The Dead Detective Agency (The Dead Detective Mysteries)

by Peg Herring

  “Madison,” Tori repeated.

  In response, DeMestrie turned the car sharply, heading in a different direction. Tori was gratified when he crossed Division and headed west, eventually pulling into a parking lot beside an apartment building in a nondescript, obviously working-class neighborhood. He took the steps easily, ignoring his body’s resistance, and knocked loudly on the door of Madison’s apartment.

  “Chuck? Chuck, are you in there?”

  No answer. He knocked again and waited, clearly worried. After one more attempt, he turned away, muttering. “Gotta find the manager. Something’s wrong.”

  It took several minutes to find the man, who was behind one of the buildings with a maintenance worker, overseeing repairs to the sprinkler system. Shown Jamie’s badge, the manager willingly let him into Madison’s place.

  There was no one there. The blankets were pulled into rough order, not to U.S. Army standards, but an attempt at bed-making had been made. There were no dishes in the sink. The dishwasher was half-full of dirty plates and cups, but none of them looked like recent additions. DeMestrie spoke to the empty room. “Not sick. Not home last night. Missing.”

  Back at the station, DeMestrie tossed his keys into the proper compartment with a clatter and moved to his partner’s desk. Madison’s notes weren’t there. Jaime looked at the covers of several notebooks, muttering “Van Camp, Van Camp.” Apparently, Madison kept a separate notebook for each case, an odd but effective filing system. One notebook had, of all things, a ballerina on the cover, on pointe and graceful in shades of purple.

  Next, DeMestrie called the captain at home to report his suspicions. “Chuck was feeling sick, but he’s not at home and his cell isn’t working. I’m worried.”

  “Do you think he’s at a hospital? I mean, was he that sick?”

  “His car is gone. I suppose he might be.”

  “You think something’s happened to him?”

  “Just my gut. Chuck isn’t one to go off on the spur of the moment.”

  “No, but it is the weekend, and he’s not celibate, either. Maybe he met someone.” Tori felt a surge of disappointment at the logical but counterproductive possibility. The captain paused a moment. “Do some discreet checking. We don’t want to embarrass him.” Her voice was grim. “All the same, a cop sometimes has to trust his gut.”

  DeMestrie hung up the phone and opened a Butterfinger, which Tori figured meant he was becoming used to her presence. He sorted through Madison’s notebooks again. Still unable to locate Tori’s case, he began making notes of his own from what he remembered of the investigation. His thoughts slowly began to move in the direction Tori wanted. “If Madison is really missing, it’s probably connected.”

  Unfortunately, DeMestrie went off on a tangent that was as frustrating to Tori as it was wrong. “The girl was involved in something that got her killed.” He drew a cockeyed Venn diagram that connected Tori and Daryl Talbert in some unknown scheme. Tori was one circle, Daryl another. The point where their circles overlapped he labeled “PLK.” He added circles for Allan Cartwright, Judd Simms, and Jennise Bowdlin as well, with Jennise’s overlapping the first two, Cartwright and Simms orbiting the whole.

  “So Daryl is doing something crooked at PLK. He gets fired, but he convinces Tori to help him continue the scam. Cartwright calls PLK and learns he is no longer a client. They do away with him before he can do anything about it. Tori gets scared, probably didn’t count on anybody getting killed. They argue, and Talbert decides he has to get rid of her before she screws things up. He hires Simms to do her then helps him O.D.”

  “No!” Tori insisted.

  Staring at the diagram as his pen beat a drum-roll on the desk, DeMestrie ignored her objection, re-emphasizing the circle that included Jennise with Daryl and Tori.

  “Daryl believes he’s got it all fixed, but he gets blindsided. The office manager knows something, and she tries to blackmail him. He follows her onto the freeway and forces her into a guard rail, and finishes her off before help arrives. Now he’s got to know things are falling apart, so he kills himself.”

  “No! No! No!”

  DeMestrie finally reacted. “No, that’s not right. Guys like Talbert don’t have attacks of conscience. Somebody helped him get dead.” He rose and paced, warming to the idea. “Chuck thought there was somebody else on the inside. Yeah. The second guy would have recruited Tori. Daryl wouldn’t have known her.” He drew a circle that encompassed Tori and Daryl, labeled it A.G., and circled it again. “This Gougeon guy is the one.”

  Even as Tori fumed inside his head, she had to admit that from DeMestrie’s viewpoint, the scenario was logical. Murder victims weren’t often innocent females who stay home nights and read classic novels. Still, she repeated a distinct “No!” whenever DeMestrie put her name together in his mind with Talbert’s.

  In spite of her efforts, DeMestrie returned his pen into its faux-wooden cup with a satisfied clink. “That has to be how it went down.”

  Tori cringed at his concluding thought, that the opposing voice in his head was some weird side effect of whatever strain of flu he was battling.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Don’t Get Around Much

  Anymore

  Back in the hovel, as Seamus termed it, Chad awoke and peered outside. The day was bright and inviting, but he wasn’t the type to wax eloquent over nature or seek the warmth of the sun’s rays. He turned to the always-on TV set, pushing buttons on the remote until he found a show about work in a motorcycle shop where two men argued loudly and profanely in a way that seemed both futile and contrived. Chad grunted satisfaction and moved toward his avocado recliner. Desperate, Seamus whispered, “Beer.”

  It was ten o’clock in the morning, but the suggestion was accepted with alacrity. Chad went to the refrigerator and removed the last longneck. “More,” Seamus said firmly, but Chad ignored him, uncapping and downing half the contents in one swallow. A beer in the hand, Seamus thought disgustedly.

  He was lucky in one thing: Chad was not content with twelve ounces. When he finished, tilting the bottle almost vertical to get the last of it without taking his gaze from the TV screen, he glanced at the row of beer-less bottles beside him resentfully, as if they had emptied themselves. Finally, he sighed, pulled himself out of the chair with a grunt of effort, and made his way to the sink, where a wooden shelf at eye level contained scarred and dented canisters. Taking down the one marked Tea, Chad opened the lid and removed several crumpled bills. He put the canister back, stuffing the money into the patch pocket at the front of his overalls, and then left the house. Seamus waited as he carefully padlocked the door, pocketed the key, and closed a second padlock that secured the crooked, rusty gate of his mismatched fence. Why do guys with the least to protect expend the most effort doing it? Seamus wondered.

  Chad limped along for several blocks, his bad leg sometimes dragging on the uneven sidewalk with a rasping scrape. He squinted in irritation at the bright sunlight and talked to himself from time to time. What he said made no sense to Seamus, but it was not of much interest, either. He was pleased when a small, slightly shabby bodega came into view. There had to be people there, and any host was better than this one. Well, he corrected himself, remembering the dog and the rat, almost any host.

  He chose the woman who manned the counter at the grocery. Her petite body tensed when Seamus jumped, and her friendly manner quieted a little, as if she were suddenly very tired. Satisfied he had done as much as he could for the time being, Seamus watched as Chad shuffled out with his twenty-four pack.

  He settled in to wait.

  Tori repeated her whispered reminder each time she thought DeMestrie needed it. By noon, she had him truly worried. There was still no answer on either phone. DeMestrie looked outside, where the sun worked at drying up yesterday’s puddles. “Chuck is a competent adult who doesn’t have to report to me,” he told Madison’s desk. “He probably went away for the weekend.”

  He couldn’t ma
ke himself believe it, because Tori kept whispering, “Madison!”

  At two o’clock, DeMestrie left his office. “With all these autopsies, Parks will be in, even if it is Saturday.” When he arrived, Parks was multi-tasking, taking care of some paperwork while eating a sandwich. Beside him sat a mango Snapple.

  When Parks looked up, he snuffled what for him was a laugh. “Well, well. It’s Supercop’s partner.”

  “Uh-oh. What did Chuck do wrong?”

  The M.E. grinned, and round cheeks pushed his lower lids upward until only slits of his eyes remained. “Tell Madison next time he brings me a victim to get the name right. It helps this poor, overworked peon if the big, important policemen pay attention to the details.”

  “The corpse isn’t Daryl Talbert?”

  “Good detecting, Detective. If you guys had figured that out yesterday, I wouldn’t have had to chase all over with dental records.”

  DeMestrie put out his hands in a gesture of confusion. “The guy was in Talbert’s apartment, had Talbert’s ID on him. There was a note from Talbert saying he was going to end it. The landlady said he lived alone. I’m sure Chuck—”

  “Didn’t think,” Parks interrupted, polishing off the Snapple and tossing the bottle in the general direction of the trash can. A hollow clatter attested to his aim. “He knows better than to make an assumption like that. If it walks like a duck and looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it still could be a pigeon with a personality dysfunction.” He chuckled at his own joke.

  Having had his version of fun, Parks relented somewhat. “Okay. The face was gone, and the corpse is the right size and age. Somebody wanted us to think it was Talbert.”

  DeMestrie nodded thoughtfully. “What better way to get yourself off the hook in a murder investigation than to be dead, even for a few days? Until the mistake was discovered, nobody would look for the guy on trains and planes leaving GR.” Tori sensed the detective’s increased focus, a sense this case want deeper than he had imagined. “So who’s the corpse?”

  “Don’t know yet. He’s been living rough, maybe a street bum. Obvious drug use.”

  “Talbert was tight with Judge Simms, the dead pusher,” Jaime informed him. “Could be one of Simms’ clients.”

  Parks nodded. “Convenient for a stand-in when Talbert needed to get away.” He belched and rubbed several of his massive chins absently. “Without my eagle eye and keen mind, it might have been a while before anybody realized the body in Talbert’s apartment wasn’t Talbert.”

  DeMestrie raised both hands in genial submission as he backed toward the door. “I’ll admit it. Without you, Parks, the whole department would be lost.” He added softly after he was in the hallway, “And life around here would be ice cold without your cheerful personality.”

  On the sidewalk, he stopped, piecing the new information together with what he already knew. “Talbert fakes his death, murders some poor derelict to buy himself time. I need to find Old Daryl.”

  “Yes!” Tori whispered in his head, thrilled with his deduction. Daryl Talbert was now a person of interest, and as soon as DeMestrie phoned the captain at home again, he’d also be the subject of a city-wide search.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  You’re No Good

  Seamus found his new host every bit as frustrating as the former one, but for different reasons. Selina was the opposite of Chad in most ways, friendly, happy, and outgoing, but her thoughts were in Spanish, as was most of her conversation. He was at a distinct disadvantage there, his fluency in that language being limited to ordering a beer and adding a polite por favor to it.

  The woman was in constant motion, attacking any sign of dust or disarray in the cramped little store with determined zeal. She spritzed the glass counters with lemony liquid and rubbed them until they shone. Then she arranged the shelves so products were attractively displayed to the fore. During all this, she kept up a happy chatter with the customers, the gist of which Seamus sensed more than understood: a mixture of teasing, gossip, and discussion of weather prospects.

  Seamus spent the rest of the workday in the little store. Customers came and went, but they offered no hope of connecting with anyone he wanted to contact, and he couldn’t afford to take a chance he’d drift even farther from PLK and Tori. There was nothing to do but wait. Again.

  At three p.m., Selina’s shift ended. With a cheerful goodbye to her replacement, she gathered her things, pulled a baseball cap over her unruly curls, and left. She took an easterly direction, her flip-flops slapping the sidewalk softly. Her course caused Seamus concern. From what he could tell, the police station was in the opposite direction.

  Seamus understood little of what went through Selina’s mind. As she approached a bus stop, however, her mood became dark. He thought she was afraid, and he heard, El perro, in her thoughts, which he recalled was “dog.” The girl was afraid of dogs?

  The “dog” that Selina dreaded turned out to be a repulsive copper wire of a man who appeared to be waiting for her. Seamus felt the woman recoil at the sight of him on the bench seat that ran parallel to the midsection of the bus. Dressed in faded camo, he had pulled his thinning hair into a ponytail at the back of his neck. He was thin to the point of emaciation, but hard muscle ran like cable along his arms and legs. The leer he displayed in an attempt at charm was unfortunate, since it revealed brown, rotten teeth, and the pasty color of his skin indicated a diet lacking in most of the recommended daily allowances of vitamins and minerals.

  Selina set her lips, squared her shoulders, and boarded the bus. The man patted the seat beside him invitingly, but she ignored the gesture and chose one as far away as possible. At the first stop, a woman got off and the Dog, with a challenging grin, moved into the seat directly in front of her. Selina lowered her face and examined her hands, trying to shut out both the intruder’s stare and the stink of sweat that accompanied him.

  “So, did the senorita have a good day at work?” His voice resonated lower than the scrawny body indicated.

  She made no answer, but warmth spread through her face as Seamus felt her fear. He got the word huir more than once, and from the tension in her body each time the bus slowed to a stop, he deduced she was considering an escape. The man only grinned wider, obviously aware and ready to follow.

  Most of the passengers seemed unaware of the drama that played before them. One middle-aged woman frowned disapprovingly at the Dog, but he gave her a threatening glare. Surprisingly, she lifted her strong chin and brandished her umbrella malevolently. The man’s gaze flickered, and he went quiet.

  As Selina watched the road ahead, Seamus guessed she had eluded the man before by getting off the bus while his way was blocked by other passengers. No doubt she hoped to hide in a nearby building until he gave up the chase.

  The man might not be an actual threat, but he frightened the girl all the same. If he did intend harm, it was only a matter of time until he caught her alone.

  Selina’s legs tensed, ready to disembark as soon as the doors opened. Brushing past those lined up to exit, she hurried down the steps and scanned the area for a place of safety and headed into the nearest doorway, a restaurant. A glance behind her revealed the Dog, calmly leaving the bus as if unaware of her flight.

  The restaurant consisted of a long counter on the right and a row of booths on the left. Ignoring the buzz of conversation and the clink of clean dishes being loaded into their proper places, Selina hurried down the aisle, looking for an alternative exit. At the back was a staircase where a sign said, Restrooms. She took the stairs, gripping the post at the bend halfway down to keep her balance, and headed for the door marked Ladies. It was locked. Selina turned, her eyes wide with fear. Along with her, Seamus saw the Dog standing at the base of the steps, blocking her way, his mud-colored grin wider than before.

  “I ain’t gonna hurt you,” he crooned. “Just want to get to know you better.”

  The hallway was a narrow box, dim because two of the three overhead lights had bu
rnt-out bulbs no one had bothered to replace. Selina’s nose wrinkled involuntarily at the faint odor of mildew, and water stains on the carpeted floor testified to some long-ago flooding. Seamus agreed with her mute assessment. A nasty place. And the nasty man had her trapped.

  The Dog moved closer, and the woman trembled. Up close, he was even more disgusting. His breath was warm and fetid, his clothes smelled of old cigarettes, sweat, and worse. Flakes of dandruff lay on his shoulders and salted his dark hair. Then there was the grin, the decayed teeth no worse than the mental decay revealed in its eager anticipation.

  Seamus made his decision, and two things happened simultaneously. Selina’s body lifted, as if she had been relieved of a weight. At the same moment, the Dog’s grin faded and his face took on a look of shock. His whole body sagged, and his eyes flickered in panic, as if he had been attacked but couldn’t tell from where.