His indictment shot out like a bullet straight into my heart. My mind scrambled for the source of his information. Only one name came to mind. Starr had just showed his hand, and it included the jack of spades. “Is that what you are? A copper?”
“Have something against members of law enforcement?”
“I’m a pushover when it comes to good-looking men with big guns.”
“How big?” His eyes were all over me, the same way his hands had been all over me.
“Knowing how dangerous I am, you followed me anyway. Why?”
“Have I been following you?”
I had misjudged him. He wasn’t just a good kisser. And he was far from harmless. Could be he was a cop. Maybe even a detective on the force, though how his name escaped me was a mystery. Either way, there was more to Starr showing up in this hotel room, on this day, at this time than being a salaried flatfoot for Chicago’s finest. “You’re working for somebody. That’s why you’re here. You’re the damage control.”
He nodded toward the corpse. “Speaking of big guns ... it would be a neat trick for our friend to shoot himself pointblank between the eyes with a .38.”
A man capable of gauging the caliber of a bullet lodged in the brain of a corpse was a man to be admired. “An even neater trick to toss the gun out the window before arranging himself on the bed and breathing his last without getting the linens bloodied.”
Starr glanced at the chair where Byrnes’s clothes were carefully stacked. “Must be a persnickety man.”
“Or henpecked.” Judging by the cut, color, and quality of his suit, Richard Byrnes must have been a boring man with boring tastes. “It’s plain as day, Starr. He was killed someplace else and dumped here.”
“Think so? Or know so?”
I couldn’t help myself. I had something to prove. His kisses were one thing. Insinuating that I emasculated cops was another. But his swagger was downright insulting. “Whoever killed him didn’t want to leave any evidence behind. He ... or she ... rolled him up in a carpet and transported here.”
“What kind of carpet?”
I hesitated at first, but he already saw the evidence. The fiber he found in the palm of my hand wasn’t just any kind of fiber. “Turkish,” I said.
“What part of Turkey?”
“Kula. Western Anatolia.” I picked up another fiber from the bed and held it up. “Like I said, his body is covered with them.”
He tugged at the legs of his slacks and perched his hard ass on the edge of the dresser. “I’d go with your theory, except for one thing. Doesn’t look like he’s been dead for very long.”
“You got a whiff of him,” I said. “He’s been dead for twelve, thirteen hours.”
He registered doubt with a guttural chuff. He was egging me on, trying to squeeze out as much information as possible. As it was, I’d already given away too much but figured the county coroner would tell him the same thing.
“Notice the eyelids, Starr? Face, jaw, neck? The muscles are relaxed. The rest of his body is in rigor.”
Starr was distracted by something outside. He approached the window and shouldered the casement above his head. “And?”
“Rigor mortis had time to set in before reversing, which puts the time of death around midnight last night. Are you listening to me, Starr?” I shoved him aside and cast my eyes to street level. “One more thing. During the first few hours after death, he was turned onto his stomach.”
“Kinky.”
“No,” I said patiently. “Removed from the scene of the crime and transported here.”
We stood arm to arm, hands braced on the windowsill. The air was thick with diesel exhaust. The din of street noise roared like a distant train. Delivery trucks and garbage dumpsters occupied both sides of the service alley. A Ford Woody crept out of the shadows, shifted into third gear, spurted to the end of the alley, and waited for traffic to clear before swinging onto LaSalle Street.
“Is the color of that station wagon black or blue?”
He shifted his weight and leaned close. “Green. Forest green.”
“Illinois plates or Indiana?”
“Wisconsin,” he said, pulling me into a clinch. His lips descended onto mine. When the kiss ended, he rolled back on his heels and looked at me askance. “Was that as hot for you as it was for me?”
“Hotter.”
“Want to get a hotel room?” He glanced at his surroundings. “One with a little more privacy?”
“I’m not that kind of girl.”
He eyeballed me with skepticism. “I’m sticking with the bimbo theory.”
“And I’m standing by the wife hypothesis.”
Chuckling, he released me, reached up, and dragged the window shut. “Guess I’ll have to read all about it in the evening edition.” The city silenced like the tail end of a whiplash.
When you live in a big city, noise becomes your constant companion, an underlying thrum and constant beat, yet silent. Only in its absence do you hear what’s been present all along. In the muffled stillness of the hotel room, where a dead man lay naked on a queen-size bed, quiet rang out like a tomb sealing shut. Something clicked in my mind. “You know something I don’t know.”
The serious set of his mouth belied the casual tone of his response. “Maybe I do, and then again, maybe I don’t.”
“If you think you can stop me from doing my job, think again.”
His brow compressed. He removed the fedora and twirled it between his hands. “If you get your exclusive, Grenadine, then what? Think it’ll make you a hero? Think your editor will be so impressed, he’ll promote you to the investigative ranks?”
His words struck a nerve. Since starting with the paper, I’d been overlooked and underappreciated. Told to go home and play with my dolls. Propositioned with the wrong kind of proposals. Taken for granted as just another one of the guys ... or a little sister ... or an easy lay. Most of the time, though, I’d been ignored. I met his laughing eyes and scowled.
“Sure. You’ll hurry back to the office and write your story. Lay out the facts according to the Chicago Manual of Style; make it believable with stirring prose; stand up for the weak and expose the powerful; and mix in a little indignation for good measure. And then your editor will kill it. If he doesn’t kill it, someone up the chain of command will. Know why? Because the integrity of the fourth estate is always muddied by politics. Elected official, titular head, low-level bureaucrat, functionary clerk, or no-name manager of the Department of Whatever, it doesn’t matter how high or how low, the system will fight back ... and win. In this case, you’re the one who’ll get hurt.”
He was only saying what I already knew, but to hear it said out loud was a jolt to the ego. Starr had reduced me to a little girl holding onto a lollipop for courage. “You know my boss?”
“Don’t have to. And don’t think he’ll kill the story because you’re a woman. He’ll kill it because it would upset the status quo.”
Hands clutched at my back, I toed the carpet, afraid to look into Starr’s eyes, afraid of the derision I’d see there. But when I peered up, there was only understanding in his expression. I could have kissed him. Instead, I nodded toward the corpse. “Is it possible for it to stay up like that?”
“Thought you would have known.” Starr turned pink around the ears. Propriety and a man’s natural embarrassment of referring to male genitalia in front of an attractive woman made him stammer. “Sudden, unexpected violence can excite a man enough to ....” He didn’t have to say more.
“Someone should push it down,” I said. “For his wife’s sake. So she can sleep nights.”
“I don’t think she’ll give a crap, especially when she finds out her hubby bought it in the company of a blonde bombshell. Besides, it’d be tampering with evidence.”
“We can’t just leave him like that.”
“Oh yes, you can.” Starr hadn’t said those four words. Another speaker with a familiar voice had.
Chapter 4
/> THE INTERLOPER FILLED the doorway. Roughly thirty, he didn’t care much about his appearance. His suit hung off him like next week’s dry cleaning. Morning coffee stained his shirt. His tie was crooked. His five-o’clock shadow was approaching midnight, and his dark eyes burned. But when he ran those same smoldering eyes over me, they melted into dark chocolate candies with creamy centers.
“Why if it isn’t Detective Pennyroyal,” I said. “Homicide dick of the Sixteenth Precinct.”
The homicide squad swarmed into the hotel room. Starr made his way out, nodded discreetly in Pennyroyal’s direction, and sauntered down the corridor. He moved like a dancer. Long legs, fluid gait, swaggering carriage. I wondered who the hell he was, what he was after, and how he was connected to Pennyroyal. Before the day was out, I’d uncover the answer to at least one of those questions.
I peeled my eyes away from his departing back and glared at Pennyroyal. “You two know each other?” I asked.
He clamped a fist around my arm and steered me into the hall, banging the door shut in his wake.
Pennyroyal was bullying me just like he bullied everybody else, and I told him so. “You’re just a bully.”
Dark hair tumbled over his furrowed brow. His temper was at breaking point, but he managed to hold in his anger even while his jaw was grinding. “Bully, did you say?” He stared at me from the top of my hair to the tips of my toes. He had a way of undressing me that made me blush.
“A big, ugly, arrogant brute of a bully.”
His smirk was insolent. He still had a solid grip of my arm. We stared each other down. I could see his mind weighing several alternatives: send me off with a pat to my ass; sling me across his lap and give me a spanking; or kiss me until I begged for mercy. Instead, he ripped away my shoulder bag, slapped me flat against the wall, and pinned me there. “Put your hands above your head.”
“The hell I will,” I said, struggling to break free.
“If you don’t cooperate, doll face, I’m going to have to take you in for questioning.”
I stopped struggling. “You wouldn’t dare,” I growled.
“Try me.” He meant it. The second hand of his watch ticked in my ear. I was stubborn. He was immovable. He intended to keep me pinned like a fly on a board until I cooperated. I lifted my arms.
He chuckled. “Higher.”
I muttered under my breath and reached for the sky.
He chuckled again and kicked out my feet. “Comfortable?” It was an ungainly position, knees locked and fingers doing pushups on the wall. My heart began to pound. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. He started to frisk me.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I sputtered.
“My job.” He ran his hands up and down my legs, methodically searching for contraband. The only contraband I carried was silk stockings and high heels.
“You’re patting me down?”
“Looking for the murder weapon.” His voice was cool. Collected. Vindictive.
“You’re not serious,” I said, my voice tight with rage.
“Damned serious.” He chuckled a third time. “Besides, I love it when you get angry.” He transitioned his search in an upward trajectory, manhandling me, probing, trespassing in extremely private places, and yet being clinical, like a doctor. Except he wasn’t a doctor. He was a cop with attitude.
I glared at him over my shoulder. “You’re scum, Pennyroyal. Slime. A royal bastard.”
“My mother tells me the same thing.”
“She would know.”
He chuckled yet again and completed the pat down according to the police handbook. Professionally, detached, missing nothing, mean as hell.
“You ... you’re treating me like ... like a common criminal.”
“Saying you’re not?”
Then and there, I decided I was going to get him for this. I was going to make him pay. It might take a while, but he was going to be sorry he messed with Iris Grenadine. “Finished yet?”
“Enjoying myself too much.”
His hands came away. He retrieved my pocketbook, rifled through the contents, and made an inventory. “Compact, lipstick, wallet, cash, keys, gum, mascara, checkbook, pencils, pen, Tampons, Kleenex, paper clip, nail file, condom ...”
I swore under my breath.
“... Tootsie Rolls, mints, aspirin, comb, floss, change purse, extra pair of nylons, spiral notebook ....” He flipped through the pages. “Writing a book, Grenadine?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.” I smoothed out the wrinkles he had ironed into my clothes.
“Okay,” he said, stuffing the notebook back into my purse. “Guess you’re not carrying ... except for the condom.”
“It’s not mine,” I said, narrowing my eyes.
“Yeah, sure, you’re just keeping it for a friend.” He cupped my chin, lifted it to the perfect kissing angle, and planted a smooch on my lips. “Just doing my job, doll face. Shouldn’t take it so personal.”
I used my sleeve to wipe the smooch off my mouth. “Feeling me up is as personal as it gets.”
“Anyone discovered at the scene of a crime usually makes them a suspect.” His smile was smug. He nudged his head in the direction of the hotel room. “So what did you find out?”
It wasn’t the first time he pumped me for information on one of his cases. Damned if I’d give him the satisfaction. “Every Thursday afternoon,” I said. “Your wife Libby.”
Amused, he smiled. It was a winning smile accompanied by slightly crooked teeth, angelic dimples, cleft chin, and sober eyes. “Police Lieutenant Libertine Pennyroyal?”
“And Joe Trueblood,” I said.
The sober eyes clouded. “What about my ex-partner?”
“He’s getting it on with the mother of your future children.”
The winning smile turned down. “Uh-huh ....”
“At a motel near Midway Airport.”
The angelic dimples flattened. He shrugged off his sports coat, meticulously folded it backwards along the spine, and hoisted it over his shoulder by a finger, exposing a yellow sweat stain beneath his armpit. He was built like a skyscraper: solid foundation, sturdy underpinning, flexible joists, private rooftop deck, and two search beacons on constant lookout. If only he would power wash the exterior occasionally, he might attract members of the opposite sex, including Mrs. Pennyroyal. “I know exactly where my wife is Thursday afternoons.”
“Between three and five?”
He wasn’t amused anymore.
“And you call yourself a dick.” I shuffled back toward the hotel room.
He grabbed a wrist and hauled me against his washer-board chest. Anger hardened his eyes, creased the corners of his mouth, and pinched his nostrils.
I glared at his fist. “You’re interfering with my First Amendment rights.”
His voice was constricted with barely contained wrath. “And you’re interfering with a homicide investigation.” He opened his hand.
“Tell me,” I said, reaching for his tie and pushing the knot against his Adam’s apple. “Who had it in for Byrnes?”
Sexual tension had replaced wrath. He curled a finger through a lock of my hair. “The murderer is a jealous husband.”
“If I were you, I’d look for a blonde.”
“We’ll find a skirt, all right.” His lips closed in on mine. “And when we track down the hubby she cheated on, we’ll have our shooter.” He was about to deliver on the promise of a kiss when a bodacious brunette sauntered our way, hips swinging and boobs jiggling.
“Oh, isn’t this too cozy for words,” she said. “Is Iris the prime suspect?” A year older than me and pleasingly plump, Monica Seagraves was shrouded from head to toe in black, better to hide all those candy bars, donuts, and muffins. A picture hat flopping over one brazen eye lent an air of mystery. Like me, she was a beat reporter for the Daily Standard. She’d already beaten me out of more than one scoop.
After licking the end of a flashbulb and screwing it into the soc
ket of her Brownie Hawkeye camera, she said, “Excuse me,” and sashayed into the hotel room. Immediately upon entering, the flashbulb popped.
I turned to follow her inside. Pennyroyal dragged me back and sent me packing with a pat on my derrière.
“Why does she get squatting rights?”
“Unlike you, she’s a real reporter.”
“Oh, I get it. She’s here to whitewash the story,” I said, winking. “Are you sleeping with her, too?”
“Out of here, before I really lose my temper.” He sauntered into the hotel room, slammed the door in my face, and turned the bolt.
Chapter 5
DURING THE DAY, the Lakeshore Room of the Harmon House Hotel offered a menu of quick meals and cold beverages served on linen-covered tables by stern waiters who spoke in clipped monosyllables. By night, the cavernous room served up everything high: society, rollers, and times. The stage was large enough to accommodate a band, a grand, and two mammary glands. The dance floor was spacious enough for doing the jitterbug and the swing.
Since it was early in the day, the only person on stage was the piano tuner, just finishing up. A sprinkling of patrons dotted several tables, but otherwise the room yawned like a clamshell on a bed of lettuce. The racetrack-shaped bar was doing a so-so business. The lighting was smudgy, the air was blue, and the walls buzzed with whispered conversations and phony laughter.
I parked on a swivel stool and slapped my arms down on the brass-railed bar. Wearing a barbershop vest, burgundy shirt, and black bowtie, the bartender flicked his Brylcreem pompadour in my direction. Familiar with my usual, he prepared an extra-dry martini, added several pimento-stuffed Spanish olives, and carried the drink to my station. “Look done in,” he said.
“You don’t know the half of it, Sam.”
He shoved off to make three middle-aged business types happy. They puffed smoke in my direction and guffawed the way outsiders do when set down in the center of a swinging metropolis. The barkeep glanced in my direction and raised his eyebrows. The brown-suited powder puffs confided in him with winks and finger gestures. The one with the pink carnation stuck in his lapel waved jovially in my direction. I waved back in the negative. He stuffed a sawbuck into Sam’s breast pocket anyway. From here on out, the drinks were on him. Didn’t matter how earnestly my bartending friend tried to set the record straight, the conventioneers had already convinced themselves I was a hooker. For years, they’d remember the Chicago chippy that had taken them for a drink or two and never gave them a second look.
The Green-Eyed Dick Page 3
