Bake Me a Murder (16 page)

“Never told you about her former boyfriends?”

“Hmmm. One time she mentioned some guy whose ego got too big for his own good. She didn’t give names but it could’ve been Carreras.”

“Did she say what happened with that guy?”

“Just they broke up. Honest-to-God, I didn’t much care about her past or hearing about it. Maybe if I’d listened better she’d be alive. I could’ve protected her.”

“You couldn’t have prevented what happened to her, Merle. The only one capable of that was her killer.”

“Thanks for saying that, Claire. Still I wish I’d done it different.”

“That’s understandable, but regretting something won’t change it.” When he didn’t say anything further, I begged off the call, telling him I’d keep in touch.

What he said had struck a match in my head and a light went on. This case hinged on the connection, whatever it was, between Coco and Bucanetti. As soon as I finished with Corrigan I’d head back to my office to find it.

I stepped into the police station, only to find Corrigan on his way out. He pointed toward a bench outside and I followed him there. I opened my mouth to fill him in on what I’d learned about Rico and Padilla when he cut me off. “Why did you withhold the fact that Harold Goldfarb is an associate of Michael Bucanetti?”

I brushed off his barbed tone. “Sorry, but I have even more important information—”

Corrigan grunted with anger or frustration. Maybe both. “Not good enough, Claire. Here I was, starting to trust you and your judgment when I find this out. After the Santore case, you know how dangerous Bucanetti is. He must have a lot riding on this for him to use his own hired help to defend Pokov. I’m ordering you off this case as of now. You will not like the consequences of ignoring me on this.”

My face felt hot. “Wait a minute. I can’t just drop things when I’m in the middle of it all. And if you’d listen to me instead of interrupting—”

He sneered. “Oh, that’s right. You have something else you haven’t shared. Care to tell me now?”

“Not yet.” I bit my tongue at my choice of words.

“What does that mean?”

I made the wise decision to unload. Still, I spit out each word. “I think Rico and Padilla were selling drugs together. And I believe they cut Bucanetti out. Coco was in on it too. I’m not sure how, though. Is that enough sharing?”

A woman appeared outside waving a piece of paper at Corrigan. He drew in a deep breath. “I have some business to take care of right now. But we’re going to finish this conversation. Where will you be in about thirty minutes?”

“My office.”

“I’ll be there.”

Fifteen minutes after that unpleasant encounter with Corrigan, I unlocked the door, stepped inside my office, and threw my purse on the worn sofa. Making my way through the claustrophobic reception room to my desk, the hairs on my neck stood at attention. They were saluting the muscular guy in my chair pointing his gun at me. I shrieked and my hand flew to my chest.

Friday, 7:00 p.m.

The intruder gave me a cold smile. “Hello, Claire.” He motioned to the chair by my desk. “Please, sit down.”

To my amazement my voice sounded natural. “Did Bucanetti send you?” I was facing Marco, a local enforcer who worked for Michael Bucanetti. We’d met on an earlier case under not-so-enjoyable conditions.

“
Mister
Bucanetti. He wanted me to deliver a message. I can do it nice or not. Your choice.”

“I’m a big proponent of nice.” Even sitting, my knees knocked.

“Okay.” He laid his gun down. “Here it is. Lay off digging into Coco Sanchez’s murder.”

“If I don’t?”

He tskd. “How’s your father doing? And Lena. You know, I liked her.” His voice turned as cruel as his eyes. “Jimmy Padilla and your father could have a lot in common. Lena might too.”

My insides turned the consistency of crème brulee. “I understand.”

“Good. Then me and you are done. For now.” He picked up his gun and stood. “Don’t even think about calling the cops.” He aimed his gun at me for emphasis. “Clear?”

“Very.”

He came around the desk, grabbed my arm and pulled me up. “Come on. Walk me to the door.”

A bit of bravery, or foolishness, came over me. “Before you go, tell me why Harold Goldfarb is defending Merle Pokov for Coco Sanchez’s murder.”

Marco halted. He gave me a chilling smile and squeezed my chin with his free hand. “What the hell. Coco was special to Mr. Bucanetti. He knows Pokov treated her real good and he wanted to show appreciation.”

“Special? In what way?” Harold’s evasive comment about Coco and Bucanetti came back to me.

“No more questions.”

He opened the door and dropped my arm. “Remember Mr. Bucanetti’s message and our agreement.”

My breaths were uneven but I managed to say, “I won’t forget.”

Once Marco was gone, I locked the door. Backing up to the reception room sofa, I dropped onto it and curled up like a snail. I wanted to call my father, to hear his voice, but I couldn’t trust mine not to quiver.

Someone was calling on my office phone, but I let it go into voicemail. It was Dad.

“Hey, Claire, are you there? Hate to bother you, but—”

I lunged for my phone. What if something was wrong? “Daddy, I’m here. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, but you don’t sound okay. What’s going on?”

“Nothing, the phone startled me.” My stomach felt like it was made of stone. “What’s new?”

“Just called to see if you asked Brian about dinner tomorrow. We’re going grocery shopping in the morning.”

“We? You and Suzy?” The wild thought Bucanetti had planted this Suzy to watch Dad flew through my mind.

With a distinct lilt to his voice he said, “Yeah.”

I thought back to the angry words Corrigan and I had exchanged. “I don’t think Brian is coming. Sorry.”

“No problem. If it turns out he can make it, let me know.”

I injected some bounce in my voice. “I will. Looking forward to tomorrow. I love you.”

“Love you too, Pumpkin.”

Although relief flowed warmly through my body knowing my dad was safe and happy, it was short lived. The cheerful front I’d put up while on the phone dissipated and fear mixed with worry returned full force. Would I spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder, knowing Bucanetti tracked my every move? I wished I could disappear from view, like an ant into a crack in a sidewalk.

Someone knocked at my door.

I froze until the visitor identified himself. “Claire, are you there? It’s Brian.”

From the moment I opened the door for him, he harangued me. “Did you think about our conversation? Are you going to come clean? I’m not the enemy.”

I backed away. “After…uh, reviewing everything, I was wrong and I don’t believe Bucanetti had anything to do with Coco’s death. So the case isn’t as dangerous as you think.”

He slammed his hand against the door. “Damn it, Claire. Goldfarb works for Bucanetti. How could Bucanetti not be involved with her murder? And what about Padilla’s death? He didn’t have anything to do with that either?”

I flinched at the pounding noise but kept on. I needed to choose my words with great care.

“Maybe Bucanetti knows Merle didn’t do it.”

Corrigan looked at me like I’d said the gangster now modeled his life after Nelson Mandela’s. Still I stammered on. “Maybe Rico and Padilla had another partner and that partner killed Coco and then Padilla.”

“Who’s this other partner?” Sarcasm permeated his question.

“I don’t know.” I threw up my hands. “Somebody.”

“Yeah. Maybe that somebody is Merle Pokov.” He wagged his finger at me. “Here’s what I think. Rico’s alibi for Coco’s time of death checks out. So I think your boy killed Coco. Coco was involved with both Merle and Rico. She also had a part in Padilla’s and Rico’s drug business. Maybe she dragged Pokov into it once they were lovers. But one more person meant smaller cuts for everyone.”

Merle got greedy or, could be, Coco and Merle had a big fight, maybe over Rico. Something happened. Anyway, Pokov killed her because of it. And I think Bucanetti was behind the whole HighStyle Furniture drug business. That’s why he has his man defending Pokov. To keep him quiet.”

He leaned against the wall, hands jammed into his pockets, looking as satisfied as a boy who’d recited from memory the Gettysburg Address.

I put my hands on my hips. “You’re wrong. Merle loved Coco. He wouldn’t kill her. And he’s a straight arrow, not a drug dealer.”

“You wanting that doesn’t make it true. And Goldfarb can do all the fancy footwork he wants. Pokov is going down for murder. As for you, you’re off this case once and for all.”

I pressed my lips together to keep from spouting off. For my father’s sake I couldn’t tell Corrigan anything I’d heard from Marco.

“Claire?” Corrigan spread his arms out. “I know you’re mad at me. I get it. But this is for your own good. And mine.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Yours?”

“Yeah, see, I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.”

I felt like taffy, pulled in different directions. I didn’t want Corrigan to worry about me. I did enough of that for myself. I reaffirmed to myself that solving Coco’s murder was my priority. Merle was counting on me, as was Ed. I couldn’t give up. Not even for Corrigan. Although his declaration produced a soft glow in me, my heart didn’t stand a chance against my state of mind.

With all that, I can’t explain what prompted me to move toward him, stand on my tiptoes, and wrap my arms around him.

He bent his neck and his mouth found mine. It started as a polite kiss but quickly turned hungry. I was sliding fast into sweet, memory-erasing desire. But my terror about getting hurt wedged itself between what I wanted at that moment and what was right for me.

I pulled away before we devoured each other and smoothed my hair. My stomach fluttered and the room’s temperature must have hit 100 degrees. Breathless, I managed to ask, “So are you coming with me to dinner at my dad’s?”

He gave me a wicked smile. “If that’s a sample of dessert, I wouldn’t miss it.”

After Corrigan left, I touched my lips, remembering how they tingled with his kiss. Scolding myself, I squelched the thrill I felt. Merle’s welfare came first.

Locking my office door against any further intrusions, I flicked on my computer and glanced at the list of every player involved with Coco. After adding Marco, I stopped and stared hard at the names.

This case had more actors than a Hollywood blockbuster. The key was to put everything I knew into some order, but even with that, there were still more questions than answers. I knew Merle didn’t kill Coco and after talking to Marco, Bucanetti was also off the list of suspects. At least as far as Coco’s murder. Rico had an alibi, but he still looked like the killer. He sure had motive and it wouldn’t be the first time an alibi was manufactured after the fact.

My next step, then, was to visit Rico’s alibi. I reasoned, or made up the excuse, that talking with Rico’s alleged companion at the time of Coco’s murder wasn’t dangerous. It’d be a woman-to-woman discussion about men. How could Corrigan object?

I called the person most likely to give me the information I needed, Harold. After mutual greetings I asked, “Do you know anything about the woman who alibied Rico?”

He teased, “You trust me to give you the correct information?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Not only can I give you
who
she is, but
where
she can be found. It won’t do you much good, though. She’s steadfast in saying she and Rico were showing each other some affection at the time of Coco’s death.”

“I’d still like to talk with her.”

“It’s your time. Maria Valdez is her real name but she goes by the
nom de scene
of Diamond Delites. She dances at a place called the Gentleman’s Club.”

“Have you seen her?”

“Dance or for questioning?”

“Questioning.”

“No, but I was able to get my hands on her statement. She was pretty firm.”

Annoyed that he saw such schoolboy humor in Maria’s career choice, I nonetheless kept my tone even. “You’re saying no chance she’s covering for Rico? Maybe if I talk to her woman-to-woman she’ll change her tune.”

After the call, I looked up the club’s address. They were open until 2:00 a.m. Maybe Diamond was there. I grabbed my purse, double checked my gun to make sure it was loaded, and headed out to take in the show.

Friday, 9:30 p.m.

To my amazement, the crowd was sedate in this gussied up old ballroom, despite the bumps and grinds of the pole dancer. I made my way around tables that seemed to be set down according to no specific plan and at last reached the bar. Yelling over the loud music, I asked the bartender for Diamond’s whereabouts, hoping she wasn’t the woman disrobing on stage.

He tilted his head toward a table in the back of the room where a pretty brunette sat with a tattooed young guy who looked like he spent lots of time pumping iron and smashing faces.

I forced my unwilling feet to move in their direction. I’d come here to get information, and a scary-looking man wasn’t going to stop me. Somehow the message needed to get to my legs.

Thank goodness the music had stopped and I wouldn’t have to yell. I made it to their table at last, and cleared my throat. “Excuse me. Are you Diamond Delites?”

Her companion glared at me like I had ‘cop’ written all over me. “Who’re you?”

“It’s okay.” Diamond’s voice was sweet and girlish.

I laid my business card on the table. “I’m Claire, Private Investigator. I’m looking into the death of Coco Sanchez.”

Her table mate answered for her, “She don’t know nothing about that bitch.”

Diamond placed her hand on Mr. Charming’s massive arm. “Hector, stop. The woman’s dead. Don’t talk bad about her.” To me she said, “Rico was with me when she was killed. I already told the police that.”

Diamond seemed like a nice person. Maybe this interview wouldn’t be as painful to me as I’d feared. “How long have you known Rico?”

She shrugged. “He came here one night a few weeks ago and watched me dance. Rico isn’t a man who waits long for what he wants.” With her last comment, her tone changed, became breathier, more appreciative of a man who takes according to his own desires.