by Lois Winston
“What did you find?”
I reached into my pocket, removed the crystal, and placed it on the table between us. “This is a Vajazzling crystal. I found it in the Lincoln’s trunk.”
“What were you doing snooping around Gruenwald’s car?”
“I wasn’t snooping. Tino was transporting cartons from Mr. Gruenwald’s office. I just happened to notice the crystal while we were chatting as he loaded cartons into the trunk. It probably came from the office carpet. Apparently, the crystals start falling off after only a few days, but I thought I should bring it to your attention.”
Batswin picked up the crystal with her thumb and forefinger and examined it. “I can’t get a search warrant based on this. Did you notice anything else about the contents of the trunk that seemed odd?”
“Like what? Suspicious looking stains?”
“Or anything else out of the ordinary.”
“That would be too easy, wouldn’t it? No, the trunk wasn’t particularly dirty, but it didn’t look like it had been cleaned recently, either. Sometimes a trunk is just a trunk.”
Batswin didn’t get the joke. Instead, she rose and extended her hand to indicate the conclusion of our meeting. “Thank you for stopping in Mrs. Pollack. Now, before you wind up getting yourself killed, stop playing Nancy Drew and let the professionals do their jobs.”
Nancy Drew? So much for doing my civic duty. I left police headquarters unconvinced Batswin was any closer to solving Philomena’s murder.
~*~
Back at Trimedia I found Tino working the phone. “I’ll bet you’re really pissed at your former employer,” he said.
“Subtle,” I mouthed to him as I dropped into my desk chair and powered up my computer.
After commiserating with the caller for a few more minutes, Tino hung up the phone. “Guys don’t do subtle, Mrs. P. It’s not in our DNA. You want to know what’s eating them, you gotta ask, then let ‘em rant.”
“There were guys working at Bear Essentials?” Stereotypes aside, I envisioned only female employees working on a magazine devoted to teddy bear collecting.
“Tough economy,” said Tino. “A job’s a job.”
And those in magazine publishing grew scarcer with every passing day. “So did anyone rant enough to land in the suspects column?”
“Everyone who hasn’t found another job yet except for one guy.”
“Why not him?”
“He plunked down a dollar for a scratch-off the day he got canned and won half a million bucks.”
“Lucky him. How many suspects do we have?”
“I starred the most likely candidates,” he said, handing me a pad of paper. “Most of the people didn’t object to having their conversations recorded, but I also made notes for the important stuff.”
I quickly flipped through the pages. On top of each sheet he’d listed a Bear Essentials employee’s name. Copious notes regarding the employee’s time at Trimedia, as well as details of subsequent job searches and results, filled each page.
Inwardly, I breathed a sigh of relief. Anyone this involved in finding a killer couldn’t possibly be the killer. That Vajazzling crystal must have hitched a ride on one of the cartons from Gruenwald’s office.
I tore off the three pages with stars. Two men, one woman. I pulled up the computer files Marie had emailed. “I think we can eliminate Christina MacIntyre. She’s confined to a wheelchair. I can’t see her hoisting Philomena’s body into the shipping case, let alone removing the security cameras.”
“Unless she had help. Read my notes.”
I turned to the dossier on Christina MacIntyre and began reading through Tino’s scrawled notations. My eyes bugged out as I scanned a litany of invectives and threats, all directed toward Trimedia in general and Gruenwald specifically. “She actually said these things to you?”
“Not her. Her husband. Paul.”
I glanced up from the page. “Huh?”
“He’s also out of work. Has been for about two years. His unemployment insurance ran out. Bills are overdue. Her unemployment barely covers food each week for them and their three kids.”
“So you did a bit of guy bonding over the phone?”
Tino grinned. “It worked, didn’t it? I got him to spill his guts. He’s mad as hell, and he blames Gruenwald for their situation. I can see him getting even by offing Philomena. Did you get to the part where he’s ex-military? Same for the other two with stars.”
“Is that how you bonded with them?”
Tino offered me a sheepish grin. “Hey, Semper Fi, Mrs. P. Whatever works.”
Gruenwald should have hired Tino to solve Philomena’s murder. I never would have gotten MacIntyre to drop his guard and open up to me.
“The killer could be one of these other men,” I said, waving the pages listing the two male employees. According to Tino’s notes, neither of these men had held back in their conversations with him, either. Both had served in the armed forces, one in the army, the other army reserves, giving them the training necessary to rappel down the side of the Trimedia building to remove the security cameras without being captured on them.
Gruenwald certainly knew how to bring out the worst in people, but I suppose the same could be said for any CEO who lays off employees. Still, most people don’t act on their threats. If they did, CEO’s would be an endangered species in this country.
“How do you want to proceed?” asked Tino.
“We should turn this information over to Detective Batswin.”
Tino scowled. “These guys will lawyer right up. They know the score. The cops won’t get jack.”
“You have a better idea?”
“You should go talk to them.”
“Me? I don’t do guy bonding. You should meet with them. Take them out for beers and burgers.”
“I’m not the one getting paid to investigate the murder,” he reminded me. “You are.”
“True.” Tino was just getting paid to babysit me. Or keep tabs on me. I pondered my options. Christina MacIntyre might talk to me, but if her husband had hatched the plot to get back at Gruenwald, she might not even know about it.
How many killers confess their sins to their spouses? My husband kept me in the dark throughout our marriage. I had no idea of his gambling addiction, let alone that he stole his mother’s life savings and set her apartment building ablaze.
I needed Tino to fill these guys’ bellies with enough alcohol that one of them lost his inhibitions and admitted his crime. “We’ll both go. We can pretend we’re scouting for a new reality TV show about long-term unemployment and its impact on families.”
“Clever, Mrs. P. And we’re looking for families to star in the show?”
“Exactly. Can you reprogram your cell to bring up a different name on the Caller ID?”
“Sure. Why?”
“I’ll phone to set up appointments with these three men, but we’ll need something other than Semper Fi to show up on their phones. We used that for the research calls.”
“You think they’ll agree to talk to us?”
“Reality TV stars get paid. They’re out of work. Do the math, Tino.”
“Right. I read where that little redneck Boo Boo kid and her family make fifty G’s a season.”
“Good to know.” My life didn’t allow for much television watching these days. I knew little about current reality TV other than it filled both cable and network programming due to low production costs. “A chance to make fifty thousand dollars plus a bottomless pitcher of beer might catch us a killer.”
We decided to meet with all three men the following day, spacing each an hour and a half apart. Since none of the men lived near each other, we needed to factor in half an hour to travel between each location. I tasked Tino with finding a bar in the general vicinity of each man’s home. Hopefully, they’d drink enough in an hour’s time to loosen their tongues sufficiently.
Investigating Philomena’s death had already eaten up too much of my schedule. Dead
lines for multiple issues loomed. I had a photo shoot scheduled for Friday morning, not to mention Lepre-Bunny-Bears to design and craft, and none of these tasks could be palmed off on my overworked, shared assistant.
Given the memorial concert, wedding rehearsal and dinner on Saturday, and Mama’s wedding Sunday, catching up over the weekend wasn’t an option. I needed to cram about a week’s worth of work into the next two days, but I also needed to follow through with this investigation, or Tino might rat me out to Gruenwald. I might not find Philomena’s killer, but I had to justify accepting that five thousand dollar check.
While Tino searched Google Maps for suitable bars, I jotted some notes for our fictitious television show. I needed a name and a short overview of the series before we could set our charade in motion. “How’s this for a show title?” I asked. “Out of Work, Out of our Minds.”
“A little wordy, isn’t it?”
“It’s a work in progress. We can tell them the network hasn’t firmed up the title yet.”
“Works for me.” He handed me a sheet of paper. “These are the bars.”
After Tino reprogrammed his phone, I called the three men. All jumped at the chance to become the next reality TV star. I didn’t even have to mention the free beer.
~*~
The following morning Tino showed up in a white Ford Focus decked out with a logo for UsTV, a cable network Trimedia had recently purchased—so recently that none of the three men we were about to meet would even know of the acquisition.
I ran my hand over the image. Paint. No slapped on decal. “Very impressive.”
He settled a white UsTV ball cap on my head and handed me a lightweight matching UsTV windbreaker, twins to the ones he wore. “We need to look legit and easy to spot,” he said.
We’d be hard to miss. The red and blue UsTV logo covered most of the back of the jacket as well as the upper left quadrant of the front. I slipped the jacket over the blazer I’d pulled from the back of my closet this morning. For the first time since the autumnal equinox two weeks ago, AccuWeather promised fall-like temperatures throughout the day.
I turned my attention back to the car. “Please don’t tell me you stole wheels for us.”
Tino opened the passenger door for me. “Consider it a perk of working for the CEO. He wants Philomena’s killer caught, and he’s losing patience with the police.”
He slammed the door shut, rounded the car, and with a grunt squeezed his massive physique behind the wheel. Poor Tino wasn’t built for a compact car, but apparently the Focus was standard issue for UsTV employees. I wondered if he’d fit after eating three lunches.
“Where to first?” he asked.
I rattled off the address of a bar in Morristown. He programmed the GPS, switched on the ignition, and we headed off to meet Suspect Number One.
I scheduled our first meeting for eleven o’clock, a bit early for lunch, but Suspect Number One didn’t seem to mind. The lure of becoming a television star was so great that these guys probably would have agreed to meet at two in the morning in the parking lot of the local Wal-Mart. In their birthday suits.
O’Malley’s Irish Pub was a typical working class bar, short on ambiance, the air thick with the dizzying smells of malt liquor and frying oil. Not the place to order a salad, the only green on the menu most likely the green beer served solely on Saint Patrick’s Day.
I was surprised to find the place nearly half full at such an early hour. The other customers turned to take note of the newcomers when we walked through the door but quickly returned to their food, drinks, and the sports network blaring from a flat screen TV above the bar. Tino and I made our way to a booth by the window.
A waitress who looked like she still belonged in school brought us menus, her gaze lingering on Tino as she blindly set paper placemats and napkin-wrapped utensils in front of us. He graced her with a broad smile when she handed him a menu. “We’re waiting for one more,” he said. “You can start off by bringing us a pitcher of Sam Adams and three glasses.”
“Sure thing, doll.” She added another place setting and menu to the table on my side, returning shortly with the beer and three frosted mugs.
“I hate beer,” I told Tino as he filled the mug in front of me.
“Too bad. Pretend you like it.”
A few minutes later a beefy man with micro-dreds and a scraggly blond goatee entered the bar. His jeans, jeans jacket, and the hint of T-shirt peaking from behind the open jacket qualified as Salvation Army rejects. I pegged him as mid-thirties. He scanned the room, zeroed in on us, and headed over. As he approached, I took note of the barbed wire tattoo that encircled his neck.
“Mike Monahan,” he said, extending his hand in my direction, a hand covered in scrapes and scratches, the perfect complement to his bruised knuckles, split lip, and fading black eye. Had we found Philomena’s killer?
TWENTY-ONE
Although I paid little attention to the other Trimedia publications, I had no idea whether or not any of these men might recognize me or my name. For that reason, I’d pulled my hair up into a ponytail, donned a pair of large frame sun glasses, and borrowed the name of one of my favorite authors from back when I had time to read. “Emma Carlyle,” I said, shaking Mike Monahan’s hand. “And this is Tino Martinelli, my co-producer.”
We didn’t have to worry about Tino being recognized. He’d started hanging around our building after Gruenwald closed the coffin on Bear Essentials.
The men shook hands. Tino squeezed a bit too hard, and Mike grimaced. “Sorry about that. Did you at least win?” Tino asked, grabbing the beer pitcher to fill the remaining frosted mug for Mike.
Mike settled into the booth beside me. “Win what?” With his left hand he raised the mug to his lips and polished off the beer in one long draught.
The guy might be former military, but he didn’t come across as the sharpest needle in the pin cushion. With one hand Tino motioned toward the black eye while his other hand refilled Mike’s mug. “The fight.”
“No fight,” he said. His face contorted into a scowl. “Took a header off the roof. We’ve got a leak, and I can’t afford to hire someone to lay new shingles. Lost my footing. Luckily, we live in a rancher—at least until the bank forecloses and we wind up on the street—so it wasn’t that far a fall.”
“Good thing you didn’t break any bones,” I said, not believing a word of his story.
Mike’s injuries weren’t the kind he’d sustain from a fall off a roof. Black eye plus fat lip plus raw knuckles equaled fist fight. Or beating to death a woman who had fought back before she lost the battle. I chanced a quick glance across the table at Tino. His eyes told me he wasn’t buying Mike’s tale, either.
The waitress returned, and we placed our orders, a steak burger with a large order of cheese fries for Mike, a meatball Parm sub for Tino, and a turkey on rye for me.
After the waitress left, Mike downed half the beer in his mug, then said, “So about this reality show. I sure could use the job, what with one kid and another on the way.”
“We’re in the early stages of development,” I said. “Let’s start with you telling us about your former job. You worked for a magazine, right?”
“Bear Essentials.” He gulped down the remainder of the beer, then wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his well-worn denim jacket.
“Really?” I feigned surprise. “I used to subscribe to that magazine. I collect teddy bears.”
Mike snorted. “When they hired me, I thought I’d be working on a girlie magazine, not a rag about stuffed animals.”
“Yeah, I can see where you’d make that mistake,” said Tino. “What did you do there?”
“Circulation. When they folded, I figured I’d just get transferred to one of the other publications. The parent company owns dozens, and circulation is circulation. Doesn’t matter, you know? But they canned all of us. Bastards.” He grabbed the pitcher and poured himself a third beer. Tino motioned the waitress for another pitcher.
&n
bsp; “Which company?” I asked.
“Trimedia.”
“Really? Wasn’t one of their employees murdered recently?” I asked.
“Some ex-rapper skank Gruenwald was banging.”
“Gruenwald?” asked Tino.
“The CEO.” Mike sneered. “I heard he gave her a magazine to run and settled her into our office space. Now he’s got no hot pussy and no goldmine. Karma. Gotta love it, right?”
“Goldmine?” asked Tino.
“Bear Essentials. That rag pulled in huge advertising revenues. Our circulation topped two hundred thousand last year.”
“And that’s good?” I asked.
“In this economy? It’s fabulous.”
“So the CEO folded a successful magazine just to have space for his girlfriend?” I asked.
“Can you believe it? Why not fold one of the loser publications?”
“If he planned to start another magazine,” I said, “why not keep the Bear Essentials staff?”
“The bitch probably wanted to bring in her own people,” said Mike.
The waitress arrived with our meals. After she left, Mike took a huge bite out of his burger and talked around the mouthful, “Seems to me, whoever killed the skank should’ve killed Gruenwald instead. Now that would’ve been justice.”
We let Mike rant for the remainder of the hour, but the more he drank, the less intelligible information he provided. Tino had set the alarm on his phone to go off at noon. When it did, he signaled the waitress for the check.
“We need to head out to another appointment,” I told Mike.
“What about the gig?” he asked. “Do I get it? I can convince my wife to give birth on live TV if it helps. Great for ratings, right?”
I stood to leave. Tino headed over to the bar to settle the tab. “As I said, we’re first doing preliminary interviews. We’ll be in touch.”
He grabbed my hand with both of his. “I’ll do whatever you need me to do. Hell, I’ll even fall off a roof. I’ve got experience.”
I raised my eyebrows as I extricated my hands and took a step away from the table.
