Acts of Violets (20 page)

But it wouldn’t be easy to get Morgan’s help on a sticky case like this one. So what clever ploy could I use?

Lottie’s words flashed through my mind.
“Figure out what it will take to get those fellas on your team and go after them.”

I checked the time. Almost noon. Greg always left the courthouse at midday to grab a bite to eat. Hmm. I toyed with a button on the mint green shirt I’d paired with my dark blue jeans. Maybe it was time to bring back the bimbo. In fact, she and I were both feeling like a juicy sandwich at Rosie’s Diner would be just the thing.

T
o reach the prosecutors’ offices on the courthouse’s second floor, I had to either take the ancient elevator that groaned and trembled as if a few circus elephants had climbed aboard, or use the wide center staircase (allowing me an extra helping of chocolate yogurt that evening—if I remembered to buy some). So I took the stairs—a no-brainer—then strolled into the prosecutors’ outer office as though I didn’t have a care in the world. There I encountered Kirby, the snobbish, semi-efficient receptionist-typist shared by all five deputy prosecutors.

Miss Blue Tints, as I liked to call her, was a nasal-voiced, thirty-something woman who favored tight pencil skirts and sweaters, and tiny, titanium-framed glasses with blue lenses, which she had a habit of peering over when she talked to people. She also liked to pretend she didn’t recognize me. It was a game we played.

She sat at her desk tapping away at the keyboard with her inch-long, white-tipped fingernails, her gaze fixed on the monitor. I stood facing her on the other side of the desk, a pleasant smile pasted on my face. Let the game begin.

“Hi, Kirby. Is Greg Morgan in?”

Without glancing up she said, “Who shall I tell him is here?”

“Well, let’s see. There’s you—and there’s me—and since you’ve probably already seen him today, then I guess that leaves me.”

Scowling at me, Kirby pushed a button on her phone and spoke into the receiver in a hissy voice, “That florist is here to see you.” She listened a moment, then hung up. Turning back to her computer, she said snippily, “Mr. Morgan will see you now.”

I didn’t even bother to hide the gloat as I sashayed past her and tapped on Morgan’s door.

“Come in.”

Antiquated and cramped, Morgan’s small office had stacks of files everywhere—on filing cabinets, spilling out of boxes, sitting on an old wooden chair in front of a beat-up old desk—and no matter how many cases he disposed of, the stacks never shrank.

“Hi,” I said with a little wave, leaning through the doorway.

“Abby! Great to see you. Come in.” He got up and stepped over piles to greet me, his gaze instantly dropping to the open front of my shirt as he took my hand and squeezed it.

I squeezed back, hard. Glimpses of my frontal epidermis did not come cheaply. “How are you, Greg?”

“Totally red-faced with embarrassment. I promised to get back to you Saturday about that clown’s arrest and never did. You must think I’m the biggest jerk in the world. Am I right?”

As if I would answer that honestly. I tried to look aggrieved. “You broke my heart, Greg. How will you ever make it up to me?”

He yanked his gaze from my chest to his watch. “Tell you what. It’s noon and I was just heading out to lunch, so why don’t I treat you to a bite at Rosie’s?”

I loved it when men thought they’d come up with an original idea. “I can’t think of anything I’d like more, Greg.”

 

Rosie’s Diner had been decorated to mimic the styles of the 1950s, with knotty pine wood paneling, high-backed aqua vinyl booths, polka-dotted Formica tables, chrome and orange plastic chairs, and a golden brown linoleum floor. There was a single cash register station facing the door, and a kitchen through a pair of swinging doors in the back.

The menu was classic diner food: the thinnest, crispiest hamburgers in town with a selection of toppings; chicken, turkey, ham, and beef sandwiches; a choice of three soups (one always being French onion); batter-fried fish, meatloaf, fried and mashed potatoes, and homemade pies. Nothing fancy, nothing vegetarian, nothing expensive, no substitutions, and the place was always jammed.

Greg steered me toward his usual booth where, as always, the waitresses fell all over themselves trying to get his attention. They actually drew straws to see who his server would be. Today it was a woman with a heavy dose of garlic on her breath.

“
Hello
. I’m
Heidi
,” she said gustily, bending to give him a glimpse of her cleavage, which was impressively more ample than mine, yet squeezed into a much smaller space. “I’ll be your waitress today.
Having
something to drink?”

Morgan pretended to scratch both sides of his nose at once, using his thumb and index finger. Anyone with half a brain could tell he was actually pinching his nostrils shut to block the offensive odor. “I’ll hab ad iced tea, ad a burger with mushroobs ad fries.”

Heidi marked it on her little tablet, then tilted her head sympathetically. “You should take something for your cold, Mr. Morgan. Have you ever tried raw garlic?”

“Dough,” he replied, shaking his head, his fingers still clamped on his nose.

“One clove a day. You’ll have to try it. I haven’t had a virus in a year.”

Or a date, either, I’d bet. I smiled up at Garlic Girl. “Give me what he had, but hold the fries, please.”

“
Happy
to oblige,” she said, and scooted away.

Greg removed his hand. “Someone should tell her.”

“Don’t look at me. I like my food untainted by human spit.” Checking to make sure Grace wasn’t nearby, I leaned my elbows on the table. “So, how is that investigation going on Snuggles the Clown?”

“You mean the Ryson case?” As if he didn’t know.

Trying to appear only mildly interested, I said, “I understand the grand jury is convening Monday. Are you involved?”

“Mel’s handling it alone, not that I blame him. If the grand jury comes back with an indictment and this goes to trial, he’ll get lots of exposure. As you know, the more exposure, the greater his chance of being reelected. But I wouldn’t discount the possibility of him bringing me in as second chair.”

“You don’t really think the grand jury will indict, do you? It seems awfully soon for that to happen.”

“Mel thinks it’s a slam dunk.”

“How could it be a slam dunk? The investigation has hardly gotten under way.”

Morgan paused as Heidi brought our iced teas. “
Here
you go. Your
hamburgers
will be out in a few minutes.”

Morgan gave her a fleeting smile, then leaned forward to say quietly, “What are you doing, Abby? Are you on a fishing expedition for Salvare?”

“Do you think I would accept a lunch date with
the
Assistant Deputy Prosecutor Greg Morgan simply to fish for information?”

That was the type of question that could be asked only of someone with Morgan’s ego, because he’d never want to believe otherwise. Yet he waited so long to answer that for a moment he had me worried.

“You’re right. What was I thinking?”

We both laughed. Then Heidi swooped in with our plates, plunked down a bottle of ketchup, and left before I realized that she’d brought fries with my burger. I lifted a hand to get her attention, then changed my mind and reached for the red bottle instead.

“So why all the questions about Ryson’s case?” Morgan asked, suddenly serious. “You know I can’t tell you anything.”

Here was another game I’d played before. “You know me, Greg, a frustrated law school student. I can’t get enough of these fascinating murder cases, and this one particularly intrigues me because of my run-in with Snuggles. So you don’t really mind indulging my curiosity a bit, do you? I swear it won’t go any farther than here.” I pointed to the table—and under the table, on my lap, was my purse, containing my notebook. But he didn’t know that.

If I was a sucker for french fries, Morgan was an even bigger sucker for women asking him for favors. He pretended to be put out, but I could see that gleam in his eye that said,
She needs me. I’m somebody important.

“I suppose I can help.”

“Super! Thanks, Greg. I really appreciate this. So tell me about the case—murder weapon, suspects, that kind of thing.”

He held up his palms. “Slow down a minute. Haven’t you forgotten something?”

Oh, right. The other part of our game: you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. “I was thinking along the lines of a big bouquet of roses for your secretary.”

He wrinkled his nose, not that I blamed him. Kirby had already benefited once from my largesse. She wasn’t nice enough to get two bouquets in the same year. “My mother has a birthday coming up next Monday,” he told me.

“Good for her. Does she like roses?”

He looked around, then said out of one side of his mouth, “Just so we’re clear, this isn’t a bribe.”

“
Pffft
. Hey, if your mother happens to get a flower delivery and thinks they’re from you, can I help it? Now, about the weapon?”

“Still unknown. The investigators found wood fibers in the victim’s scalp that could have come from his coffee table when he landed on it or from something else wooden that would have left a similar imprint, like a two-by-four, for instance. The lab is analyzing the fibers. What we don’t know is if the victim was struck or pushed, or fell.

“Whichever it is”—Morgan let out a sigh, as if he regretted what he was about to say—“it’s not looking good for Salvare.” He ticked the items off on his fingers. “We have witnesses and evidence that put him at the scene, we know about his earlier altercation with the victim at the parade, we know about Salvare’s history with Ryson, we have photos of the bruises he suffered in the fight at the victim’s house, and we have his admission that he went there to have a chat with Ryson. That adds up to motive and opportunity.”

Talk about the odds being stacked against a person. Wow. This called for another french fry. “I agree it seems bad for Marco, but other people had motives and opportunities, too. Be honest with me, Greg. Have the detectives looked at
anyone
else?”

“They’ve questioned a few people,” he said vaguely.

I chewed the fry, studying him. “What you mean is that the detectives went through the motions because they’d already decided on Marco. But why would I expect otherwise? Pin it on the handiest person, give the citizens peace of mind, and life goes back to normal. Meanwhile, a decent guy goes to prison and a murderer gets off scot-free.” I picked up my burger and bit off a hunk, letting that guilt trip settle over him.

“What do you want from me, Abby?”

“I want you to have an open mind on this case and at least entertain the idea of other suspects. For instance, I did a little homework on Ryson’s next-door neighbor, Ed Mazella, and found out he had an ongoing beef with Ryson. In fact, at one point it got so heated that Ryson threatened him with a tire iron. After meeting Mr. Mazella, I can tell you he’s not the type to take a threat sitting down, and he certainly would have had the opportunity to kill Ryson. So why isn’t he a person of interest?”

Morgan shrugged, watching me as he gobbled his sandwich.

“Next we have the neighbor across the street, the woman Ryson had been harassing—Trina Vasquez—who also had motive and opportunity and was heard threatening Ryson.”

Morgan gaped at me as if I were out of my mind. “Have you met Trina Vasquez? I sat in on her interview and I have to tell you, she’s this”—he paused to describe a figure eight shape with his hands—“little thing. I just don’t see her easily subduing a big guy like Ryson.”

“Okay, first of all, what you just drew in the air does not mean little; it means shapely. Second, she’s not a
little
thing. She’s taller than I am. I’ve seen her toting two kids on her hips without breaking a sweat, so she’s not a lightweight, either. And has anyone checked to see where she was at the time of the murder?”

“At her mother’s house in Michigan.”

He sure spit that answer out quickly. What was it about Trina that so mesmerized men? “Wrong, Greg. She was still at home. She didn’t arrive in Michigan until after ten o’clock, which means she didn’t leave her house until a little before nine.”

“You’ve done some homework on this, haven’t you?”

I stuck another french fry in my mouth. “A little.”

“Here’s your mistake. You didn’t allow for Michigan being on eastern standard time, an hour ahead of us. Going by Central time, Trina arrived at her mother’s house a little after nine. It’s an hour and fifteen minute drive, so she would have left here before eight o’clock. The victim’s time of death was between eight and eight-thirty.”

“Back up a minute. If I can make it up there in fifty-five minutes, so can she.”

“If she drives like a bat out of hell.” Looking smug, Morgan took another bite.