Hard Case Crime: Deadly Beloved (11 page)

“You...you’re a monster,” she said.

Apparently meaning me, not Clint.

I motioned at her with gun-in-hand, somewhat irritably I’m afraid, because I was still dealing with the dispatcher on the cell.

“You bitch!”

“Quiet,” I commanded. “Can’t you see I’m on the phone?...Yeah, Ripley Trailer Park, Lot 16.”

The dispatcher asked me the nature of the wound, and I said, “His knee. So far.”

Then the dispatcher asked me what I meant by that, and I said, “Well, you’re not here to judge the situation, are you?”

And I shut off the cell.

I went over and leaned down next to Mrs. Hazen and the brother-in-law she was comforting. To me it seemed clear that the two of them were extra-special close, for in-laws.

I said calmly, “I need to know everything
your
husband did, and said, in the days right after he got out of stir...before he killed
my
husband.”

She screwed up her features and all but spat, “Why the hell should I tell you, you lousy fucking bitch?”

“Because,” I said, “we both lost men we loved.”

She snorted. “Tell it to Oprah.”

I raised an eyebrow, nodded to Clint. “Okay, then, Mrs. Hazen. Care to lose another man you love?”

And I placed the snout of the nine mil against the temple of moaning crybaby Clint.

Mrs. Hazen’s chin lifted defiantly. “You don’t scare me.”

But Clint’s eyes were as huge as a cartoon rabbit’s. “
Tell
her, Rhonda! For Chrissakes, she’s
crazy
! Crazy cunt is capable of
God
knows what!”

I thought that was uncalled for, the “c” word. Kind of brave of him, though, with my nine mil’s nose puckering his flesh.

He was raving, “Rhonda, please, God, tell her anything she goddamn wants to know!”

Mrs. Hazen was looking at me carefully now, her expression having shifted to one of horror.

I guess I looked a sight, with blood all over my face from Clint hitting me.

But I swear my expression was bland as toast when I said to her, “Yeah, Rhonda. Help me.”

In about half an hour, a pair of EMTs—one of whom had been nice enough to take time out to clean up my face and provide a bandage for where Clint’s fist had cut me near my right eye—loaded a still uncomfortable Clint Hazen on a gurney into their ambulance.

Mrs. Hazen, baby in her arms again, was watching, distressed, standing near her trailer, joined by a couple of female neighbors in her general age range and apparently frequenting the same tattoo parlor. One woman was smoking, the other had a can of beer, possibly wanting to have it ready should Rhonda or maybe her baby need a sedative.

Two uniformed police officers, a Hispanic woman and a white male, both of whom I’d already spoken to at more length than seemed to me necessary, were on the periphery. So was I, but on a different patch of it.

I’d been asked to wait, and I wasn’t sure why. Then I understood, when an unmarked car, a black Crown Victoria, pulled in next to where the local police car was angled in and parked.

Lt. Rafe Valer stepped from the Ford, shut the car door hard, like he was trying to make a point, and strode toward me. His tan double-breasted trenchcoat made him look every bit the detective he was.

I met him halfway.

“Since when,” I said, “does Chicago Homicide check out shot-off kneecaps in Calumet City?”

He smiled warily, shook his head, his hands on his hips. “Your name on a police call’s always a red flag, Michael. Emphasis on the red.”

I cocked my head. “Just
my
name caught your eye, Lieutenant? Not ‘Hazen’?”

Suddenly his eyes were awkwardly searching the cinder-strewn ground. “Well...of course, I know she’s the wife of the, uh...”

I got right in his face, my nose maybe an inch from his. “Wife of the bastard who killed Mike?”

“Michael....”

I backed away some, but still stayed right on top of him. “Just what the hell kind of investigation did you boys in blue do for your fallen brother, Lt. Valer?”

Rafe sighed. His eyes didn’t meet mine as he admitted, “Not much.”

His frankness shook me, my indignation freezing......then melting.

Now his eyes came to mine, their dark brown bottomless with regret and, yes, sorrow.

He said, “Michael, I had no inkling of this ‘Event Planner’ at the time of Mike’s murder, and, goddamn it, that’s the genius of this son of a bitch—leaving us nothing to investigate.”

“Really?” I jerked a thumb toward Mrs. Hazen and her friends. “You coulda talked to Miss Trailer Park of 1994 over there.”

His eyes tightened. “You’ve already talked to her...?”

My arms were folded and my expression was smug. “She was real forthcoming, after we got down to, you know, just talking...one widow to another.”

“What did she tell you?”

“Oh, for starters, all about the phone calls that her jailbird soulmate got, right after he got out—phone calls that got him all riled up—seems the caller had some very exact information.”

Rafe’s eyes widened, then narrowed.

“Such as one anonymous call that provided the name and address of the honeymoon motel where we’d be starting out our marriage, Mike and me. And, thanks to the caller, ending it.”

Then the lieutenant of Homicide was rushing past me, to talk to Mrs. Hazen his own self.

I let him, and just slipped away.

Figured my work here was done.

In the conference area in my office, next morning, I sat in the leather chair, every bit the boss in a burgundy Ann Taylor pantsuit, while Dan Green, perched on the edge of the couch, reported. He wore a taupe corduroy sportcoat with a lavender shirt and gray/cream striped tie with blue jeans—typical Dan, casual but professional.

“The condo above Addwatter’s,” he said, demonstrating with open palms, “is empty. Has been for months. Tenants away in Europe.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Really empty?”

“
Officially
empty.”

“So there are signs of life up there?”

He nodded. “Looked very much lived in—food in the fridge, wastebaskets with trash, recent magazines, newspapers....”

“Not a sublet?”

Dan shook his head. “Squatters.”

“Any sign of surveillance?”

“No electronic trail, not that I could find, anyway.” He made a face. “Might wanna bring a tech in.”

“No, I’m sold. Good job.”

“Thanks.”

“Anyway, I’m going to whisper in Rafe Valer’s ear about this.”

Dan’s eyes narrowed. “He may already know about it.”

“I don’t think so, or he’d have shared it. On this case, where we’re concerned, this is one time he’s not playing ’em close to his vest. Not now, anyway.”

“Okay.”

“And he can put his people on that condo building. That’s not the type of place where just anybody can roll into an empty apartment and make themselves at home.”

“Yeah. Palms got greased. Hey, it’s Chicago.”

“Right. And we’ll let Rafe work on
which
Chicago palms got greased. Speaking of Rafe, have you had a chance to look at his Event Planner files?”

He rolled his eyes. “Till my head swims. That guy is thorough. Look up ‘anal retentive’ in Webster’s and you’ll see Lt. Valer’s picture. Ms. Tree, are we really gonna re-open
eight
cold cases?”

“They’re worse than cold—they’re solved. Written off.”

He just sat there giving me a look.

“What?” I asked.

“What is it with you and lost causes? This agency is supposed to be a going concern.”

I locked eyes with him. “
This
lost cause is
our
lost cause, Dan—if Rafe is right, his Event Planner set up both Mike’s murder and the murders our client looks responsible for.”

He held up a hand. “You’re right. I’m wrong. I apologize.”

Now I gave him a look. A suspicious one.

“And?” I prompted.

He sat forward, urgency tightening that handsome baby face of his, wispy mustache bristling. “Will you please listen and bring Roger back into the fold? With his contacts, and knowledge about Mike’s old cases, we can really use him.”

I shifted in my chair. “Oh, did I mention I’ve got Bea out working on Holly Jackson’s background? There’s a temp coming in, a little blonde named Effie Something, to handle reception and secretarial. Make her feel at home, would you?...but not
too
at home.”

“Holly Jackson?”

“She’s the other murder victim, remember? The hooker in the motel room.”

Dan grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, well, don’t I feel right on top of this case about now.”

I waved it off. “It’s all right. We each need to focus on a specific area, and Bea’s been begging to get out into the field.”

“Great. She’s smart and has solid police credentials. But, Ms. Tree, she’s no Roger.”

“What I want you to do,” I said, getting up, “is hit your computer, see how many of these murders and accidents can be directly, or even indirectly, linked to Muerta Enterprises.”

Exasperated, Dan rose as well, saying, “Ms. Tree, Roger’s forgotten more about the Muertas than anybody else on this planet ever knew, us included, and—”

“I’ll talk to him.”

Dan seemed about to press on with his argument when my words finally registered and he smiled in pleasant surprise.

I gave him a schoolmarm’s pointing finger. “Get right on top of how many unfortunate ‘events’ benefited the Muertas...
capeesh?
”

“Capeesh!”

Chipper, Dan headed past me.

“That’s what I like about bein’ a 21st Century P.I.,” he was saying. “Ten years ago, shoe leather. Today—Google.”

“Refresh my memory, Ms. Tree,” the psychiatrist said. “This Roger—that’s Roger Freemont, your husband’s other partner?”

“That’s right,” I said. “He was Mike’s partner on the PD for a while, and one of the original partners in the Tree Agency.”

“And he’s the one who...”

“Who left the business when I took over. Yes.”

The pen scratched on paper. “I see.”

“Roger was Mike’s sarge back in Desert Storm days.”

“Yes. I recall.”

I glanced over at him. “...It hit the fan that very first Monday, after Mike’s murder....”

That was my first time seated behind Mike’s desk.

In retrospect, I wondered if that hadn’t added fuel to the fire. The day outside the window at my back was overcast, and Roger’s mood was surly.

He and Dan were seated in the clients’ chairs opposite. Bald, bespectacled Roger was in a black suit with a white shirt and a dark blue tie; he might have been a funeral director. Dan was in shades of tan from sportcoat to shirt-and-tie to shoes, as if he wanted to blend into the woodwork in this overtly masculine office.

Roger was saying, “All due respect, Mrs. Tree—”

“I prefer ‘Ms.,’ ” I said.

His eyes widened. “You choose some silly feminist, what? Affectation? Over honoring your husband?”

“No. I like the pun. Ms. Tree—mystery. Get it?”

“Cute,” Roger said, with a tiny sneer. “Almost as cute as your way of mourning. Body isn’t even cold and you’re already in Mike’s chair.”

“Well, the
chair’s
still warm.” My stare was pointed. “Roger, what is your problem? Besides your not liking me, and me being a dickless dick, that is.”

He shook his head. “Not a matter of liking. And I couldn’t care less what you pack between your legs. Point is, I’m a full partner in this business—one third Mike, one third Dan, one third you....”

But Dan surprised me and popped out of the woodwork to say, “Your math sucks, Roge. Ms. Tree here is also a full partner—twenty-five, twenty-five, twenty-five, twenty-five. Which with the old boss dead and his wife inheriting? Adds up to fifty percent
new
boss.”

I wasn’t sure I was reading Dan right. I got his eyes and asked, “Any problem with how that totals up?”

Dan shifted in his chair and sat forward. He wasn’t quite smiling. “No. You’re smart and attractive—you’ll put a great face on this business, grieving widow stepping in for her murdered husband.”

Roger, astounded, stared at the younger detective. “Is that all it is to you, Danny? Business?”

Dan shrugged. “You’re the one talking partners and percentages, Roge.”

I said, “Dan’s correct, Roger—I do hold fifty percent of this agency. You want me to buy you out, I’ll make the arrangements.”

His face stone, Roger said, “Do it then.”

I leaned forward and tried to take anything adversarial out of my tone and my expression. “Roger, I’m not asking you to leave.”

He grunted and his sneer was full-blown now. “And I’m not asking your goddamn permission.
I’m
senior partner here.”

Dan was giving Roger an offended sideways look. “We all started the same day, Roge.”

Roger, clearly disappointed in his young partner, leaned toward him and said, “Age and experience matter, Danny boy. Ought to, anyway.” Then his gaze swung to me. “If you vacate that chair, and turn it over to me...
Miz
Tree...then, well, no hard feelings.”

Coolly, I said, “The name on the door is Michael Tree.”

He snorted a laugh. “Real cute.”

He rose.

And said, “I got no desire to work for a glorified meter maid....” He paused on the way out to say, “You’ll hear from my attorney.”

He slammed the door.

Dan gave me a half-smile as he said, “Well, Roger
can
be kind of a prick sometimes.”

“Didn’t notice,” I said.

Then Dan’s expression turned serious as he said, “Still, that’s a bad loss, Ms. Tree. A lot of experience and knowledge just walked out that door. He’s a better a detective than either of us.”

“Point’s moot,” I said. “He doesn’t work here anymore.”

“Something about that little scene nagged at me, Doc.”

“How so?”

“True, I’d never really gotten along all that great with Roger, but this...this seemed over the top.”

“In what way?”