“Yes, yes.” I cut her off. I knew all about the daily Boca Babe buying binge. I’d done it for ten years myself before I realized that conspicuous consumption was keeping me in chains. “Did Junior come home that evening?”
“Yes, of course. We always have . . .” she trailed off. “. . . had dinner together with the children.”
Those were her three, from her prior marriage.
“He came home around six. I had ordered Peking Duck from Madame Chen’s.”
“Yes, yes.” Please. I knew all about the Boca Babe Culinary Academy, too. To graduate, you had to recite the names, menus, and phone numbers of the twenty priciest restaurants in town. “What was Junior like when he came home?” I asked, trying to get her back on track. “Upset? Distracted? Irritable? Anything unusual?”
“He seemed a little preoccupied. He didn’t ask the kids about their day like he usually did. “
“Uh-huh. Did you say anything to him about his mood?”
“Yes, I asked him if he was okay, and he said he just had a lot of work on his mind. Then he told me he’d been to see you—he’d told me before what had happened to Miss Lil. I asked how he felt about hiring you, and he said he felt good, that he knew you would find the man who broke his poor mama’s heart.”
“He didn’t mention any concerns or worries?”
“No.”
“What about the week before? Had anything out of the ordinary happened?”
“No . . . but you know, Junior and I are . . . ,” she trailed off again and sobbed, “. . . were newlyweds. We were just getting to know each other, really.”
Seemed to me like that was something they should have done before tying the knot. But what do I know? Maybe if everyone did that, no one would ever get married. Which might not be such a bad thing.
“So I can’t really say what was normal or not for him,” she said.
“Okay, so you had dinner then what?”
“We watched American Idol. My kids just love that show. In fact my oldest, Margitta, wants to try out. As you know, I was Miss Denmark, and I was almost Miss Universe, and in my day we did have to have a talent, and mine was singing, so I think she has what it takes . . .”
“Yes, yes.” Jeez. I’ve never done coke myself, but I thought it was supposed to help you focus not flake out. “Junior, Gitta. Let’s talk about Junior.”
“Oh. Yeah, sure, honey. Oh my God. What will I do without him? How could God let this happen to me?”
To her? What about Junior?
“Please, Gitta. Concentrate. What you tell me might help me find who did this to him, uh, to you.”
She blew her nose and nodded. “Okay. Okay. Junior fell asleep on the couch just as one of the singers . . .”
I clenched my fists. She looked at me.
“Uh, he fell asleep. I sent the kids to their rooms around ten. I was upstairs tucking in my youngest when I heard Junior’s cell phone ring. It only rang a couple times so I figured he must have woken up and answered it. A couple minutes later he came up and said he had to go out. I said, ‘Now?’ He said one of the county commissioners was over at the Palm Beach Kennel Club with Father Kowalski, and they wanted Junior to come over to discuss some kind of church land swap.”
Now, that was perfectly plausible. An elected public official and an exorcist/extortionist hanging out at a dog track? Sure. Violating state law by discussing public business in private? Absolutely. Calling a developer to cut a deal to line their pockets and shaft the taxpayers? Hell, yeah.
Apparently, Brigitta had no problem buying it either.
“So I told him okay. He kissed me and said he’d be back in a couple hours and . . . and I never saw him again.” She put her head in her hands and cried.
“What did you do when he didn’t come home?”
“I didn’t . . . I didn’t know that he didn’t come home. I took my codeine and went to sleep.”
Of course. Coke by day, codeine by night. What could be more natural?
“The next thing I knew, the doorbell was ringing. It was early morning. It was the police. They said . . . they said that Junior was dead. I couldn’t believe it. I thought it was a lie or a sick joke or something. But they kept staying there and saying that. They wouldn’t leave. Then they asked me all these questions that whole morning . . . this morning.” She looked at me. “Was it this morning?”
“Yes,” I said, “it was.”
“Oh my God! I just . . . I don’t even know what time it is or what day it is.”
“It’s Saturday.”
“Where are my kids?”
“I don’t know, Gitta. I’m going to go now and let you find out.”
“Oh. Oh, I know now. They’re at home. Margitta and Lars, they’re old enough to watch the little one. Okay. I’m okay now.”
“Let’s go in,” I said.
Inside, Miss Lil was reseated with a refilled glass.
“Ladies,” I said, “again, I’m so sorry for your loss. I’ll be in touch soon.”
“Okay. Thank you, baby,” Brigitta said. Miss Lil just stared ahead in a stupor. I let myself out.
Downstairs, I decided I needed to let my mind unwind before I hopped right back on my Hog. Never ride preoccupied.
I went out of the lobby’s arched glass doors to the beach and sat down on one of the cushy lounge chairs that were set out on the sand. It was midday now, the sun directly overhead. As the ocean waves rolled in, the heat waves rolled over me. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead and rolled into my eyes, down my cheeks and onto my lips. I licked the salty drops. Then my body got into the act, and my neck and back and the undersides of my boobs became drenched.
I gazed out at the horizon, where sky and water merged into infinity. I saw Junior walking away from me, the way I last saw him, walking out my door the day before. But this time, instead of getting into his car, he keeps going. He walks east down Palmetto Park Road, past Boca’s shopping strips, office buildings, low-slung residences, a straight shot to the ocean. The heat rising from the asphalt makes his body seem to ripple, so that by the time he reaches the beach, he’s perfectly in sync with the ocean waves. He walks into the water then melts into that infinite horizon.
With that, my mind returned to the moment. I had just bid Junior goodbye. Now, it was time to get to work. Dirty Harriet was on the hunt.
Chapter 6
THAT AFTERNOON, my Hog was due for routine maintenance at my buddy Chuck’s bike shop, the Greasy Rider. I considered rescheduling in order to get cracking on the case but decided not to. I needed to contemplate my course of action before running off half-cocked. Normally, I’d bounce my ideas off Lana, but she was sunning herself in the swamp while I was pounding the pavement making a living. However, Chuck could serve as her stand-in. Besides, I always enjoyed hanging out at his shop, picking up maintenance tips as I watched him work.
On the way over I picked up two large low-fat chicken Caesar salads at Whole Foods. This was not normal fare for Chuck, who, being a good ol’ Georgia boy, was partial to fried . . . well, anything. And he had a gut to prove it. However, since their marriage, Enrique had set out to change Chuck’s lifestyle, and diet was number one on the list of reforms. I didn’t know what would be next, but I suspected it might be fashion-related, inasmuch as Chuck’s entire wardrobe consisted of black Harley T-shirts and torn jeans.
This is what marriage did to people. I did not approve. The way I figure it, you either accept people the way they are or you inspire them to be better. You don’t tell them to change. But whether I approved or not meant dick. I wasn’t married to either of them. So far Chuck was cheerfully complying with Enrique’s edicts, and I sure wasn’t going to be a troublemaker bearing chicken-fried steak or corndogs. Besides, I’ll admit I had a little cellulite clinging onto my ass for dear life. The Caesar just m
ight give it a jolt and pry it loose.
The Greasy Rider is in a converted old gas station not far from my office on the outer edge of town. The place has a certain nostalgia. Two old-fashioned red-and-white gas pumps still stand outside, and the inside’s a mess of scattered oil cans, bike parts, and tools. Frankly, it poses one hell of a hazard, which is why I alone, as Chuck’s best buddy, am allowed entrée to the inner sanctum.
Chuck looked up from working on a customized Fat Boy as I pulled into the bay. When he sat up to walk toward me, I saw that his usually taut T-shirt was a little loose. Guess the diet—ahem, the marriage—was doing him good. Fortunately, he still had his bald head, his goatee, and his missing incisor, or I might not have recognized him.
“I heard you split just afore I got over to the pool party at the Hilton yesterday,” he said when I dismounted and removed my helmet. “You sure missed one mighty fine show.”
“Yeah?”
“I tell you, that place was hoppin’. The Rollers were on a roll. Honey du Mellon especially. It’s like she’s been reborn since you got her off on that murder charge. She sounded like a whole different woman, uh, man, uh, being! You should have heard her on ‘Amazing Grace.’ Brought tears to my eyes.”
“Aww,” I said. Chuck was just like one of the deep-fried cheese balls he loved: crusty on the outside, gooey on the inside.
I pulled the paper grocery sack out of my saddlebag and held it up.
“Lunch,” I said.
Chuck eyed the Whole Foods logo.
“What? No Taco-To-Go? No Piece-A-Pizza? Darlin’, I’m touched.” He patted his belly. “Doing good, huh?”
“Yep. Real good.”
“What can I get ya to drink? Coke? Beer?”
I hadn’t realized those were part of the diet plan. But that wasn’t my business.
“Beer would be great,” I said. “Nothing like a cold one on a hot day.”
Chuck got a couple cans of Bud from a 1950s fridge in the corner, and we sat down on some wooden crates to eat.
“Mind if I run a case by you?” I asked as I popped open my beer can.
“Why the hell should I mind? Question is, darlin’, will your client mind?”
Great. My ethics were on the line yet again. This case was a moral morass.
“Let’s talk hypothetically,” I said.
“Sure. Whatever you say.”
I filled him in, omitting names.
“So Junior Castellano was wasted by a little ol’ ladies’ man,” Chuck said, chomping down on his romaine. “Ain’t that a kick in the butt. With all the enemies that ol’ boy made, I’d thought some other desperado woulda done him.”
“Who said anything about Junior?”
“Anybody else get bumped off in Boca last night?”
“Oh. Well, no. Not that I know of.”
“Okay, now we got that straightened out . . .”
“You didn’t hear it from me.”
“Hear what? Don’t worry, darlin’. Next society charity ball I go to, my lips are sealed.”
“Ha ha.” But he was right—I didn’t have to worry. Ballgoers and bikers in Boca were two breeds apart.
I sipped my Bud as I gazed around the garage. A small window cast a square beam of light through the dust-filled air. The sweetish smell of motor oil penetrated my pores.
“Okay, so here’s what I’m thinking,” I said as I took a bite of chicken. “I’m just working the scam angle. All I have to do is find the con, Worthington, or whatever he goes by. In the meantime, the cops are working the murder—collecting crime scene evidence, checking out Junior’s phone records, establishing cause of death and so forth. I don’t need any of that, so I won’t be interfering with their investigation.”
“Uh-huh. And the fact that you’re not telling them about a potential suspect is not obstruction,” Chuck said, peering at me over the rim of his beer can as he took a gulp.
“No. In fact I’ll be helping them.”
“That so? How do you figure?”
“I’m sure Worthington is counting on Miss Lil wanting to save face. He figures, correctly, that she won’t tell the cops about him. He’s got moles in town, probably including one or more of Junior’s own people. If Miss Lil or I put the cops onto him, his moles would let him know, and he’d stay out of town. He’s also going to figure, as Miss Lil said, that I’m off the case. So bottom line, he’ll figure it’s safe for him to get back into the game and return to Boca. Then I’ll bag him and turn him over to the cops.”
I paused to swipe away a lettuce leaf that had made its way onto my chin instead of into my mouth. This was the kind of thing Bruce would have berated me for endlessly. But Chuck didn’t give a rat’s ass if I looked like a gorilla while eating. Dude loved me for me. He never said so, but his actions did.
“It’ll be the cops’ job to tie Worthington to the murder based on their evidence,” I went on. “Besides, he may not even be the killer. There must be plenty of people who would have liked to see Junior dead. But that’s not my problem. My job is just to find Worthington. So there you go. No interference, no obstruction. Just helping grease the wheels of justice.”
“Yeah. Fine, darlin’. Glad you got it all figgered out,” Chuck said. “In the meantime you can degrease this wheel.” We’d finished lunch, and he’d started working on my Hog. He handed me a rag and a can of degreaser.
I dipped the rag into the cleaner and started wiping off grime.
“Now here’s my problem,” I said. “Worthington thinks I’m off the case, which is exactly what I want him to think. I got some potential leads, like his tailor and his car dealer. But now with the murder, the stakes are higher, and I don’t want to go asking them questions. I can’t take the chance of him finding out I’m sniffing around. I want him to feel good and comfy about coming back onto the scene. Besides, if he is a killer, he’s obviously dangerous. I’d rather come out of this alive. So the question is how do I find him and nab his sorry ass?”
“I think the answer’s pretty obvious,” Chuck said as he checked the tension on the bike’s belt drive. The old refrigerator’s motor kicked in with a shudder that rattled the garage window panes. I startled at the sudden noise. I was prone to jumpiness, a lingering remnant of my years of abuse, when I’d had to be hypervigilant for any sign of impending violence.
Taking a couple calming breaths, I waited for Chuck to elaborate.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “You look a little funny.”
“I’m fine. So what’s this obvious answer you have?”
“Come on, darlin’,” he said. “Think back to how you started in the business.”
“I started doing office work for Louie Boskowitz.” That had been four years ago, after I’d blown away Bruce, busted out of my Boca Babe brig and went back to school to gain some employable skills. Then I’d answered an ad for Louie’s P.I. agency and was hired. “I did background checks and skip traces. So?”
Chuck adjusted the belt drive. “And after that?” he prompted.
“After that I . . . shit!”
Chuck grinned as I scowled.
My start in the business had been slightly sleazy. After Louie had found out I’d been a Boca Babe with all the requisite man-manipulation skills, he’d sent me out on jobs as a decoy. That meant stuffing my boobs into a slutty top, sitting my butt on a barstool, and seducing a client’s suspected cheating spouse while taping him with a videocam hidden in my purse.
“So you’re suggesting . . .” I said.
“You got it. No need to go after Worthington. Just get him to come to you.”
“But he won’t come after me. I don’t fit his profile of the wealthy, older widow. Yeah, I know I can go undercover, but passing for sixty or seventy would be a stretch.”
“Oh, I don’t know
about that,” Chuck said.
I snapped the rag I was holding at him. He jumped back.
“Actually, I was thinking of a couple ladies you know in that age bracket,” he said.
“A couple ladies I know?”
“Is there an echo in here?”
“Wait just a minute. Are you talking about my mother? And the contessa?”
“They’re perfect for the job. And you know it.”
“Did you just hear me? I said the man may be dangerous. He might be a killer, for Christ’s sake. Are you crazy? I’m not letting him anywhere near my mother. Or the contessa.” The contessa was Boca’s big-time philanthropist and patron saint of lost causes. “Do you forget that the contessa retained Honey du Mellon’s defense attorney and . . .”
“Hold yer horses, will ya? Just think a minute. I didn’t say nothin’ about sending them out alone. You got Leonard, for one thing.”
Okay, that gave me pause. Leonard was Mom’s significant other. He was a retired CIA agent who had two passions in life: Mom and the Cold War.
“Just think, Harriet, you’d actually be doing the guy a favor.”
“Oh, shut up.” But he was right. Leonard would love nothing better than an undercover sting operation. And I could trust him to keep Mom safe.
“But what about the contessa?” I asked.
“At your service, madam,” Chuck said and took a bow. I snapped the rag at him again, this time catching the top of his bald head.
“So you’re proposing we send Mom and the contessa out to Worthington’s hangouts, posing as wealthy widows—which, actually, they are—to lure Worthington into a trap? And you and Leonard would be there watching every move?”
“Give the girl a hand!”
“But Worthington would surely recognize them. They’re both in the society pages all the time. And he’d know they’re connected to me. My name’s been linked with both of theirs ever since Bruce, uh, died . . . and then with the last two murder cases that they were both involved in. Worthington would be suspicious and scramble.”
Dead in Boca Page 5
