound like that. You’re doing it wrong.”

  “You think you’re doing it right?”

  We were probably going to degenerate into making faces at each other, when the front door bell rang.

  Jerry and I exchanged a glance. There was a security number pad at the front entrance downstairs, but people frequently slipped in when other residents were entering or leaving the building. None of us knew our neighbors. Because of that, you couldn’t really stop another person and say, “Who are you?”

  Jerry looked at the door and said with his terrible accent, “Is-a the doorbell. Who could-a it be?”

  I shook my head and stalked off to open the door. “Seriously,” I called back. “Stop with all the ‘a’s.”

  “My ‘a’s are fabulous.”

  “Sure.”

  I opened the door and stood face to face with a woman dressed smartly in a black blazer, dark blue jeans and a beautiful, green top. There were two broad-shouldered men standing slightly to either side, flanking her, both wearing jeans and checked shirts.

  I frowned. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes,” the woman said. “Is this Jerry Spilatro’s residence?”

  “That’s me,” called Jerry from behind me, walking toward the door.

  “I’m Detective Eloise Hartley,” said the woman, holding up an NYPD badge. “And these are Lieutenants Brown and Geller. We have a warrant to search your residence.”

  Lieutenant Geller handed her a piece of paper and she said, “Would you like to see it?”

  “Sure,” I said, and glanced over it. It seemed to be pretty standard court-ordered stuff, but I didn’t quite understand why they would have this. “What’s going on?”

  What could they possibly be looking for here? I didn’t like the thought of policemen going through my things, but if they had a warrant, there was nothing I could do about it. I stepped aside, giving them space to enter, and looked at Jerry inquisitively. Telepathically, I tried to say, “What?”

  Jerry shrugged, and we waited as they stepped inside and closed the door behind themselves.

  Detective Hartley stayed by the door, and the two lieutenants went over to Jerry.

  Chapter Eight

  “You’re Jerry Spilatro?” said Detective Hartley.

  “I am.”

  One of the lieutenants brought out a pair of handcuffs. I watched in shock as he proceeded to put them onto Jerry’s wrists.

  “Jerry Spilatro,” said Detective Hartley. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Esme Lindl. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you. You have the right to…”

  I listened wide-eyed as she continued with the rest of the Miranda rights. Jerry looked just as shocked as I did. The two lieutenants led him over to the kitchen table.

  “Would you mind waiting here?” one of them said, almost apologetically. “We need to search the place.”

  The detective stayed with Jerry, and the two lieutenants headed off toward my bedroom.

  “That’s my room,” I called out.

  They looked at each other and shrugged.

  “Sorry,” said one. “There’s a warrant.”

  They headed into my room and I sighed. “What’s going on?” I asked Detective Hartley.

  She was standing by the table, looking serious. “As I said, Mr. Spilatro is under arrest for the murder of Esme Lindl.”

  I’d heard that the first time round. I wasn’t deaf. But it didn’t seem like a good idea to remind the detective of that. “I mean,” I said politely, “Why is Jerry being arrested?”

  “The evidence indicates he’s the murderer.”

  I looked at Jerry. “But he would never – what evidence?”

  “I’m afraid we can’t disclose that.”

  “Oh.”

  “Did An–” Jerry stopped before he said his “friend’s” name. “The woman I mentioned – didn’t she, umm, tell you what was happening?”

  Detective Hartley looked at Jerry sharply. “We spoke to the woman in question. She said she was circulating among guests the entire evening. Other than a very short bathroom break. Her husband corroborated the story.”

  I groaned. “Jerry! Now look what… why didn’t you just – why can’t you tell her to say…”

  Jerry shook his head. “Nah, it’s fine. No biggie.”

  “What do you mean?” I looked at him like he’d just grown horns. Honestly, sometimes he was just so stupid. “It’s a big deal! Why can’t you tell her to – why’d you try to protect her in the first place?”

  Jerry shrugged. “You know, chauvinism.”

  I could hear the lieutenants thumping about, going through my things. They left my bedroom and went into the bathroom – they wouldn’t find much in there other than my tampons and hairspray and Jerry’s hundred-strong collection of colognes.

  I said, “What chauvinism?”

  Jerry shrugged again. “You know, how everyone says it’s dying these days.”

  “Believe me,” I said. “Chauvinism isn’t dying.”

  “Sure it is. Being polite to women and opening doors for them and such.”

  “Oh.”

  I wanted to correct Jerry about his notions of chivalry, but out of the corner of my eye, I could make out Detective Hartley’s lips quirking up a little at the corners. So instead of saying anything, I pulled out a seat at the kitchen table and sat down.

  “What’s your relationship with Mr. Spilatro?” asked the detective.

  “I’m his roommate.”

  “I see. You must be–” She pulled out a notepad and rifled through it. “Valerie Inkerman?”

  “That’s me.”

  The two lieutenants came out of the bathroom, and we heard them going through Jerry’s room. Within a few minutes, they reappeared in our tiny living area.

  “No luck,” said one of them to Detective Hartley.

  “Keep going,” she said. “One of you keep an eye on Spilatro.”

  Detective Geller came and stood by Jerry.

  He’s not dangerous, I wanted to say. He doesn’t even know what chauvinism is. And he probably couldn’t even spell it!

  “Valerie,” said Detective Hartley. “Could I have a word, please?”

  I glanced at Jerry and he shrugged slightly. So I got up and followed her into my bedroom.

  I groaned as soon as I saw what the cops had done to it. I was about to swear loudly, but Detective Hartley was giving me a funny look, and I stopped myself in time. The dresser drawers had all been pulled out, and even the drawers on my nightstand were askew. Clothes were strewn about, a lot of them on the floor. The bed sheets had been pulled off, the pillowcases removed
, and all the books on my bookshelf had been moved about. Even the paintings that hung on my walls were crooked.

  I crossed my arms over my chest and looked at her grumpily. “What’s this about?”

  “I’m sorry about your room,” she said lightly. “But we can’t take any chances when it comes to protecting innocent civilians.”

  “Sure. And I suppose that protection involves two strange men going through my underwear drawer.”

  I plucked a bra from where it hung wantonly over my nightstand lamp and stuffed it into the right drawer.

  Detective Hartley waited till I’d pulled the bed sheet part-way over my bed and sat down. She remained standing. “How long have you known Mr. Spilatro?” she said.

  “A little over two months. Two and a half months.”

  “And what kind of relationship would you say he had with Esme Lindl?”

  I frowned. “He didn’t have a relationship with her. As far as I knew.”

  “But you met her.”

  “Yes, he introduced me to her at the party.”

  “And why would he do that?”

  “I don’t know – he was being friendly.”

  “I see. And does he usually introduce you to his female friends?”

  I rolled my eyes, remembering the parade of half-dressed women who frequently exited his bedroom in the morning. In the two and a half months that we’d been roommates, I’d met at least eight different women.

  “I’m assuming that’s a no.”

  I looked at Detective Hartly again, unsure of what to say. Whatever I could think of seemed to be the wrong thing. If I said that he slept with a lot of women, maybe she’d find some way to suggest that Esme was pregnant with Jerry’s child. If I said he introduced me to all his female “companions” – voluntarily – that would be a lie.

  Hesitantly, I said, “Well, he’s a friendly guy. He knows lots of people. He grew up here,” I added, slightly defensively. “It’s not that I don’t have friends. But he knows people and he knows that, um, I don’t – well, he keeps introducing me to his friends. Male and female.”

  I finished the little speech and felt pretty proud of myself.

  “Valerie,” said Detective Hartley softly, “You’ve only known the man for a very short time.”

  I sat up defensively. Two and a half months wasn’t a very long time, but I liked Jerry. Sure, he was a little annoying. And yes, he had a certain lack of brain cells. But he was a great cook, had a big heart, and was never too scared to kill a bug or two for me. The perfect roommate.

  “Have you ever felt unsafe?” Detective Hartley was asking. “Have you ever felt threatened by him?”

  “No! Of course not!”

  “Are you two – have you been in a relationship?”

  “No.” I wasn’t sure why Jerry had never seemed interested in me. Most likely, I wasn’t good-looking enough for him. But anyway, it’s not like that bothered me – he wasn’t my type, either. I preferred men who read more than just the TV Guide. Plus, it would’ve made for an awkward time apartment-sharing if he’d ever hit on me.

  Detective Hartley continued, “I understand you think of him as your friend. But is there anything you can tell us – any reason he might have had for killing Esme Lindl?”

  “He didn’t kill her,” I said automatically. “He couldn’t have.”

  Detective Hartley didn’t seem fazed by my reply. “Do you know if he owns any guns?”

  I looked at her, suddenly aware that the cops hadn’t found my tiny Smith &Wesson. It was registered, of course, so I wouldn’t have been in trouble. However, it could’ve kept the lieutenants busy for a few minutes.

  But then again, the lieutenants were men, and I kept the gun under a pile of tampon boxes, in a cardboard box aptly labelled “Tampons.”

  “Jerry doesn’t have a gun,” I said. “As far as I know, he can’t even shoot.”

  The detective pursed her lips and glanced around my room. “This is my card,” she said, handing me a piece of paper. “Give me a call if you think of anything. Although,” she added, “Once we find the murder weapon we won’t need anything else.”

  I stared at her card mutely.

  They wouldn’t find the murder weapon here. Or in Jerry’s car, which I was sure they’d search next. They had no idea what they were doing.

  We walked into the kitchen to find the lieutenants sitting around the table.

  “We’ve finished searching,” one of them told Detective Hartley. “Nothing.”

  “We’ll try his car,” said Detective Hartley, as I’d known she would. “Let’s go.”

  The three of them stood up, and the two lieutenants ushered Jerry to the door. I watched him, worried. “Should I call anyone?” I asked him. “Let anyone know?”

  “Nah, don’t stress about it. I’ll get hold of my lawyer and he’ll bail me out.”

  “You have a lawyer?”

  I stared at him in surprise. That was something I didn’t know about him. Maybe he had a few other secrets.

  “Don’t worry,” said Jerry as he stepped out the door. “I’ll be back home tomorrow.”

  I nodded silently, but of course he couldn’t see me. In a few seconds, they were gone.

  Detective Hartley pulled the door shut behind her, and I stood in the empty apartment and looked around. Plates had been taken down from the kitchen cabinets, and the drawers were wide open. The sofa cushions were on the floor, stripped of their covers. Even the cheap red and black rug near the TV had been moved, exposing the ugly, dark stain that it was used to hide – the stain wasn’t from anything too disgusting; it was just a reminder of an accident involving a jar of pasta sauce and a glass of white wine that hindered instead of helped. But still, it wasn’t something I liked to expose.

  I sighed and decided to start with the kitchen. There was a lot of work to do – and when Jerry came back from the precinct tomorrow, I’d have a lot more questions for him. It seemed that there were quite a few things about Jerry that I didn’t really know.

  Chapter Nine

  I woke up the next morning at seven and, for three hours, I plumped up cushions, vacuumed and mopped, all while keeping an ear out for the door.

  There was a knock at ten o’clock. I jumped up immediately and opened it.

  Jerry looked a little tired, and his hair was a bit messier than usual, but he gave me his normal, goofy grin. I, on the other hand, crossed my arms and raised my eyebrows. I felt like the crotchety old wife who, after an extremely late night, catches her alcoholic husband coming in.

  True to crotchety-wife form, I heard myself saying, “You smell like booze.”

  Jerry looked apologetic. “There were two drunks in the cell.”

  I felt sorry for him immediately. “I’m glad you’re out.”

  “Yeah, and I’m glad I can take a proper shower.”

  He headed off toward the bathroom, and I headed into the kitchen. I made us two quick coffees, and I poured juice into two small glasses. I’d had some cereal earlier, and I wasn’t sure how hungry Jerry was.

  Because we were often both home during the day, and because he’s a good cook and a sweet guy, Jerry sometimes makes me breakfast. He’s made me pancakes, and bacon and eggs, and French toast, and scrambled eggs. I figured it was time to return the favor.

  When Jerry stepped out of the shower, the table was all laid out.

  “Oooh, fancy,” he said, sitting down.

  “Well, I tried. The coffee’s gone a bit cold, I think.”

  “The bread and jam makes up for it.”

  “It’s the thought that counts,” I said defensively.

  Ok, so the best I’d come up with was bread, a jar of strawberry jam that seemed only a year old, some milk, and two packets of cereal. I could’ve boiled an egg or two but, like I said, I wasn’t sure how hungry Jerry would be.

  “It’s good to see you again,” he said. “And I do appreciate the thought.”

  I let him eat quietly for a few seconds. Well, re
latively quietly, considering that I’ve never seen him have any table manners at home. When he dug up a big tablespoon of jam and began licking it straight, I said, “You’ve had enough food. Now spill.”

  “Not much to spill.”

  “You have a lawyer? Like, a lawyer who just sits around all day doing nothing, just waiting to hear from you?”

  Jerry sighed. “He’s not my lawyer. He’s my dad’s.”

  “So your dad has a lawyer just sitting around?”

  Jerry shrugged. “I guess. I mean, I’m sure he’s got work. I suppose he does contracts and liens and all those lawyer-y kind of stuff.”

  “But essentially, he’s at your beck and call.”

  “We-ell. I wouldn’t put it like that.”

  “And why does your dad have a lawyer?”

  “He’s kind of got a, he’s uh….” Jerry’s words trailed off into incoherent mutters.

  I put one hand behind my ear and pushed it forward like a trumpet. “Can’t hear you.”

  “Uh.” Jerry took a deep breath. “My dad’s got this… media company.”

  I frowned. “I thought your dad lived down in Florida. That’s what you told me.”

  He put on an earnest, placating face. “Sure, sure. And he does. He’s retired. But, um, someone else runs the business and sometimes Dad Skypes and sometimes he flies down and, um…” He stared at my expression. “You think I should’ve told you this earlier?”

  “Of course you should’ve told me this earlier! So, not only am I totally broke, but my roommate is a secret millionaire!”

  “Hey, that’s not true! I’m not a millionaire! I’ve got no money!”

  “Just your dad.”

  “Exactly. And he doesn’t even want to give me any.” Jerry’s face clouded over. “He’s all disappointed in me and stuff. Thinks being an actor is superficial. Do I seem superficial to you?”

  I looked at Jerry and wondered what he thought superficial meant.

  I said diplomatically, “You seem like a nice guy.”

  “Exactly! Thank you!”

  I didn’t say anything for a few moments, and Jerry finished his juice. “So,” I said, taking a sip of my stone-cold coffee and wondering if I should chuck it down the sink or not, “what happened down at the station?”