Swift Justice: A Mystery (Thomas Dunne Books)

by Laura Disilverio

  A cold nose nudged her, and Gigi responded to the demand by patting the silky head of her Shih Tzu. “Good boy, Nolan,” she said softly. The dog laid his small muzzle on Gigi’s lap and heaved a sigh. “I know it’s boring, but we’ve got important work to do.”

  Dressed in a set of forest green (the closest color she had to black) Juicy Couture sweats, Gigi had figured she’d blend in by taking Nolan for walks. However, she was afraid to get out of the Hummer in this neighborhood. She checked the locks again and patted Nolan absently. Picking up the knitting she’d laid on the passenger seat, she worked on the sweater intended for Kendall’s birthday in a month, her eyes still on 327 as her fingers clicked the needles on autopilot. No movement from the house.

  Not only was surveillance the most boring job in the world, it gave her far too much time to think. Her thoughts roamed from Les’s last communication—divorce paperwork delivered through his lawyer—to the fight that afternoon with Kendall, who wanted to go to a party at a senior’s house that night. When Gigi heard there would be no parental supervision at the party, she put her foot down.

  “You’re only fourteen, honey,” she reminded the enraged girl, trying to stroke her silky blond hair.

  Kendall jerked her head away. “I’m not a kid. You let Dexter go to parties.”

  She didn’t let Dexter go, Gigi thought; he just went. Since his father had gotten him the BMW for his sixteenth birthday, she had virtually no control over his movements. She kept that reflection to herself. “There will be too many older kids there, and you know some of them will be drinking alcohol.”

  “Oh, Mom, get real! It’s not like I’ve never had a beer,” Kendall replied, tossing her hair.

  Feeling cowardly, Gigi let that revelation slide. “Besides, you’ve got the compulsories to get through for the competition Saturday morning. We’ll need to be at the rink by seven.” Reminding Kendall of her skating obligations usually brought the girl into line; she lived to skate. Gigi congratulated herself on the strategy.

  “Skating is ruining my life,” Kendall flashed. “Practice, practice, practice . . . that’s all I do! Oh yeah, and compete and go to costume fittings and more practice.” She glowered.

  “That’s how you get to the Olympics, honey,” Gigi reminded her gently. “You’ve wanted an Olympic gold since you were three.”

  “Well, maybe I don’t want that anymore.” The teenager stormed out of the kitchen and into her bedroom, slamming the door.

  Nolan’s wet tongue licking her cheeks where the tears were sliding down brought Gigi back to the stifling car and the job at hand. “You love Mummy, right?” she asked the dog.

  He responded with a yip, and she laughed, drying her tears with the half-finished sweater. Looking up, she saw a car—she was hopeless with makes and models, but thought it was silver or maybe white—pull up to the curb in front of 327. “Look, Nolan, it must be Cheryl’s lover. How brazen! She doesn’t even have the decency to go to a motel.” She wondered if Les had ever made love to Heather-Anne in their marriage bed. The thought made her want to cry. She readied the camera which she’d been practicing with all afternoon and snapped a picture of the short man in a denim jacket who got out of the driver’s seat and strode to the door. The porch light was out, so she couldn’t see who answered the door when he knocked, but she took another photo anyway as the man disappeared inside. Charlie had told her the camera had an infrared something-or-other and took clear photos in low light.

  She set the camera carefully on the passenger seat and took up her notebook to record the activity. Even as she was jotting down the time of the lover’s arrival, he stepped back onto the porch, paced down the cracked sidewalk, and roared away from the curb. “That was fast, even by Les’s standards,” she told Nolan, penciling in the man’s departure. “I guess we’re not going to get any proof of infidelity tonight, Nolan. Maybe we should—”

  Another car pulled up, this one a blue SUV of some kind. Her eyes wide, Gigi watched a muscular black man hop out and ring the doorbell. He was inside a little longer than the first man, but he, too, left after only a short visit. The scene repeated itself three times in the course of the next hour, with Gigi snapping photos of all the arrivals but never getting a clear look at the woman welcoming them into her home. “Do you think she’s a prostitute?” she asked Nolan after the fifth man departed.

  “Rrr-row,” Nolan growled, putting his small paws on the door to peer out the window. He whined.

  “Oh, no, do you have to do your business?”

  “Rowf!” the dog affirmed, dancing on the passenger seat, his black-and-white fur bouncing, the tail curled over his back wagging madly.

  Gigi glanced doubtfully at the dark street. The blue glow of a television leaked from a window a block away, but that was the only sign of life. Hooking Nolan’s leash to his collar, she scooped him under her arm and cautiously opened the door. The only sounds were the swishing of leaves in a light breeze and the rumble of traffic on the interstate, two blocks east. A sudden thought had Gigi reaching back into the Hummer for the camera. Maybe she could get a clear picture of Cheryl with one of her lovers if she was closer. With Nolan as cover—the word made her feel like a spy—she might be able to finagle her way into a better position to observe the tryst. She balked at the thought of becoming a Peeping Tom, but decided she might have a peek in a window if she could work her way around to the back of the house.

  Nolan beelined for a tree as soon as she set him on the ground. He lifted his leg briefly, then tugged her to the next vertical object, a mailbox. After letting him relieve himself again, she urged him across the street to the side with 327. He went happily, tail waving, and stopped to sniff a fire hydrant just in front of the shabby yellow house. “Good boy,” Gigi whispered, encouraging him to stay put while she checked out the house. The iron bars on the windows told her she was right to be nervous in this neighborhood. She wrinkled her nose at the strong smell of urine. The fire hydrant must be a popular spot with the local dogs. Not having gotten the hang of the private eye thing, Nolan tugged her impatiently down the block, intent on investigating a dried crust of sandwich lying in the gutter.

  “Come on, Nolie,” Gigi said, pulling him away. From this angle, she could see that a privacy fence, in much better repair than the house, protected 327’s backyard from potential Peeping Gigis. Discouraged, she started across the street to the Hummer, the leash dangling in her hand. A moment later it zipped out of her fingers as Nolan took off.

  “Nolan, come back!” Gigi whipped around in time to see the Shih Tzu dashing after a cat that was sprinting for the fence. As she watched, one hand pressed to her lips, the cat squeezed through a small hole near the gate and Nolan wriggled through after it, dragging his leash behind him.

  “Oh, no,” Gigi moaned. Instinctively, she started across the street after her puppy. She had nearly reached the sidewalk when the screech of brakes brought her head around, just seconds before the motorcycle’s front wheel struck her hip. She fell.

  I skidded the Subaru to a stop on Primrose Lane, two blocks from where an ambulance, a fire truck, and more cop cars than I could count enlivened the night with the red and blue swirls from their lights strobing the seedy neighborhood. Radios crackled, men shouted, and several dogs barked, objecting to the sirens and commotion. EMTs tended someone on a gurney near a motorcycle on its side. Good God, what had Gigi done now? I hadn’t understood one word in ten of her hysterical cell phone call. This was a hundred times worse than the Buff Burgers debacle, although I didn’t see any flames. I hurried toward the activity, noting the presence of a hazmat team in their safety suits. They moved like moonwalkers from the street to the small yellow house that was the center of all the action. As I drew closer, I realized the figure on the gurney was Gigi and the EMT was splinting her arm.

  I saw the moment when she spotted me because her face blanched. “Oh, Charlie, I’m so sorry. I know you told me rule number one is not to get spotted, but I couldn’t help i
t. Nolan got away from me and ran into the yard and then I got hit by the motorcycle and the driver banged on the door and got the people inside to call 911 and then the ambulance and the police and everybody came and—”

  “Slow down, Gigi,” I said, crouching beside the gurney and gently pushing her back. “Are you okay?”

  “She’s got a broken arm, ma’am,” the EMT, a young woman with her brown hair in a ponytail, told me. “I gave her something for the pain, but we need to get it cast. We’ll be on our way if—”

  “I can’t go without Nolan!”

  “Who’s Nolan?” Had she brought her son on the stakeout? I looked around but didn’t spot any likely contenders.

  “My Shih Tzu.”

  “Shit what?” asked the cop hovering nearby, pad in hand, ready to take her statement. Just my luck—it was Officer Venetti, witness to the Buff Burgers incident.

  “Sheet zoo. It’s a dog,” Gigi said. “His name is Nolan and he’s white with black patches and—”

  “Would this critter belong to you?” asked another voice I recognized.

  I turned to see Montgomery striding toward us, cradling a bundle of fur that was enthusiastically licking his chin.

  “Nolan!” Tears leaked from Gigi’s eyes.

  Montgomery leaned down to place the animal in Gigi’s arms, and it sat on her chest, looking up at us from under a fringe of white fur. She hugged it tightly with her good arm, crooning, “You are a bad, bad puppy.”

  “Rorf,” the dog agreed happily, content to be crushed against Gigi’s ample chest.

  I drew Montgomery aside. “What are you doing here? Please tell me she’s not involved in a homicide.”

  He smiled the lazy smile that always turned my insides to mush. “Nope. But I was at work early when the word came down we had a 911 call from 327 East Primrose Lane. The narco guys’ve had their eye on this house for months but couldn’t get probable cause to bust the dealers who hang here. Apparently a scumbag hoping to score”—he jerked his head in the direction of a scared-looking teen handcuffed in the back of a patrol car—“ran down Ms. Goldman and panicked. He says he ran into the house, grabbed up a phone, and dialed 911 before someone ripped the phone out of the wall. The emergency operator said the call was cut off before anyone said anything, but procedure is to assume someone’s in trouble, so we rolled. You’d’ve thought it was Christmas when the narco team and the SWAT guys got the word.” He grinned, looking dangerous in a Kevlar vest with his weapon secured at his hip. “I came along for the ride. It’s been months since I saw any real action.”

  Ooh, boy, if that didn’t sound like my fighter-pilot ex . . . “So, did you get the perps?”

  He shook his head. “They did a runner, but Ms. Goldman has a camera full of photos of their customers, so I don’t think it’ll be long before we round them up. And we’ve shut down a meth lab that put this whole block in danger. The department will probably want to give her a citation. What was she doing staking out this place, anyway?”

  Good question. I crossed to Gigi, her face woozy with drugs and the joy of having recovered her dog. “Do you still have the paper I gave you with the target’s address?”

  She nodded, taking three tries to slip her hand into her pocket and come up with the paper. “Here. Sorry I couldn’t get Cheryl in the photos.”

  I read the slip and rolled my eyes. “This says 327 West Primrose Lane. We’re on East Primrose Lane.” I held it out for her to see.

  “Oops.” Her eyes didn’t focus properly, drifting up to Montgomery, who had come up behind me in time to hear our last exchange. I wanted to smack the shit-eating grin off his face. “Is he your boyfriend?” Gigi asked, her eyes going from him to me and a loopy smile decorating her face.

  “Hell, no,” I said, at the same time Montgomery said, “As soon as she stops fighting her attraction to me.” The wicked glint in his eyes sent shivers down my spine, but I ignored them.

  Officer Venetti turned his laugh into a cough, Gigi giggled, and I glared. “When hell freezes—”

  “The dog can’t come,” the EMT said, preparing to slide Gigi’s litter into the ambulance with the help of her partner.

  Her giggles turned to consternation. “What will I do—”

  I held out my arms with a martyrlike air, and she scooted the mop-dog to me. “Go on, Nolan. You’ll like her.”

  Nolan looked unconvinced, casting me a suspicious look from under his shaggy fringe, but allowed me to pick him up. “I’ll take him over to your house, Gigi, and let your kids know what’s up.”

  A soft snore was my only response, and I realized the drugs had knocked her out. The EMTs secured the door, and Nolan and I watched as they drove off.

  “Breakfast?” Montgomery asked, putting a hand on my shoulder. I looked to the east to see the first faintest hint of pink staining the sky.

  “Might as well since I’m up,” I said ungraciously. “Let me get rid of this furball and I’ll meet you. Where?”

  “I make a mean omelet,” he hinted, his hand sliding from my shoulder down to my waist.

  Nolan growled and I laughed, brushing off Montgomery’s hand. “Denny’s it is, then.”

  (Saturday)

  Over two fried eggs, toast, and a Pepsi, I told Montgomery about my visit to Elizabeth’s apartment. He was annoyed by the news of Truman’s entrepreneurial activities and accepted my information about Elizabeth’s e-mails without comment. “I’ll forward them all to you,” I said, mopping up egg yolk with a toast triangle.

  He waved away my offer with a sausage bit speared on his fork. “Stu, our computer forensics guy, got it all. He’s been tracking her Web history—apparently she likes some teen idol named Zac Efron—and going after court orders to get the real names of the people behind the e-mail aliases. That’s an uphill battle, though, and it’s unlikely we’ll get access, not without being able to tell a judge it’s key to a murder investigation.”

  “What about the blood in the hamper?”

  “Spotted that, did you?” He eyed me with something close to approval. “She gave birth in the apartment.”

  My mind conjured what must have been in the clothes bin, and I pushed my plate away. “Poor girl.”

  “At least it explains why there are no records of the birth,” Montgomery said. Unfazed by the topic, he squirted ketchup onto a pile of hash browns and dug in. Cutlery clattered into a plastic tub as a teen bussed the table behind us, and the sound of an argument leaked out of the kitchen when a server shouldered through the swinging door. The closing door cut it off. The omnipresent odor of coffee grew stronger as our waitress came by and refilled Montgomery’s cup. I rattled the ice in my Pepsi glass, but she didn’t take the hint.

  Sated, Montgomery leaned back, his arms stretched atop the booth’s padded back, and said, “So, where did you find your new operative? She seems a bit inexperienced, or plain dumb. She’s lucky the guys running that meth lab didn’t spot her and rough her up. One of the customers we picked up told us he noticed the ‘fat granny in the Hummer,’ but figured she was just spying on her husband or something. He knew she wasn’t a cop.”

  “Well, that’s a blessing of sorts,” I said dubiously, then told him about Gigi Goldman’s descent into my life and business. “I’m stuck with her,” I concluded, “unless I can persuade her to leave.”

  A knowing smile stretched across his handsome face. “Ah, the penny drops. You sent her on that surveillance hoping she’d screw up, didn’t you?”

  It sounded mean when he put it like that. I fiddled with my straw and tried to catch the waitress’s eye so I wouldn’t have to look at Montgomery. “No! Not exactly. I just hoped she’d be so bored she’d decide to take up hairdressing again. I never meant for her to be in danger. I felt really guilty having to tell her daughter she was in the hospital.”

  The pixie-sized girl with the long blond hair had stared at me, automatically reaching out for Nolan when I handed him over. She had Gigi’s blue eyes. It had taken me ten minutes
of pounding on the door to summon her from sleep and several more to get my message across.

  “She’s what?”

  “She broke her arm in a collision with a motorcycle. She’s going to be fine, just needs a cast. Do you need me to drive you to the hospital?”

  “How will I get to the competition?” the girl asked, an annoyed pucker gathering between her brows. “Mom knows I have to be at the World Arena at seven. What time is it?”

  “Six,” I said.

  “Shit, she was supposed to wake me at five thirty. How am I supposed to get my hair and makeup done?” She ran a hand through her blond mane. “This is just typical,” she muttered under her breath.

  “I suppose I could drive you,” I offered reluctantly. I wasn’t anxious to spend five minutes with this surly, ungrateful teen, but I felt I owed Gigi something for putting her in the line of fire.

  She ignored me. “Dexter! Deeex-ter!” she hollered over her shoulder. “Get up. Mom’s flaked out. You need to drive me to the skating competition.”

  I resisted the urge to teach Gigi’s daughter a few manners and turned away as the girl pounded up the wide stairs leading from the slate-tiled entryway to the upper levels without even closing the door, much less a “good-bye” or a “thank you.” Why did people have children? They kept you up all night and ruined your wardrobe with drool and spit-up, then grew into teenagers who despised you and ridiculed your every word and idea. Maybe there was a year or two, after kids were done with the spewing formula and filling diapers stage, and before they reached the demonic possession age, when they were polite, affectionate, and fun to be around?

  I asked Montgomery, but he held up his hands to ward off the question. “Don’t ask me, I don’t have kids.”

  “Do you want any?” I asked, curiosity overcoming good sense.

  The corners of his mouth quirked up in a smile and his eyes warmed. “Maybe with the right woman. I’m taking applications . . . interested?”