by Kim Hamilton
At five o’clock, Kari put the answering service on and we peeked in on Dawson to make sure he was all right. He was putting golf balls into a coffee mug.
“How’re you doing?” Kari asked.
“Not good. I’m only sinking three out of five.”
“Not your golf game. We’re wondering how you’re doing.”
“I’m fine. Damn.” He missed another putt. “Thanks for your concern though. You two go on home.”
We headed out to the parking lot and got into our cars. The firm’s private lot had enough spaces for eight cars. This time of year, it was still light when we left. In the winter, the lot was dark and foreboding at this hour. Dawson had security lighting installed, but that illuminated the lot, not the alley leading up to the lot or the dumpster that sat at the end.
I drove an old Honda Civic that I’d owned since college. It was a dull maroon color with a dent in the rear bumper from when I backed into the dumpster—(it came out of nowhere)—and several dings and scratches of unknown origin. It wasn’t a looker, but it was reliable and paid for so it would have to do until I saved up for a new one.
I cruised down St. Paul Street toward my Fells Point neighborhood, passing the Inner Harbor, Baltimore’s crown jewel. It was home to a variety of restaurants, retail spots, and many unique attractions—The National Aquarium, the Science Center, four ships that are National Historic Landmarks, and much more. This part of town crackles with energy and life.
I worked my way down President Street to Aliceanna and found a parking spot just a short block from my home. I lived in a classic, old Baltimore row home I rented from a vintage Italian woman named Mrs. Bianco. I was not aware of her first name. Everyone called her Mrs. Bianco. All of four feet, eight inches tall with an athletic frame for a 75-year-old, she had the energy of a Hopkins lacrosse player. She’s also my next-door neighbor. In the pocket of her housecoat, she carried a nine-millimeter Smith & Wesson and was known to use it to scare away teenagers returning from the waterfront bars who had the poor judgment to urinate on our block. Her deceased husband had bought three distressed row homes back in the 60s and renovated them. They raised a family in the middle one and have always rented the adjacent two. Rumor was that the late Mr. Bianco was a “made man”—part of the Luciano Family out of New Jersey. He had earned a fortune in the casino business before he died under suspicious circumstances. On nice evenings, Mrs. Bianco sat on her front porch, wearing one of three housecoats, smoking a Tiparillo and sipping port. Tonight, however, she sat on my porch.
“Hi, Mrs. B,” I said, putting down my messenger bag and taking a seat on the step next to her.
“Jessica,” she said in her Italian accent. “You are smart lawyer, so I come to you.” Her pack of Tiparillos sat on top of a file folder spilling over with paperwork. She reached for the pack, lit up, and offered me one, which I politely declined. Then she handed me the folder and said, “It is small part of what Mr. Bianco left to me, but it is gone. All gone.”
I opened the file. It contained statements like the ones Dawson had showed us. Phony financial statements from Harvey Metzger’s firm. There were a lot of zeros. My stomach turned with outrage, my anger ignited. How could Harvey do this? How could anyone do this? My incredulity aside, the more practical side of me wondered if Mrs. B could still afford to upgrade my appliances as we had agreed when I signed the lease.
“The papers are phony, Jessica. The money is gone.”
“I know. Dawson had money invested with Metzger, too. I’m not sure there’s anything I can do for you right now. We have to let the investigators follow the money trail and see what’s left. I bet there’s a lot of people like you and Dawson who are victims. Metzger was a crook.”
“That bastard,” she said. “I’d shoot him myself if he wasn’t already dead.”
I had no doubt of this.
She reached into her housecoat, caressed her handgun, and gazed ahead.
“The world is full of bad people.” She pointed her Tiparillo at me. “Have you got a gun like I told you?”
“No. You know guns make me nervous. I need some training, but I don’t have time for that. How about you let me get a dog for protection instead?” Mrs. Bianco had a no-pet policy written into my lease.
“No dog. I teach you to shoot, no problem. My friend, Estelle, she has a shooting range out in the county. We go there. How about Saturday?”
That put me on the spot. I wasn’t sure I wanted to learn to shoot from a 75-year-old Italian mob widow. Or maybe I did.
“I’ll think about it, Mrs. Bianco. Thank you for the offer.”
I said goodbye and stepped inside my house. Crossing through the living room, I glanced out the large double window and noticed Mrs. B had vacated my porch. I passed by the powder room, took the long hallway leading to the kitchen, and climbed the stairs to my second-floor bedroom. It was a cozy home. I was still working on the décor. It was mostly IKEA Swiss-modern with a splash of yard sale and consignment treasures.
I did a quick change into my running clothes, grabbed a bottle of water, and headed back out to get some exercise. My approach to exercise was to get moving and stay moving until all the distasteful aspects of the workday were replaced by happy thoughts, or until my hair was matted with sweat. Whichever came first. I set out to walk the ten blocks to the waterfront pier where I liked to begin my run.
Heading down Caroline Street, I stopped at Aliceanna and waited for the traffic signal to turn. The number nine bus approached and slowed to a stop across the street. Looking up, I saw Delroy Johnson through the bus window. He smiled and waved at me with an abundance of enthusiasm. He mouthed something to me and pointed to another man sitting next to him who also smiled and waved at me, but appeared confused. I replied with a befuddled wave of my own. As the bus resumed its route, Delroy put his pinky finger to his mouth and his thumb to his ear—the universal sign for “call me.”
CHAPTER THREE
I was the first to arrive at the office the next day. Bailiff greeted me with a purr and a full-body stretch. He extended his front paws next to my feet, stuck his abundant butt in the air, and assumed the feline version of yoga’s downward-facing dog.
“Good morning, fatso. Let’s get you some breakfast.” He waddled behind me as I filled his bowl with a double dose of light cat food and freshened his water. I made a single serving of coffee and checked my email on my cell phone. There was a message from one of the adjusters I’d been trying to reach. Marty, Dawson, and Kari came through the back door before I could read it.
“Hey, where are the doughnuts?” Kari asked.
We were supposed to get doughnuts delivered from Dr. Pomeroy, the new doctor on Biddle Street who had stopped by a few days ago to introduce himself. “I guess he forgot.”
“Well, he sure isn’t getting off to a good start. How could he forget our doughnuts? I was all jazzed up for some icing and sprinkles. He’s one of those holistic, alternative-medicine-type docs. Seems ironic that he would be sending doughnuts instead of green smoothies and tofu, or some other healthy crap, but I didn’t want to turn him down.”
“‘Never turn down a doughnut.’ Those are words to live by,” Dawson said.
We nodded our agreement. Kari pulled a box of granola bars out of the cupboard and sat it in the middle of the table. After everyone was set up with cups of coffee, we took seats around the kitchen table and grabbed granola bars.
Dawson knew the importance of regular meetings and good communication, but he hated the formality of the conference room. It had become our custom to sit around the kitchen table and share our plans and expectations for the day. It often went something like:
Dawson: Whatcha got going on today, Jess?
Me: I’m gonna make some more money for you, Dawson. Settle a few claims, lie to an adjuster, bribe a witness, you know, the usual.
Dawson: That’s my girl. What about you, Marty. What’s going on?
Marty: I’ve got a deposition this morning, view
ing a crime scene this afternoon, and having drinks with the Mayor this evening.
Dawson: Rock and roll. What a team! Sounds like you all have everything covered. Maybe I’ll play a few holes today...
But today was different. Today the mood was somber given the death of Harvey Metzger, the loss of Dawson’s fortune, and the disappointment over the doughnuts.
“All right gang, we’ve suffered a hit. A big hit. But we need to move on and keep doing what we do best. We’ve still got enough money in the bank to continue our ad campaigns and produce the new commercial Sal talked about yesterday. It should be business as usual.”
As he spoke, Dawson dug his right hand into his pocket and pulled out a cigar. He lit it and started toking on it, blowing rancid plumes of smoke into our faces.
“Dawson!” Kari said. “That’s disgusting. Put that thing out. You aren’t supposed to smoke in the office.”
I stood up, grabbed the cigar right out of his mouth, headed out the back door across the parking lot, and tossed it into the dumpster. When I returned, Kari lit a vanilla candle, Marty turned on the fan, and Dawson sat slumped in his chair.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’ve been smoking nonstop since yesterday. I guess the stress of all that’s happened is weighing on me more than I want to admit.”
“We’re with you, Dawson. We’ll get through this together,” Marty said.
“It’s a minor setback. We’re bigger than this,” I said.
“Freakin’ A,” said Kari.
Our chat was interrupted by a pounding on the front door. It was locked. We typically didn’t open for business until eight-thirty. We adjourned, and Kari went to open the door. Lingering by her desk, I saw a pair of suits walk through the door. They adjusted their jackets, so we were sure to notice their holstered guns.
“We’re with homicide. Looking for Dawson Garner,” said the older one with salt-and-pepper-hair. He was tall, with a solid build and dark brown eyes that gave away nothing. The younger one was also tall, but skinny with red hair and freckles, like Howdy Doody in a suit.
Dawson appeared in his doorway. “I’m Dawson Garner.”
“I’m Detective O’Mallory, and this is Detective Jones,” he said pointing to Howdy Doody. “We’d like to speak with you about Harvey Metzger.”
Kari and I drew in breaths and looked at Dawson, who appeared nonchalant. “Sure detectives. Come on into my office. Would you like some coffee?”
They both declined.
“How about a cigar?” I heard him ask as they disappeared into Dawson’s office and closed the door.
Marty leaned in and lowered his voice. “Do you know who that is?”
“Who? Which one?” Kari asked.
“O’Mallory. He’s the vice cop who headed up the East Side drug bust, alongside the DEA.”
“I heard about that,” Kari said. “It was all over the news a couple of months ago.”
Why was a vice cop working a homicide case?
#
I heard sirens. Sirens are like background noise. It’s Baltimore City after all. But this time the sirens didn’t fade away. Kari and I hustled to the front door. Sure enough, there was a fire truck stopped in front of our building. It was outfitted with canvas hoses, axes, extension ladders, medical emergency equipment, and four exceptionally hot firefighters. One was a girl, but let’s give credit where credit is due.
The firefighters leaped off the truck and got busy. Each was dressed in the requisite black jacket and pants with fluorescent yellow stripes. The girl and one of the male firefighters wore sky-blue helmets that matched the oxygen tanks they carried. The third’s helmet was yellow, and the fourth’s was black. Black Helmet took the nozzle off the giant hose and ran beside our building through the narrow alley, followed by Yellow Helmet, who gathered the slack in the hose and pulled it along. The Blue Helmet girl talked on the radio. Kari and I were giddy with excitement.
“Jess, did you see them? They’re some smokin’ hot civil servants.”
“Hard not to notice. Come on, let’s check out back.” We ran through the kitchen. When we reached the back door, I stopped dead in my tracks. The cigar. The dumpster. The fire.
“Kari, I threw Dawson’s cigar in that dumpster. It might’ve still been lit. Do you think that’s why they’re here?”
“I got no doubt about that, Jess. You think you need a lawyer?” Kari laughed and opened the door. I stood behind her and watched as the calendar-worthy firefighters doused the fire I’d created. It was not long before the flames were gone.
Meanwhile, the locals had gathered to see what the excitement was all about.
“What do you say, Mark? Do you think it’s another dead body?” Yellow Helmet said to Black Helmet.
“I don’t smell burning flesh. It’s your turn to look in. You tell me.”
Yellow Helmet pulled his muscled body up to the top of the dumpster and looked inside.
“Looks like the usual, bags of trash, some boxes and a lot of shredded paper—most of it burned. We’ll have to call it in. See if the chief wants to send over an investigator.”
“Is it a dead body?” someone from the crowd called out.
“Not human if it is,” said Yellow Helmet. “You want to take a look? I’ll give you a boost.”
No reply from the anonymous voice.
Kari nudged me toward the dumpster. I was torn between confessing and keeping my mouth shut. They hadn’t asked if anyone knew what happened, so why should I volunteer an answer? Don’t ask; don’t tell. The fire’s out. No one’s hurt. Let’s get on with our day.
“Anybody see what happened?” It was the one named Mark in the black helmet. Darn him for being so thorough. Isn’t that the investigator’s job?
Kari shoved me forward. “She saw what happened.”
She kept shoving me until I was face to face with Mark. He had classic good looks—high cheekbones and a square jaw, a tan, flawless complexion, and blue eyes that danced as he smiled down at me. I was compelled against all my legal training to confess.
“I threw a lit cigar in there.”
He smiled. “Do you often smoke cigars in the morning?”
“Not usually. No.”
“Is there any reason why you didn’t extinguish it before you threw it on top of a pile of shredded documents?”
“Yes.”
“Would you like to share that with me?”
“Oh, right. What was the question?” What the hell was wrong with me? Mark had turned my mind to mush with his intoxicating smile and beckoning eyes. I needed to get a grip. Focus.
“I’m sorry officer...”
“I’m not an officer.” Still smiling, now with amusement.
“What should I call you?”
“You can call me Mark.”
“Okay... Mark. It was stupid, I know, but my boss was smoking during our morning meeting. He’s been under a lot of stress lately what with the Ponzi scheme and murder and all, so he’s taken to smoking more than usual, which I totally understand, but it’s still gross. It made me nauseous, so I took the cigar and threw it in there. I wasn’t thinking. I’m so sorry,” I said without taking a breath.
“Have you done this kind of thing before?” Still amused, he stepped even closer to me, so I had to look up into his perfect face.
“No. Of course not.”
“She set fire to the kitchen last week,” Kari chimed in. “Burnt the bejesus outta a bagel. It was a bagel blaze. Ruined the toaster.” She nodded her head toward the door to our law firm.
I gave Kari the wide-eyed, tilted head, what-are-you-doing-to-me–shut-your-mouth look.
“Not much of a cook, are you?” Mark asked.
“I’m a hellava good cook. It’s Kari’s fault that the toaster caught fire. She’s supposed to clean the crumb tray.”
Marked glanced behind us at our building. “Do you work for Dawson Garner?”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not interrogating you. Just curious.�
��
“Mark, we need to get going,” Yellow Helmet called out from the corner of the building.
“All right. I’m right behind you.” Mark gave me another smile as the fire truck’s siren revved up. He sprang into action, gathered his gear, and poof, he was gone.
“Jess, I’m sorry I mentioned the bagel blaze,” Kari said.
“I’m sorry I blamed it on you.”
“I was trying to keep the conversation going. I think that one, Mark, has a little crush on you.”
We went back inside and found Dawson, Marty, and the two detectives standing near the kitchen window.
“What the hell happened out there?” Dawson asked.
“Your cigar started a dumpster fire,” I said.
“You mean, you started a dumpster fire,” he replied. “I didn’t take my cigar anywhere near that dumpster.”
“It was all worthwhile because one of the firefighters has a crush on Jess,” Kari said.
I shoved Kari with my elbow and gave her the wide-eyed look again.
Marty said, “Are you starting fires just to find a date?”
“No!” Desperate to change the subject, I turned toward the detectives. “Do you know who killed Harvey Metzger?”
“We’ve got a few suspects. Nothing solid yet,” O’Mallory said.
As they turned to leave, Detective O’Mallory said to Dawson, “Don’t leave town.”
CHAPTER FOUR
My cell phone rang. The display showed Sharlyn’s number, but it was her boyfriend, Darnell, whose voice I heard.
“Yo. Snake wants to know what’s taking you so long on the case?” Darnell’s street name was Snake, and he had a habit of referring to himself in the third person. It was an annoying reminder of his arrogance. “When’s Snake gonna get his money?”
“It’s not your money. It’s Sharlyn’s money. And I won’t talk to you about her claim.”
“You been talking to her about other shit, like getting a job. And she won’t even get high no more!” Clearly, I was a terrible influence.
I refused to let Darnell bait me.
“Put her on the phone.”
