COPS SPIES & PI'S: The Four Novel Box Set

by David Wind

  “I can’t help you, Storm. I already told you I don’t have anybody on you. Is it my turn yet?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You were all hot about your friend when you came to see me. What’s happening with that?”

  “That’s why we’re here.”

  My words caught him by surprise. “You ain’t making sense, Storm. He was a Broadway big shot.”

  “All I know is it’s connected. Johnny Woo is one of your people, right.”

  “He does errands for me.”

  “He does them for others too.” There was a click as the door handle turned. “Anything else?

  He shook his head and leaned back as Joey came in with a small black tray with three drinks on it. He set the tray on the desk, picked up the coke and handed it to Gina. He turned to me with a grin, before returning to his guard post.

  I looked at the whitish drinks and Santucchi saw the question in my eyes. “Ulcer. Scotch and milk.”

  “How’s the scotch?”

  “You can’t afford it.”

  He should only know…. I lifted one of the drinks, sniffed the scotch-scented milk and took a long swallow. Like he said, the scotch was good—I could have done without the milk.

  Gina took a few obligatory sips and gave me the look I was waiting for. We stood at the same time. Gina said, “I may have more questions.”

  “Next time you call ahead so I can have my lawyer here.”

  She gave him a sweet smile as I walked next to her, took her arm and guided her to the door, which the eager Joey opened. “Torrelli,” Santucchi called over the now loud music. We both turned back.

  “When you’re ready to get rid of him and step up in class, call me.”

  Her elbow lodged in my side, shutting me up. She maintained the sweet smile and said, “You couldn’t handle it, Santucchi.”

  Chapter 36

  Gina’s East Seventy-second Street co-op, was a reflection of her as a woman and not as an FBI agent. The one bedroom corner apartment on the tenth floor was roomy and neat, done in subtle earth tones with everything in its place. A moderate sized dining alcove grew off the living room and separated the kitchen from the larger room.

  Original oils of yet to be discovered artists decorated the walls. The furniture was comfortable, and the carpeting soft. We sat at the dining room table, which was rectangular and made of teak veneer. A wide window overlooked First Avenue, while the living room windows and the balcony extending from it looked down on Seventy-second Street.

  Gina had opened a bottle of Barnett Spring Hill Pinot Noir; the mellow red wine was a perfect match to our mood as we dissected our ‘interview’ with Santucchi. The gentle strains of a jazz CD emanated from the stereo.

  “I think he was pretty straight with us,” Gina offered.

  “But I think he knows who the guy is.”

  “If he does, we’re not going to get it from him.”

  The fact she was right didn’t help. “He did give us Streeter.”

  Gina’s brows furrowed, creating double vertical lines at the center of her forehead. I reached across to rub them with my thumb. “Miami.”

  Her eyes widened for a moment. “Sure.”

  “Do you think you could have someone from the Miami office do a quiet check?”

  “I went through Quantico with Don Mancuso, he’s the Special Agent-In-Charge of crimes against children in South Florida. I’m sure he’ll do me the favor.”

  “Good. Any thoughts on how we find my eloquent mystery man?”

  “We’ve been monitoring the Carinoma family for years. We’ve got every member flagged, even the boys from the west coast who are pushing in, and the way Santucchi spoke about him… my guess is he’s not part of the family, or any family. He’s connected some other way—maybe a friend of one of the Carinomas.”

  I took a sip of wine. “Or maybe someone they deal with on another level. A political connection perhaps.”

  “Always possible, but it’s pretty hard to pin down. And why would they back someone who’s dealing in children? That doesn’t fit what they do.”

  “A payback for favors would be one reason.”

  “I don’t know…. Gabe, how sure are you this is connected with Scotty.”

  “Proof-wise, you know I don’t have a thing. But it feels right in here,” I said, pressing my hand against my stomach. “Somehow Scotty discovered something—maybe he found a connection between them and the missing girls and they had Scotty taken out. It makes more sense than one of the ‘Angels’ killing him.”

  Restless, I began to pace. “Look at it this way: the missing papers from the files are connected. Streeter is connected, but he didn’t have anything to do with Scotty—he was in lock-up then, but there’s a good chance he knows who the doer is.” Things were starting to slip into place: they were vague, but the rudiments of the picture were forming.

  “I need to talk to Streeter, and to find out more about the three kids in those files. Right now they’re just names and photos.”

  “Email the names to me. I’ll run them through and see if I can come up with a match.”

  I crossed over to her and leaned down to taste the softness of her mouth. “Thank you.”

  When I started to back away, her hand came up and caught my hair, pulling me back to her mouth. I drew her to her feet and our bodies molded together. Heat flared and everything except for Gina drained from my head.

  It took us fifteen seconds to shed our clothing and make it to the bed. Our lovemaking turned intense with each of us taking what we needed. When it ended, we stayed locked together until our breathing returned to normal. Changing position, I pulled Gina into the crook of my arms, felt the warmth of her breasts press against my side and let myself stop thinking.

  <><><>

  I woke at six. I hadn’t planned on spending the night at Gina’s, but then, I hadn’t been ready to leave the warmth of her bed either. As my feet hit the floor, Gina stirred. A moment later, her fingernails etched the pattern of my spine.

  “Morning, tough guy.”

  I leaned back and kissed her. “Morning.”

  “There’s a package of toothbrushes under the sink.”

  “For those emergencies when you have company?”

  She winked at me.

  “Watch it, I may get jealous.”

  Her eyes crinkled with her smile. “That would be a change.”

  “You never know. Towels in the same place?”

  “Where would they go?”

  “Wiseass,” I muttered, padding into the bathroom to rummage in the bottom of the vanity. The packet of six toothbrushes was where she said it would be. I took one out. There were four left. As I brushed my teeth, an image formed of Scotty’s bathroom on the day he had died. There had been a package of toothbrushes similar to these under his vanity. There had been three missing. Was it significant?

  I shrugged. I rinsed my mouth and moved to the small linen closet set in the bathroom wall. Taking a towel, I turned on the shower, stepped into the steamy stall, and let the hot water wash over me. Before I could pick up the bar of soap, Gina stepped in. “I thought you might need some help with your back.”

  I turned my back to her. “Yes, Ma’am.”

  Her hands were playful as she washed my back and then started downward. “That ain’t my back, sister.”

  “And I ain’t your sister—mister.”

  “Thank god.” Her hands made soapy circles on my rear before sliding around to the front and pulling me back against her. Turning, I pulled her to me in a slippery rush, lifted her and, as her legs wrapped around me, entered her.

  Our lovemaking was fast and feral and when it ended, we held each other and leaned against the tiles as the water sprayed over us. A half-minute later, Gina’s hands once again began to soap my back and I realized she hadn’t put the soap down.

  When we were rinsed off and dry, Gina, with a towel wrapped around her danced off to the kitchen to put up coffee. She paused at the b
athroom door to look over her shoulder. “Your shaving gear is on the bottom shelf of the closet.” And then she was gone.

  I pulled my old shaving kit out and emptied it on the edge of the sink, wondering why she hadn’t tossed it long ago.

  Gina returned just as I finished shaving and kicked me out of the bathroom. I dressed and went to the kitchen, pulled down two cups, and poured one for myself. Ten minutes later, and with the first cup gone and the second started, Gina came in dressed for work. I poured her coffee and sat in the built-in nook.

  “Want some breakfast?”

  “Can’t, I have a breakfast date with Femalé.”

  She covered my hand with hers. “Thanks for taking me with you last night.”

  “Like you gave me a choice,” I grumbled, but couldn’t quite put the right touch of annoyance into my words.

  “You always have a choice, Gabe, you know that.”

  I did and told her so.

  “I need to be a part of this—part of helping you to find out who killed Scotty.”

  “I know.”

  She took a sip of coffee. “And Gabe, I also need to be a part of your life. No, don’t get that look on your face!” She added hastily.

  “What look?”

  “The defensive one: The one that says I can’t let someone get too close, they’ll get hurt.”

  “Gina–”

  “Shut up, Gabe. I know, God, everyone knows. You can’t live your life like that, not anymore. Elaine’s death wasn’t your fault: you couldn’t have stopped it. He’d been stalking her for months. If it hadn’t happened then, it would have happened another night and you damn well know it. Now, this conversation is over. All I want you to do is think on what I said. I’m not asking for anything else. Okay?”

  Everyone was a shrink these days. “Okay.”

  “What’s on your agenda for today?”

  The mood snapped with her words. “I’m stopping by Scotty’s apartment to get the files of the missing kids and then to the office to meet Femalé and get her report on Lia Thornton. After that, I’m sending the files over to Samantha Collins for her to crosscheck with her own files. There are some calls to return. Then, who knows?”

  “I’ll call Miami about the favor on Streeter,” Gina said. “Keep me posted, okay?”

  Right on cue, Gina’s phone rang. She answered it, spoke tersely and hung up. “I’ll make the call later, something’s come up. Let’s grab a cab and I’ll drop you near Scotty’s.”

  I knew enough to not ask questions. If it had anything to do with what I was working on, she would have said so. Ten minutes later, she dropped me off with a kiss and a soft ‘bye’.

  It was a quarter after seven when I got to Scotty’s, which left me a half hour. Moving fast, I went to the office, grabbed one of the smaller cartons and put every file in the second drawer into it.

  I set it at the front door and roamed the apartment. I went into his bedroom, which was the same as it had been since the murder, except for the boxes and the emptiness. I sat on the edge of the bed and tried to recreate the morning he died.

  He’d woken before six, used the bathroom, made some coffee and started work. I walked into the empty bathroom and looked around. The kitchen was next: he would have made coffee. Had there been one or two cups in the sink? I closed my eyes and looked for the image. Nothing came up so I went into his office, sat at the chair and stared at the desk. The computer had been there and a large mug had been next to it.

  There had only been one cup. I sat still for a moment. How had it happened? I made myself into Scotty. A Led Zeppelin CD was playing. He wouldn’t have heard the door open.

  Or, perhaps the music was low and he’d heard the click of the top bolt as it snapped open. He stood then—I stood. He walked out of the office and toward the front door. He was halfway between the door and the living room when the perp entered. Shock and recognition would have frozen him to the spot. Yes, he knew his killer.

  He would have seen the gun. A forty-four magnum was big and ugly. He started to back into the living room. His killer was ten feet from him when the first shot was fired. It took him by surprise. Trust me on this, when you get shot, when the bullet hits your flesh, it is a surprise, no matter what. The round hit him hard.

  He was knocked to the floor. The killer came up close and fired again. He tried to block the shot with his hands. Then Scotty tried to back away, scrambling on his back, using his hands and feet to escape backward on the floor as shock began to numb his mind. The killer fired again and again while Scotty tried to block the bullets with what remained of his hands.

  When the shooting stopped, the killer stood over him and waited for Scotty to die. In the minutes following the shooting, the killer had ransacked the apartment to make it look like a burglary.

  All of a sudden, I found what I’d been missing: the killer knew the shots would have been reported by a neighbor and would not have had enough time to go through the files and get the paperwork out.

  No, whoever it was had come back and taken what he hadn’t been able to find before the cops showed up. That’s why the police tape had been cut. I just hadn’t known what to look for.

  I picked up the box of files and left the apartment, careful to lock the door behind me. Luck was with me: a cab was waiting at a red light on the corner.

  I stepped into my office at eight on the button, to find Femalé already there. “Breakfast is on the way. Your office?” she asked. Her hair had been reworked and there was a new pattern to the braided strands bouncing at her shoulders. She’d changed perfumes as well. I liked the old one better but wisely kept my mouth shut.

  “That’ll work.” I put the box of files on the side of her desk.

  My action elicited the raising of one questioning eyebrow. “I’ll explain when we talk,” and went into my office. The scent of brewing coffee came from the small room we used as a combination storage room and pantry.

  A moment later Femalé came in with a cardboard box and unloaded breakfast on the desk. She placed a manila envelope to the side and after distributing the breakfast offering, went to get the coffee. When she returned, she gave me a self-satisfied smile.

  “Miss me while I was gone?”

  “You want the truth?”

  Her smile widened. “Glad you missed me.”

  I pulled the white cardboard cover off the aluminum take out dish before me and stared at something white with some army-green sticks next to it. I knew I should have gotten there before she had, so I could have ordered breakfast.

  “Uh… what is this?”

  “Egg white omelet with low fat cheese and asparagus on the side,” she explained with a not so subtle smile.

  “Those are asparagus?”

  A throaty laugh bubbled forth. “Organic.”

  “What did I tell you about healthy food?”

  “Boss, you are getting to the age when you need to watch what you eat.”

  “And you’re treading in dangerous waters. Talk to me.” I pushed the asparagus aside and cut off a piece of the white stuff. It didn’t taste too bad.

  Femalé forked some omelet into her mouth. “Sunday didn’t give me much. I walked around Bourbon Street to get the lay of the land. Things have changed since they’ve started rebuilding New Orleans, but that area looks like nothing got touched. I was there when I was in college and it looks pretty much the same.”

  She picked up a dull green spear and ate it. “I did some walking around, talked with a few people and asked if anyone knew Lia Thornton—Jane McPherson. I didn’t get a hit.”

  “It’s been twenty years.”

  She raised a piece of white stuff toward her mouth, but stopped. “I thought it was worth the shot. There were a lot of girls on the street.”

  She finished moving the fork to her mouth, chewed and said, “But I got nothing there. I called it a night around twelve. In the morning, I went to city hall and was first on line at records. It took them a half hour to find what I needed.�
� She tapped the manila envelope with her fingers. “I dug up her birth certificate and a list of the schools in the parish where she grew up. I went there and found the High School she’d attended. I was able to get a copy of her records.”

  “How?”

  I got a long ‘give me a break’ look. “You’re the teacher, Boss. I went into the school, presented myself as a private investigator hired by the family of a client who had passed away. Jane McPherson was listed as one of the heirs and I was trying to validate her claim.”

  “And they bought that?”

  “Why not? I told them I’d been to City Hall, but their records had been lost during Katrina and they’d suggested I try the school to see if theirs had survived.”

  “And they accepted that too?” I repeated.

  “I’ve got a good face.” She sniffed the air. “You’ve been smoking in here.”

  Besides being the perfect assistant, she had the nose of a hound dog. “Your report?”

  “They gave me her school records to review, and when the woman went to make a copy for me, I took a look through the folder. There was a guidance counselor report. I, ah, borrowed it before she came back.

  The phone rang. Femalé picked it up, looked at me, and covered the mouthpiece. “Albright.”

  Chapter 37

  “Storm.”

  “I’ve been trying to reach you,” said an irritated Albright said, not bothering to hide his anger.

  “You did. What can I do for you?”

  “You’re the producer now. You must stay in contact. We got a call yesterday from the theatre. They closed the current play last night and they’ll strike it by the end of the week. That’s a month ahead of schedule. I think we should start the stage construction, which gives us an extra few weeks to rehearse there.”

  “And you needed to tell me this because?”

  “You’re the producer. You need to make the arrangements,” he snapped.

  “No problem,” I said. “Is there anything else?”

  He paused. I could picture him rubbing his index finger along the side of his nose. “Have you found out anything further?”