Have Your Cake and Kill Him Too

by Nancy Martin

  Little Carmine said, "You okay? You don't look so hot."

  "I'm thinking of becoming a vegetarian."

  The boy nodded. "I know what you mean. I used to get squeamish seeing my meat so close to its natural, you know, state."

  "You seem to be quite the accomplished chef, uh, Joey."

  "I love to cook. You?"

  "I prefer to eat," I said. "Usually."

  "Cool. Well, if you come back later, there will be lots of eating going on."

  He had a lovable gleam in his eyes, and I could see how tempting it might be to rescue such a kid from a life he hadn't chosen for himself.

  "All right," Michael said. "I'll be back eventually. Don't do anything stupid."

  "Okay, Mick. We'll save you some leftovers if there are any."

  "Make sure there are."

  As we left, Little Carmine Pescara was beating herbs into his dinner while Michael's crew put the finishing touches on their barbecue pit.

  Chapter Seventeen

  On the way into Philadelphia Michael made a series of phone calls. He said very little and listened quite a lot.

  When he disconnected at last, I said, "You've organized quite an operation to make that boy disappear. Did he kill a police officer?"

  "No."

  "Does he know who did?"

  "Probably. I didn't ask him."

  "So you're protecting him from the police? Or from the cop killer?"

  "Both," Michael said.

  I'd suggested we start looking for Clover at Verbena's shop, but it was closed when we arrived. The door was locked and the lights were out. An all-woman television camera crew were packing their equipment into a van brightly painted with the logo of a local network affiliate. No doubt, the proprietress's arrest for Zell Orcutt's murder was going to put a dent in her business.

  "Let's go around back," Michael suggested as we cruised by. "In these places, there's always somebody inside trying to pilfer a little something to pad the paycheck."

  He was right. In the rear alley, we pounded on the door until it was opened by a heavyset woman in a dirty apron and a hairnet. Her arms were very red, perhaps from dish washing. She had a guilty belligerence about her.

  I used all my social graces to find out where Clover might be.

  Eventually, the woman decided we weren't there to cause her trouble and gave me the name of an apartment complex not far from UPenn. She said Clover had lived there for months.

  We found it easily—a new complex of three-story buildings grouped around a center court with a "clubhouse" in the middle that appeared to do double duty as the rental office. I guessed the apartments appealed to graduate students or undergrads who could afford an upscale rent. Behind an aluminum fence, we could see the winter cover of a swimming pool flapping in the wind. Michael parked the car in front of a sign that read Future Tenants. Then he fished a baseball cap out of the backseat and put it on, and we got out of the car.

  The apartments appeared to be laid out like a seaside motel, each unit with its own door that opened onto the balconies. On a weekday morning, no tenants wandered around the sidewalks. The place seemed deserted. From the roof of the clubhouse, the black eye of a camera watched us. Michael kept his head down and one shoulder turned to the camera. I hesitated, not sure I should go strolling into the rental office without a plausible story.

  "Let's check the mailboxes," Michael said, reading my mind.

  Each building had a freestanding kiosk of mailboxes at the base of the staircase that wound upward. Together, we scanned the names on the boxes at the first two buildings. I pointed at Clover Barnstable's name.

  "Let's go," Michael said.

  We headed for the open-air staircase. As we started up, two young men rounded the landing and came down toward us—beautifully groomed and leading a pair of equally perfect King Charles spaniels on matching rhinestone leashes. The dogs strained toward the tiny patch of grass beside the mailboxes. Their owners gave Michael his space.

  One of them looked at my feet and said prayerfully, "Nice shoes."

  We got to the second floor, and Michael said, "Nice shoes?"

  "You should be happy," I said. "It's the only detail they'll remember about us."

  We found Clover's apartment in the middle of a long line of evenly spaced doors—some sporting decorative wreaths. On Clover's door, however, someone had thumbtacked a cardboard silver star. The points of the star were beginning to curl.

  I knocked. No answer.

  Suddenly Michael said, "There's blood."

  "What?"

  He pointed. "On the door. Unless it's pizza sauce. But I think it's blood."

  "Oh, God." I pounded on the door, louder this time. "Clover! Rawlins!"

  Another door popped open several yards away, and a young woman put her head out into the hall. "You looking for Clover?"

  It was Jane.

  "Yes," I said, "do you know if she's home?"

  Jane came out onto the balcony, barefoot and holding a baby on her hip.

  She wore a shapeless pair of sweatpants and a sexless big shirt that camouflaged her body. We could hear the Barney theme song coming from her apartment. The baby sucked on one grubby fist and hiccoughed tearily, as if just finishing an exhausting tantrum.

  Jane said, "Clover went out last night. She's not back yet."

  "Do you know where she is?"

  "She said she'd call this afternoon." Jane looked at me more carefully. "Don't I know you from someplace?"

  "We're concerned Clover might be in trouble. Can you guess where she might have gone?"

  "Nope." Jane began to gnaw on a hangnail.

  Michael said, "Did she leave an extra key with you?"

  "Yeah, sure. You want me to get it?"

  "If it's not too much trouble," Michael said pleasantly.

  "Gimme a minute."

  She went back into her apartment and reappeared, still barefoot despite the cold, and padded up to us. The baby's eyes widened as she carried him closer. Someone had dressed him in a diaper and a T-shirt that was sopping with pink juice. He wore nothing else, and his nose needed to be wiped. When he saw she was getting too close to us, he burst into a howl.

  "Shut up, Jackson," she said, not unkindly, adding to us, "He's teething. What a production."

  Jane leaned over the doorknob with a key in her right hand. Michael's cell phone rang at that moment. He walked away and answered the call. The baby bawled and kicked. Jane couldn't manage him and the door lock at the same time, so I took the baby from her, tucking him inside my open jacket. I gathered his little bare feet in my hand and discovered they were freezing cold.

  I suddenly wondered if I was holding Zell Orcutt's child.

  His mother opened the door. "Clover? You home?"

  The apartment was a wreck. Clothes had been flung to the floor where Clover stripped them off, shoes had been kicked off without concern for where they might land, and every piece of furniture was covered with handbags, accessories, fashion magazines and garbage. The smell of an unchanged cat box was overwhelming.

  The television was on, blaring The View.

  "Oh, God," I said.

  "Don't worry, this is normal. Clover isn't exactly a neat freak." Jane called, "Kitty, kitty? That cat never comes out. He hides under her bed all the time."

  We left the door open to let some fresh air inside. Because the carpet was completely covered with clothes, I walked gingerly. A lampshade hung drunkenly askew. A bottle of nail polish lay on its side on a table, its glittery pink contents dried into a solid lump. On the television, Star Jones was laughing uproariously while her cohosts looked nonplussed.

  I stepped on a pile of pastel cashmere and my foot struck an open cell phone, half hidden in the rumpled sweaters. Automatically, I bent to pick up the phone. The baby in my arms went quiet and reached out one chubby hand for it.

  Michael came to the door and stopped, halted by the mess.

  To Jane, I said, "Did you see Clover leave last night? Did y
ou hear her? Was she with anyone?"

  "I heard her door slam about ten o'clock. She had a date."

  "Do you know where? Or with whom?"

  "Nope."

  I handed the cell phone to Michael. The baby stretched to grab it again and began to cry when Michael took possession. Huge tears rolled from the child's eyes, and his face turned brick red.

  "Oh, Jackson," his mother said.

  I gave him back to her, which only made him cry harder.

  I looked around the apartment while Michael clicked through some of the options on the cell phone. Clover had one bedroom and a bath cluttered with hot rollers, hairbrushes and a thousand makeup items, half on the floor. Brand-new appliances in the kitchen had never been used. In the kitchen sink, I found a dozen drinking glasses with lipstick on their rims, a serrated steak knife and spatters of blood.

  On the glass window over the sink, someone had scrawled a message in red lipstick.

  Do'nt call the police or Clover will dye. We will contact you with a ransome not.

  "Michael," I said.

  He came into the kitchen, read the note and saw the blood in the sink. He said, "Don't touch anything else. It's time to call the cops."

  Then he showed me the screen of the cell phone. It glowed with the telephone numbers of people whose names I recognized. Michael nodded. "This phone belongs to Rawlins."

  "You shouldn't be here," I said. "If this is another kidnapping . . ."

  He said, "Give me five minutes."

  The first law enforcement officers to show up were not Philadelphia's finest, but two people in plain clothes. The woman wore a knit pants suit with a raincoat that caused some unfortunate static cling. The burly man wore a suit and tie. He was talking on his cell phone, but raised his eyebrows to Michael in greeting. We stood on the sidewalk beside the covered swimming pool. My overnight bag lay at my feet, and I held the cupcake box in my hands.

  Despite the distracting static cling of her suit, I recognized Daria immediately.

  She ignored me and stared meaningfully at Michael. "This isn't where you're supposed to be today."

  "It'll happen," he replied. "But this situation needs my attention, too. What are you going to do about it?"

  She sighed and looked at me at last. She shook her head. "I thought you were out of the picture."

  "I am."

  Michael said, "We need you to handhold the cops when they get here to investigate the Barnstable girl's disappearance."

  Daria shook her head. "I don't think so, Mick. You, we can cut loose to do the thing. But her"—she nodded at me—"she's got to stay and talk to the cops. We'll take care of her when she's done, if that's what you want."

  "This is nonnegotiable," Michael said. "I'm not letting her out of my sight."

  A second sedan pulled up behind Daria, and two more men got out, leaving the engine running. They were also in suits, one with an earpiece that he pressed into his ear with one finger. It was Rudy, the man who had planted the bug in my kitchen.

  "Mick, you can't stay here," Daria argued. "The cops find out you're connected to this kidnapping, they're going to bust you for Little Carmine for sure."

  "So take care of it," he said. "Let us walk out of here, or the other thing you want done is screwed. Or maybe you don't have the clout you say you have?"

  I said, "Let me get this straight. You're working with federal investigators? You're trying to solve the cop killing?"

  Daria began to smile coldly. "You were right. She's pretty smart. Does she know where Little Carmine is?"

  "Who?" I asked.

  "You haven't found him yet?" Michael asked.

  "We'll find him," Daria said testily. "Don't worry about that."

  "I'm not holding my breath, Daria."

  Her eyes narrowed. "You want us to believe that you don't have anything to do with Little Carmine, you're gonna have to trust us a little, too."

  He shook his head. "Are you going to take care of the cops? If not, we've got to fly."

  "Let us babysit your girlfriend if that's what you're worried about. We can put her in a safe place for a few days."

  "I've seen your work," Michael said. "Why do you think I decided to help out?"

  "Thanks bunches, Mick, but we were doing fine before you volunteered your services."

  "We're wasting time. Nora stays with me. If that means the cops find me here, that's the way it goes."

  "The cops will put you in jail. Then where will your girlfriend be? All alone in the big, bad city with nobody to carry her purse?"

  "Hey," I said. "I don't need any of you. I'm calling a cab."

  "Nora—"

  It happened very fast. Daria's partner was talking on his cell phone one minute, and the next he snapped a handcuff on Michael's wrist. Michael twisted to escape before the lock clicked, but Daria was there with a stun gun. She hit him in the throat. The two other men swarmed around him, and Michael went down on the pavement.

  "Put him in my car," Daria said. "She goes in the other vehicle."

  Above us on the balcony, Jane yelled, "Hey!"

  Rudy grabbed my arm and slapped his other hand over my mouth. He propelled me to the street, shoving my head down hard to throw me into the backseat of the second car. I fought him, trying to catch a glimpse of Michael, but the federal agent was very strong. Finally I bit his hand and he let go with a yelp. Panting, he got in beside me and closed the door. We were both breathing hard.

  "Ow, that hurt!" He examined his hand.

  I lunged for the opposite door handle and found it didn't function.

  "Sorry about this," he said. "I'm Rudy."

  I jammed myself against the door, to maximize the distance between us. "Let's forgo the introductions, Rudy. Let me out!"

  "Sorry, I can't do that. Just sit here a minute, and then we'll get going. You really bit me."

  "Going where?"

  "Don't worry. You'll be fine." He tried to forget about his hand and straightened his tie. Then he looked at the container in my lap. "What's in the box?"

  Another officer got into the driver's seat, and they took me to a nondescript office building that blended well into the financial district. The whole building was unmarked—not even a number over the door. There was no directory in the bland lobby, no Muzak in the elevator. Eventually we arrived in an office suite where the furniture hadn't been updated since Ed Sullivan's heyday.

  For an hour, Rudy and I sat in an office decorated with football trophies, a nameplate that read G. P. Barlow and a wall of framed photographs, all featuring the same well-fed smiling man with a blond crew cut. On the desk, his face appeared in two separate pictures of both Bush presidents. It looked as if George Bush the younger was giving the man a noogie.

  When the man in all the pictures came into the room at last, I noticed he'd put on a few pounds since his days of horsing around with presidents.

  "Hello, Miss Blackbird," he said. "I'm—ah, sorry you've been detained so long. I'm George Barlow."

  Three Georges, I thought. Behind him came Daria, looking very pleased with herself.

  To her, I said, "Keep in mind it took four of you and a stun gun to make him cooperate."

  She stopped smiling.

  "Your—ah, friend is fine, by the way," said George as he sat in the nonergonomic chair behind the desk. Daria took the other plastic seat in the room, the one with the missing foot. The chair wobbled as she sat down, so she crossed her legs to steady it. Her pants were still clinging to her legs.

  "Is Michael in this building? Or did you take him to a hospital?"

  "His injuries were very temporary. At most, he'll have a headache. He has other business to attend for us later today, so he's—ah, elsewhere. But he's perfectly fine. A little ticked off, but fine."

  "Am I under arrest?" I asked. "Either way, I'd like to call a lawyer."

  "You're not under arrest." George feigned astonishment. "Who gave you that idea?" He sent an actorly glare at Rudy. "No, no, we're very—ah, grateful
you could join us this afternoon."

  "So why am I here?"

  "Daria was under the impression you needed to be protected. We're—ah, wondering if that means you have some information about the disappearance of Little Carmine Pescara."

  "Who?"

  "You tried that before," said Daria. "And I didn't believe it then. Let's hear what you've got to say, sweetheart."

  "You're the bad cop, I gather?"

  George leaned forward on his desk. "Little Carmine has important information we'd like to hear, but that also means he could be in—ah, grave danger, Miss Blackbird. Frankly, we're afraid he's going to be—ah, killed if we don't reach him in time. In fact, he may already be—"

  "I don't know anybody by that name. You are holding me against my will for no earthly purpose."

  "She's got to know where the kid is," Daria said. "Mick's got him, or he knows who does. Mick's been stringing us along for two months now, but with Carmine suddenly missing he's either double-crossed us or something's about to happen. I'm damned if it's going to happen without us."

  I thought I saw Rudy hide a smile.

  "And now another young person, Clover Barnstable, has disappeared," George said. "What connection does Mr. Abruzzo have with this Barnstable girl?"

  "None," I said. "Do the police know she's missing? Is anyone looking for her?"

  "The police are sorting out that situation now. You don't need to concern yourself." George folded his hands on his desk. "Miss Blackbird, we must find out whether or not Mr. Abruzzo has kidnapped an innocent boy."

  "Listen," I said. "I'm tired and I'm hungry and I don't know anything about a kidnapping. I want to go home, and if you don't let me do so this minute, I'd better be allowed to call a lawyer."

  "You're hungry?" George looked surprised again. "Rudy, you didn't get this nice young lady any lunch?"

  "None of us had any lunch," Rudy said.

  "Daria? You didn't get lunch?"

  Daria sighed. "Can we get back to business?"

  George reached for his telephone. "Why don't we get some sandwiches sent up here? Would that make you happy, Miss Blackbird?"