Bake Me a Murder (23 page)

The Clock’s owner appeared from behind the counter. “Show’s over, folks.” His voice was calm, almost jaded, as if this sort of stuff happened here a lot.

Corrigan returned, escorting Ethan who was now in handcuffs and protesting in a loud voice. “This ain’t right. I’ll sue your ass.”

 Corrigan had an I’ve-heard-it-before look on his face. “Quiet.” Corrigan addressed me. “This guy’s under arrest for attempted assault on a police officer.” He jostled the soon-to-be jailbird. “He and I are going to wait for a black-and-white to take him away. It could be a while.”

My shoulders sagged. “Do what you need to do. I’m going home.”

“I’ll call you as soon as I’m done. Make sure you’re okay.”

The woman who’d started this all, pouted. “What about me?”

Corrigan gave a weary shrug. “If you want to press charges, you can come down to the station when the officers get here.”

“Uh uh.” She wagged her index finger. “No charges.” She glanced at me, her eyes still a bit glassy from imbibing alcohol. “Can you drive me home? It’s not far, maybe fifteen minutes. Really.”

Just what I needed, a drunken party girl in my car. I sighed and was ready to refuse, but the nuns at my school, Holy Trinity, had taught me well with their stories about helping people in need. Plus, it was a safe bet she’d keep me from dwelling on Eric’s death. At least until I got her home. “Fine.”

Corrigan’s eyes opened wide. “Be careful.”

She answered, “Don’t you worry, honey.” She blew Corrigan a sloppy kiss.

I’m pretty sure he meant the warning for me.

The woman staggered on her stilt shoes trying to keep up with me. When I unlocked the car doors, she giggled. “This piece is your car?”

I may have learned charity from the nuns, but they failed to teach me patience. “You want a ride or not?”

She tapped her lips like they’d acted without her permission. “Sorry.”

I wanted to get her home and then hole up in my own place. “Just get in.”

We pulled out of the lot, and I realized she hadn’t told me her name. “My name is Claire. What’s yours?”

“Ashley. Ashley Martinelli. Next street, go right.”

I made the turn. “Any relation to Trace?”

She looked at me with surprise. “My brother. You know him?”

Not wanting to tell her the circumstances, I bent the story a bit. “At the bus stop. We talked.”

She giggled. “Hit on you, didn’t he? He’s like that.” She deepened her voice. “Gets what he wants. Big shot with some dangerous friends.”

“You mean, like gangsters?”

“Maybe.”

With a nonchalance I didn’t feel, I asked, “Are we getting close to your place?”

“Couple more minutes. Hey, don’t tell Trace about tonight, okay? He’d choke the crap out of Ethan.”

I forgot about getting her home and glanced sideways at her. “Your brother looked harmless enough.”

“Ha! That’s probably why he’s so good at—” She clapped her hands over her mouth and her eyes went wide.

My muscles tensed. “So good at what?”

“Nothin’.” She tapped on the window with her two-toned, painted fingernail. “Turn left.”

I intentionally turned right instead. “Oh, sorry. You said left.” The longer I could keep her in the car, the more I’d learn. “What did you say Trace was good at?”

Ashley, her back straight, stared out the windshield. “Being my big brother.”

My excitement deflated, like a tire with a slow leak. Convinced I wouldn’t learn anything else from her, I righted my detour and got her home. She thanked me, got out, and stumbled to her door.

Monday, 2:00 a.m.

I unlocked my apartment door, dropped onto the sofa, and kicked off my shoes. It was late, but going to bed was the last thing on my mind. I was too wired, thinking about Trace and what his sister had said. Apparently, there was more to him than it seemed.

My thoughts toppled over one another.
Martinelli was the only witness to see Coco at Merle’s apartment before she died. Martinelli and Merle lived in the same apartment building, even the same floor. Martinelli had dangerous friends. Rico? Diamond was Rico’s alibi, but could Martinelli have done the job on Coco for him? Then he killed Eric because Eric knew too much? But then why would Martinelli step up and be a witness? Also, how did Bucanetti fit in this?

Hoping Corrigan wasn’t still tied up with Ethan’s arrest, I called his cell. It went into his voicemail. I briefed him on my conversation with Ashley and asked him to see if Trace Martinelli had any priors.

I paced the perimeter of my small living room while thoughts of going to Trace’s apartment pinged in my head. I tried to squelch the idea. It wouldn’t be a good idea to traipse over there by myself. Determined to wait for Corrigan’s call, I had a bowl of cherry chocolate chunk ice cream and turned on the TV.

It didn’t help. By the time the last melty bite was gone, I’d made up my mind to visit Trace’s apartment building. Not to confront him, just to snoop outside. It was a long shot I’d find anything, but my instinct said it could be worth the trouble. It was too late to even call Ed, so nobody else had to be involved.

On the way over to Martinelli’s apartment, I laid out my game plan. The mailbox first, then the trashcan by the boxes. People tossed all kinds of things they shouldn’t in there, like they’d never heard of identity theft. Who knew what treasures the trashcan might hold? I laughed, but it wasn’t funny.

All the mailboxes were housed in a well-lit gazebo at the side of the building. I parked and scanned the area. No one was around. Martinelli’s mailbox was in the top row. I jiggled the handle, but it was locked. A bunch of junk mail addressed to him lay on the wide ledge beneath. I leafed through the envelopes, but found nothing of any interest.

Next, the trashcan. I donned gloves, held my breath, and lifted the lid. Empty. Frustrated, I kicked the receptacle. All that was left to me was to find his car, not that he’d have a sticker on it saying, “I ‘
heart
’ murder.” But the interior of a car tells a lot about its owner.

Back in my own messy car, I cruised behind the apartment building and found Trace’s parking spot, number 655, the same as his apartment number. Grabbing the flashlight I kept in my glove box, I shone it on his front and backseat. Strewn across the back were issues of
Soldier of Fortune
magazines. Why would a restaurant worker read that stuff?

“What are you doing?”

Chapter Twenty-Two

I
jumped and banged my knee on the bumper of Trace’s car. “Merle!” I rubbed my leg and swallowed my heart. “Looking for evidence. What about you?”

“Sorry I scared you. I took a drive. Sometimes it relaxes me. Would have been back sooner, but on the way home I stopped to help some poor girl with a flat tire.”

My breath slowed to normal. “That was nice of you to help someone. Hey, do you know Trace Martinelli in apartment 655?” I described him.

“I’ve seen him in the hallway but that’s it.” He hesitated. “It’s kinda cool out here. Let’s go to my apartment and talk. I can make some coffee and you can tell me why the interest in this guy.”

Once inside Merle’s apartment, I told him about a new lead. I didn’t provide details, saying I would do so if it panned out.

Merle puffed up his cheeks and then blew out the air. “The guy in 655 is part of your new lead?”

Not wanting to commit, I settled for vague. “Don’t know yet.”

After one cup of coffee, I stretched and, through a yawn, said, “I better go so you can get some sleep.” I hoped to do the same at my apartment.

There was very little traffic, allowing me to make it home before 6:00. Teeth brushed again, jammies on, I collapsed into bed. No sooner had I pulled the covers over my head than my phone rang. “Hello?” My voice was as fuzzy as my brain.

Monday, 7:00 a.m.

Corrigan sounded like a drill sergeant. “You gonna sleep all day?” Without waiting for an answer he continued, “Got your message. Seems Trace Martinelli has quite a history. He’s been hauled in on a number of occasions, but never charged.”

I was wide awake now. My instincts about Trace had been right. “Isn’t it a coincidence he’s a witness against Merle?” An unwelcome thought hit me and I sucked in a breath. “With Eric dead, he’s the only witness.”

“Yeah. That reminds me, Pokov is in the interview room for questioning right now. No murder weapon yet, but your client doesn’t have an alibi other than some story about helping a girl change her tire. Plus, he’d benefit from Eric’s death.” He hesitated. “Admit it. You thought about that too.”

The dark thought I’d had a second ago turned black. I’d been too preoccupied to ask Merle for details or even warn him he may be a suspect. I sunk into the mattress, wishing I could hide under my bed.

Corrigan and I spent the next five minutes debating Merle’s guilt in Eric’s death. We ended the call with grudging goodbyes.

Thinking Harold was already with Merle, I left a voicemail for him in case he wasn’t.

That done I sat there, my stomach churning, without a clue of what to do next. It was like someone had rubbed my brain with petroleum jelly. Thoughts bounced around but none of them stuck. The best I could come up with was to take a shower. Maybe the steam would clear my head.

Dressed and ready to go, I checked my phone for messages. Harold texted me saying he was on his way to the police station. The knot in my stomach released a bit.

My thoughts cleared, I picked up my car keys and headed to my office, determined to put the pieces of this case together in as many different ways as needed to find the true killer. I shook my head, shaking out the revolting idea that perhaps it was Merle, after all.

I’d been sitting at my computer reviewing every note I had on Coco’s murder for a while, even making a decision tree. Nothing. Worse, my brain was again growing fuzzier by the minute. I stood and stretched to shake off the fatigue. In so doing, my thoughts heated up, remembering Ashley’s comment about her brother, Trace, choking her boyfriend.

I pressed my palms against my head. I had no proof Trace was involved in anything, but time was running out for Merle. His hearing was less than 24 hours away. I had to find something.

I looked up Trace’s phone number. It was time to get to know him. When he answered my call, my voice turned squeaky. Still, he seemed happy to have coffee with me at eleven. Of course, I chose
Cannoli’s
as our meeting place.

As soon as we hung up I called Ed. Praise heaven he was there and willing to help once again. I rolled out my plan. Ed would wait around the apartment building until he saw Trace leave. While I kept the suspect occupied, Ed would break into his apartment for a look around. He’d text me when he finished.

Monday, 11:00 a.m.

I arrived at
Cannoli’s
before Trace and was thankful Angie had opened the cafe today. “Hi, Claire. Good to see you. Lena will be in about noon. Are you here by yourself?”

My answer was as unclear as I could make it. “Meeting someone.” I could tell by the look on her face she wanted details, but hesitated to ask them. Probably figured my aunt would squeeze the information out of me soon enough.

I sat at the table nearest the kitchen in case I needed a carving knife to go with my loaded gun.

About 11:10 Trace strolled in. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy, about 6’1”, wiry frame, dark hair combed back, and polar-bear-white teeth.

“Hate to be late but I passed this place twice.” He pulled out his chair and sat.

“It’s okay.” I laid my hands in my lap so he wouldn’t notice them trembling. “Um, want to share a pastry?” I wouldn’t be able to get anything down, but eating took more time than a cup of coffee.

He glanced at the pastry case and back at me. With his wolf-like smile, I couldn’t tell which sight piqued his appetite more. At least he didn’t drool. “Sure. Anything you want.”

We decided on a seven-layer bar and large biscotti. Trace took a big bite out of the layer bar. “Umm, good.” He talked with his mouth full.

I broke a piece of the biscotti off and nibbled at it. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

He wiped his mouth. “My pleasure. Any questions about that night, ask away. But I’ll be straight with you. I’m really here to get to know you.” He gave me a suggestive smile. The effect was ruined since he had a piece of coconut stuck in his teeth. Not that it mattered. I wanted to be here only as long as it took Ed to do his job.

I cleared my throat. “Did you happen to know Eric Allescio?”

He began dislodging the coconut with his tongue. “No. Why? He ain’t your boyfriend is he?”

“An acquaintance. He was killed last night.”

“Sorry, but I still didn’t know him.”

I moved on. “Have you lived at Lakewood Arms long? Where’d you move from?”

“Been there about a month. I’m from lots of places. East side, mainly.”

“Any reason in particular you moved to this part of town?”

His eyes narrowed, as if trying to figure out what I really wanted to know. “Got a sister on this side of town.”

“You work at a restaurant downtown?”

He swung his arm over the back of the chair. “What’s with all these questions? I thought you wanted to know about my statement.”

I rested my chin in my hand and batted my eyelashes. “Just wanted to get to know you.”

His expression was pure predator. “If you want to know me real good, we can go somewhere more private.”

Although my stomach turned, I played along. “Well, I—”

Thankfully, he received a text, and as soon as Trace saw it, he was on his feet. “Hold that thought. I gotta leave. Business.” He leaned over and kissed my cheek, then gestured as if he was holding a phone. “Call me. Next time I’ll pick the place.” He smirked, like he’d just heard a dirty joke.

I grew queasy thinking about it. As soon as that slime was out the door, I texted Ed, praying he’d found something and gotten out.

I’d just sent the message when I got one from Ed. He had left Trace’s apartment and wanted to meet at my office to show me what he’d found. The bite of biscotti I’d had settled in my stomach at last.