The Violet Crow (2 page)

“After two weeks with no leads, the County Task Force had no choice but to walk away. ‘It's up to Gardenfield now,' our confidential source told us. ‘We've got bigger fish to fry—and more of them—in Camden.'”

Mayor Dove swiveled angrily to face the Chief. “It's almost like she thinks we should have more murders here, just to even things out.”

“Politics,” said Chief Black. “Camden wants the suburbs to supply more of their funding. In our meetings, that's all they talk about. They'll say anything …”

“But Peaches doesn't have to print it. Here's the capper …” He picked up the paper and resumed reading:

“Although we've always supported Mayor Dove's administration in the past, the Quaker Killing is causing us to rethink our position. Something's going to have to change, and we have a few suggestions.
Get harder.
Be more diverse and hire people with experience with modern urban crime.
Get smarter.
Bring in the latest technology—DNA sampling, surveillance drones, and Big Data. Or
get creative.
A psychic was instrumental in apprehending the infamous Mainline Monster. Shouldn't we bring a psychic here to help us find the Quaker Killer and bring him to justice?”

Chief Black was finally provoked. “This is ridiculous. We have plenty of diversity on the force. We've got Michelle Coxe and Nancy O'Keefe who are female … and then there's Gary … Officer Malone, who is … you know. But that's not why I hired them.”

“I know. I know,” sighed the Mayor, who had been through this speech from Chief Black countless times. “Forget diversity. Drones, DNA testing, data mining? I don't know what they're smoking over there. What do you propose to do about this?”

The Chief wasn't sure if “this” meant solving the crime or responding to the criticism in the editorial. “It has never made sense to hire a full-time detective in Gardenfield. The truth is, we're not staffed properly for this type of violent crime. I'm the only one who has experience running a murder investigation.”

Mayor Dove pulled at his fleshy right earlobe; his normally slack expression now showed signs of extreme effort. He was in a tight spot, he realized, but with clarity of thought and a little ingenuity, things could work to his advantage. “I want you to hire that psychic detective.”

The Chief looked startled. “You're kidding.”

“No. Why would I joke about something like that?”

“A psychic's a waste of time and money. I was hoping you'd agree to hiring a detective, because …”

The Mayor cut him off. “We don't need a detective. You said you've got experience. If we hire the psychic we'll have both, a regular detective and a psychic one, for the same price.”

The Mayor swiveled in his chair so Chief Black couldn't see him beaming. “Old P.C. gave us an out. All we have to do is follow her recommendation; we'll give a press conference saying we're responsive to the community so we're hiring the psychic. Will it really work? I doubt it. But it'll buy us time. We can distract P.C. with updates on the psychic's progress. She just wants good copy. We'll give her as much access to the psychic as she wants. That'll give you the breathing room you need to solve this crime as quickly as possible. And you better get it done … as quickly as possible. Do I make myself clear?”

The Chief was too surprised to counter effectively. “So you want me to hire this psychic, but then ignore what he or she says and just investigate in the normal way?”

The Mayor swiveled around to face the Chief. “I think we understand each other.”

Chapter 3

The borough of Gardenfield is home to some 35,000 peaceful souls nestled in the friendly confines marked by Tiny's Package Store to the north, the J. Kilmer Pub to the east, Lillian's Tavern to the south, and the Tiki Lounge to the west. A Philadelphia suburb, it is a prosperous community with colonial roots and a variety of pretensions, including a prohibition on the sale of alcoholic beverages within Gardenfield proper. In fact, thirsty Gardenfielders simply have to drive past the town limits on any of the major roads, in order to enjoy a beer or a cocktail.

Buddy Black was not a drinking man by habit. Nor was he averse to dropping by a tavern from time to time, to see what the locals were up to and let off some steam after work. Tonight he made a beeline for Lillian's. It had been a while. Lillian greeted him at the door. Rail thin and dyed blond, she appeared to be in her 60s and to subsist on nothing but whisky, cigarettes, and conversation. She welcomed Buddy with a hug. “Hi, hon. Nice to see you again. She's expecting you.”

“How could she be expecting me? I only decided to come here 10 minutes ago.”

“We read the papers, too, y'know.”

“I'm that predictable …?” The Chief freed himself from Lil's embrace and headed for the bar. “Daisy, did you really know I'd come here tonight?”

The woman behind the bar was dressed in tight jeans and a low-cut flower-print top. She was busy polishing a wine glass, and didn't look up until she'd finished her task. Then she flashed a smile that was warmer than Lil's rather spectral hug. “Buddy! I haven't seen you since—what?—Bay of Pigs. It's about time you came to see me.” Without asking she opened a bottle of Rolling Rock and set it down in front of the Chief.

Daisy Fuentes was a second-generation Cuban. Her parents fled the island when Fidel took over, and she grew up in Miami as part of the exile community that lived for the death of the dictator. A busted marriage left Daisy stranded in South Jersey, but it didn't seem to get her down. A tropical personality and a generous figure meant there were always men who wanted to be her friend. At one time, she and Bud Black had dated rather seriously. But Daisy finally decided he was one of those men who might be on the rebound from his divorce—permanently—and had tried to let him down as gently as possible.

Buddy took a short swig of his Rolling Rock. “Bay of Pigs is ancient history. I really came to tell you that you look fabulous as always.”

Daisy ignored the flattery and got straight to the point. “How's your love life, Buddy? You got any good prospects?”

The Chief blushed, but only for a moment. “Funny you should mention it. That's why I came here tonight. I have a proposal for you.”

“You wanna get married all of a sudden? I thought you were waiting for your ex-wife to realize the error of her ways.”

“She's strictly pre-revolution, Batista-era goods, I'm happy to say.” He took another sip. “I've got something else in mind. I want you to come to work for me.”

Without missing a beat, Daisy called out across the room, “Hey Lil, he's offering me a job!”

Lil made a dismissive gesture, like someone swatting a fly. “Tell him to go lock himself in jail.”

“What would I do at the police station? I couldn't arrest nobody. I can't type …” Daisy proudly displayed her inch-long nails, painted bougainvillea in contrast with her rich brown skin. “I have to say it'd be fun hanging around all day with you, Buddy. And that guy, Harry, who works for you, he's a load of laughs with his computers. The other one. What's his name, with all the muscles?”

“Corporal Herman Henderson, mostly known as Biff.”

“Biff's a hunk, you know, but his conversation is … limited. So my top choices are Gary and Randy. Both are very charming. But Randy I think is in love with his cars. So I choose Gary. He's the only one who's not white. You should be proud of him …”

The Chief took this in stride. He knew his role was to be the straight man. “I am proud of Gary. I'm also proud of our women officers, Michelle and Nancy, and Debbie, our dispatcher. You didn't say anything about them.”

Daisy giggled and turned to polish an imaginary spot on the bar.

The Chief refused to let Daisy off the hook. “The women? You have an opinion, I want to hear it.”

“Yeah, OK,” she pouted. “I'm not going to stand here and pretend I like women as much as I do men. Why should I?” She gestured around the bar. There were guys drinking and talking. Playing bar shuffleboard, watching TV. The women there were with dates who would've been there by themselves if they hadn't tagged along. “Counting up boys and girls is your problem, not mine.” She put the wine glass away, rather too vigorously, and grabbed another. “You were right, Lil,” she called across the bar. “He's here because of what that Cromwell lady said in the paper.” She turned back to the Chief. “So you think maybe a hot Latina like Daisy Fuentes could add some salsa to the mix?”

“You're reading my mind.”

“I'm a little bit insulted,” Daisy said.

The Chief shrugged.

“I want to be hired for my talent, not my skin,” she continued. “I work hard and don't want any handouts.”

“That's why I'm offering you a job.”

For the first time Daisy realized maybe he was serious. “Buddy, I couldn't do that. Not after what we …”

“I just want you to think about it …”

She put down the wine glass and moved closer. “Boy, they really got to you this time, huh?” She took his hand. “You're no racist. I know that. Everyone who knows you has a lot of respect.”

The Chief leaned forward and lowered his voice. “It's this murder. People's nerves are starting to fray. Mayor Dove laid it on pretty thick.”

“He's a pol-i-ti-cian.” She let go of his hand and waved a finger, like a reed blowing in the wind. “I know this town, Buddy. Your job isn't as easy as it looks. It's not dangerous like Miami, but we got the high-speed train that brings in all the filth from Philly and Camden. Then there's the racetrack, the casinos down the shore, drunks, divorcees and everybody else. I talk to 'em every day.”

The Chief felt he was making headway. “The tough part is dealing with all these prosperous people who are used to giving orders. They're bossy and obnoxious. It requires quick thinking, diplomacy and tact to successfully keep the peace in this town. You don't worry about getting shot so much as stabbed in the back.”

Daisy straightened up and poured a scotch and water for another customer. “You're right,” she said. “Working for you doesn't sound like very much fun.” She came around to the Chief's side of the bar and gave him a playful hug.

He hugged her back, but it was not at all playful. “Want to get together later? What time do you get off work?”

She tried to push away, but he held her around the waist, as if they were dancing. “Poor boy, you feelin' sad tonight? Think maybe Daisy can cheer you up?”

The Chief released her immediately. He already regretted asking.

Daisy let him off the hook. “I can't tonight, Buddy. I got a big job offer I gotta think about.”

It was half past six when Chief Black drove back through town. As he passed the police station, he spotted a barefoot teenager across the street, about to enter the Lenape King. Here was the town in a nutshell. The kid's friends called him Icky and he came from a well-to-do family; his father was a surgeon with a lousy temper, but his mother made up for it with a sweet, understanding nature. Despite these “advantages,” Icky'd become involved in the acquisition, use and occasional redistribution of methamphetamine. He'd never finished high school and was lucky to have a menial job doing custodial work and after-hours security at the Lenape King, the colonial tavern that was the town's prized architectural monument.

Coincidentally, Icky and several of his friends all had red hair and appeared to be trying to set up a meth lab. Chief Black called them “The Red Headed League.” He felt it was downright considerate of the little crank heads to make it so easy to keep tabs on them. Biff and Gary had the League under surveillance, waiting for an opportunity to catch them red-handed.

It was time-consuming work, and the Chief felt his resources were overtaxed already. Now he had a problematic murder to solve. And, worse, the Mayor expected him to babysit some psychic and keep the parasites at the
Pest
at bay while he did it. “Daisy's right,” he muttered. “Being a cop in Gardenfield isn't easy and it certainly isn't fun.”

Chapter 4

The psychic wasn't what the Chief expected.

He was dressed in a black Vestimenta suit and white shirt with no tie. Classy Italian duds, but about 10 years old and showing obvious signs of wear. He was less than average height and slightly overweight—typical for a guy in his late 30s or early 40s who didn't do much manual work. With thick dark hair, brown eyes and glasses with metal frames, he had the look of one of those orthodox Jews from Brooklyn, except he didn't have a beard and he wasn't wearing a hat.

Chief Black greeted him personally and began to show him to a room they'd prepared for him. He tried a mild pleasantry to break the ice. “We hope we got the
feng shui
right for your purposes …” The room was dark with a comfortable chair, incense holders, and other new-age paraphernalia.

“
Feng shui, shmeng fui
,” the psychic scoffed. “You should know, I can't tolerate incense. And who wants to sit in the dark? Let's go in your office. You can test me there.”

“Test you?”

“Sure. Don't you want to find out if I really have psychic powers?”

The Chief said something lame about trusting the people who recommended him, then hated himself for saying it.

The psychic nodded and pointed toward the Chief's office. “OK. I get the picture. Shut the door please. Thank you. So you don't want to test my powers …? You say you believe me …? That's baloney! You don't care. You think I'm a
shnorrer
, a con man, a fake … But it was the newspaper lady's idea—what's her name, Cromwell, the one with the cute little
tuchus
?—to use a psychic, and you think I'm gonna do something that'll make her look stupid. Am I right?”