Death By High Heels (The Kim Murphy PI Series Book 1) (5 page)

“How did you know Brian?”

“We’ve been friends since the third grade.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Last week,” Adam said, staring down at the floor.

“What did you guys do?”

“We drank beer and watched baseball.”

“Where at?”

“Here.”

“Was anything bothering him?”

“No, he was cool,” Adam replied, scooping up his lighter, then flicking it on and off.

“Was Brian having any trouble with anyone?”

“Nope, everybody liked him.”

“Well, evidently not everyone.”

“He was my best friend. Don’t you think I’d have told the cops if I knew anything?” he asked, slamming his fist onto the edge of the coffee table, sending one of the ashtrays flying. I reached down and put it back on the table.

“I would hope so,” I replied as I watched him swipe at the tears in his eyes. I found my own eyes watering, but not from grief. Deciding I had spent long enough in Adam’s apartment, I tossed a business card down on the coffee table and suggested he call me if he thought of anything useful. I figured I’d get a call from Adam the day I forgave my ex-husband for continuing to live. The least he could have done was move far away to a place with lots of predators, like Alaska.

Outside in the fresh air, I took several deep breathes, trying to clear my lungs and any brain cells effected by my short stay in Marijuanaville. In the car, I looked up the address before driving to David Jenson’s place with the windows down and the air conditioner on full blast.

David’s apartment was a converted two-story house on a corner lot, just south of the downtown historic district. I was lucky and found a parking space on the side street. I walked up the stairs and knocked on the door to his apartment.

A man wearing a yellowed white t-shirt and faded jeans opened the door, a can of Budweiser in his hand. He looked me up and down, staring just a bit too long at my chest.

“Yeah?” he asked, then gulped his beer.

“Hi, I’m looking for a David Jenson.”

“You found him.”

“Great. My name’s Kim Murphy. I’d like to talk with you about your friend, Brian Lewis.”

“He’s dead.”

“Yes, I know. I’d like to find out how he got that way.”

“He was stabbed.”

“Sorry, I should have been clearer. I’m trying to find his killer.”

“Lady, I don’t know nothin’ about it.”

“Maybe you know something that doesn’t seem important.”

“I know you’ve got some nice tits,” he said, glancing down once again at my chest. “You wanna come in and party?”

“No, thanks.”

“Fine, then get outta here,” he growled, and slammed the door in my face.

“Asshole,” I muttered.

I stomped down the stairs. As I stepped outside, my phone rang. “Hello.”

“Kimberly, I’m so glad you answered. I was hoping you could come over.”

“Sorry, Mom, I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

“Oh, okay. I just thought you’d like to have dinner with us. I guess I could send the extra lasagna home with Michael.”

My mother was up to something. I felt it much like Luke Skywalker sensed a disturbance in the Force. Despite this knowledge, I was about to willingly walk into whatever trap my mom had set. There wasn’t much I wouldn’t do for her lasagna and she knew it. “I’m on my way.”

A few minutes later I opened the front door and followed the scents of garlic, fresh baked bread, and coffee into my parents’ kitchen.

“Hi, sweetie. Can you help me set the table? Everything will be ready in a few minutes.”

“Sure, Mom. Not that I’m complaining, but what’s up with the impromptu dinner?”

“Kimberly, there’s nothing impromptu about dinner. I just thought it would be lovely if we had a nice meal together. With everyone’s crazy schedules we just don’t get together as often as we should.”

My mom had taken out only four place settings. There was still hope. The trap could very well be for one of my brothers. It sure as heck wasn’t for my sister, Miss Baby Factory. She had married right out of college and started a family immediately after saying “I do.” My older brothers were also married and had provided my parents with several grandkids to spoil. That left my single brothers, Michael and Brandon, and me, the divorced daughter. This had better not be a setup or I was out of here, which would be a shame if I missed out on my mom’s amazing cooking, but with all the fast food restaurants, I wouldn’t starve.

“Where’s everybody else?” I asked.

“Brenna’s at home. She was a bit tired. Justin and Jason are both working. Your father is having dinner with your Uncle Charlie.”

Charles Wellington wasn’t really my uncle; he was my dad’s best friend. Over the years I had dated his son, Zach, on and off, keeping it hidden from our families. Zach and my brother, Michael, were best friends and that would not have gone over well with Michael.

Brandon and Michael walked into the kitchen from the mud room.

“You’re late,” my mom chided. They slid into their chairs and began to shovel food onto their plates.

“Sorry, Mom,” Brandon said.

“God, who smells like pot?” Michael asked, glaring at me.

“I don’t want to talk about it!” I grabbed my own plate and filled it with food.

After grace, we dug into our food.

“So, Kim, I heard this time you stabbed a guy. Nice going,” Brandon said.

“Don’t be stupid. Knife wounds are too bloody for Kim. She prefers to shoot her victims from far enough away she doesn’t get any blood spatter on her,” Michael said.

“You’re both so damn funny.”

“Kimberly, language, and, boys, don’t tease your sister,” Mom said, using the voice that took no sass from any of us.

“Yes, ma’am,” we muttered.

“Since we’re discussing this unfortunate incident, Michael, the least you could do is help your sister.”

“Help her with what?”

“She has a client who needs help.”

“Wait, how do you know that?” I asked.

Instead of answering, she looked at me and smiled. The only answer I could think of was that Jackie must have spilled her guts.

“Mom, you know I can’t. It’s an open case and it’s not even mine.”

“So you’re going to sit in my house, eat my food, and refuse to help your baby sister? I can’t believe it. I thought I raised you better than that.”

Guilt was a weapon my mom rarely used, but when she did, it was a beautiful sight, as long as it wasn’t pointed at me. It also became clear why my dad wasn’t present for dinner. No way was he going to get involved in the middle of this mess. At least not until he had to, and, oh God, did I hope it didn’t get bad enough that I needed his help.

“Mom, you know he can’t help her,” Brandon said.

My mom turned her stare on him. “Eat your dinner,” she ordered.

For several minutes the only sound was the grandfather clock chiming to let us know it was five o’clock. Finally, Michael began to tell me what he knew, which was mostly information I had already learned. He wrapped up, suggesting I look into Brian’s ex-girlfriend.

“Do you know her name?”

“No, but she’s a waitress at The Spitting Parrot.”

“Oh man, you’ve gotta mean Angie. The rest of the waitresses are either married or gay,” Brandon said.

“Does Angie have a last name?” I asked.

“I’m sure she does, I just don’t remember what it is,” Brandon replied.

“Ha, ha, ha.”

“If I were you, I’d avoid Tompkins. Man, was he pissed when he got back from the morgue.”

“Michael, language.”

“Sorry, Mom.”

We finished dinner and my brothers took off for work. I helped clean up and put the dishes in the dishwasher.

“Thanks,” I said.

“You’re welcome for dinner anytime, dear.”

“Yeah, well, for that and for getting Michael to discuss the case.”

“You didn’t kill that young man, and since you’ve agreed to look into it, the least your brothers could do is help you.”

“How did you know I was working this case?”

“Kimberly, dear, you’re not the only one with informants,” she said, winking at me.

“Mom, you’re the best.” I laughed and hugged her goodbye.

Chapter Four

I grabbed the list of names and addresses off of the passenger seat. I made notes next to the names of the people I had already spoken with. Figuring my luck was due to run out, I picked up my phone and called the next person on my list. He answered and was willing to talk to me if I got there soon. He delivered pizzas and was due at work in an hour.

I parked on the street in front of his apartment building and rang the doorbell. A man in his early twenties opened the door wearing a Domino’s Pizza shirt. He was six feet tall, with blond hair and gorgeous blue eyes. He looked like he should be on the cover of a men’s health magazine. “Hi, I’m looking for Kevin Alberts?”

“I’m Kevin.”

“Great. I’m Kim. I just spoke to you on the phone. I wanted to talk to you about Brian.”

“Sure, you must also be the woman David mentioned.”

“He mentioned me to you?”

“Yup, he said some hot lady was asking stupid questions about Brian.”

“He wasn’t exactly very helpful.”

“Sorry about that. David’s a good guy. It’s just that Brian’s death hit him hard.”

“How long did you know Brian?” I asked, keeping my opinion of David to myself.

“Since high school. We hung out together, well, until recently anyway.”

He invited me inside, but I declined. After spending time in Adam’s apartment, I wasn’t eager to go inside Kevin’s.

“Can you think of any reason someone would want to murder him?” I asked.

“Murder? I guess I assumed it was suicide,” he replied.

“Why’d you think it was a suicide?”

“He had been a bit depressed the last couple of months. It had gotten a bit worse lately. He didn’t even want to hang out anymore.”

“Do you know why?”

“He’d lost his job, his girlfriend, and his apartment. That’d be enough to make anyone depressed.”

I looked up from the notebook I’d brought with me to jot down notes in. “Wow. Do you know why he lost his job?”

“The company claimed it was making cuts but Brian figured it was because money was missing from the petty cash. They must have figured it had to be the ex-con.”

“Four of you did time together,” I said.

“We were young, stupid, and on drugs. We all got clean, did our time, and moved on.”

“What about his ex-girlfriend?”

“Angie Davis.”

“Why’d they break up?”

“Angie was using drugs. Brian wanted her to quit and they argued. He flushed her drugs down the toilet and she freaked out.”

“What kinds of drugs?”

“She had some pot, Vicodin, and some crack.”

“Wow, that’s seems like a lot for one person.”

Kevin looked down and began to pick at imaginary lint on his shirt.

“So, maybe she was using and selling?” I asked.

“Maybe,” he said, looking back up at me.

“Did you tell Detective Tompkins?”

“No. I didn’t want to get her jammed up with the cops.”

“I understand.”

“Look, I’ve got to get to work.”

“Yeah, thanks for your help.”

“No prob.” He chuckled.

“What?”

“I didn’t think your questions were dumb, but David was right about one thing.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“You’re definitely hot.” He winked.

Only a few years separated us, but since men matured at a much slower rate, I had kind of made a rule against dating younger men. Plus this one was part of my investigation. It didn’t matter in the least that this yummy-looking guy thought I was hot. It sure felt good though.

I gave him my card and asked him to call me if he thought of anything else. On the walk back to my car I couldn’t help but smile. My ego had gotten a much needed boost.

It was still too early to try Angie at the bar, so I drove home and spent a few hours channel surfing. I didn’t bother changing clothes. Dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and gym shoes, I’d fit right in. I moved my Glock from its regular spot on my belt to inside my purse. There was no need for me to announce I was armed. Not that I’d be the only one. Ever since Ohio passed the concealed carry law, even soccer moms were heavily armed. Though the law allowed people to carry a concealed gun inside a bar, the person was not allowed to drink. So what were they doing in a bar if they weren’t there to drink? The law made little sense to me, but then the lawmakers didn’t ask for my opinion.

The Spitting Parrot earned its name twenty years ago from the original owner. Otis Barnes kept his parrot, Spike, in the bar. Spike had the disgusting habit of spitting seeds at people as they entered the bar. Eventually a health inspector threatened to shut the place down if the parrot wasn’t ousted. Otis shut down the bar for several weeks. When he re-opened the bar, he renamed it The Spitting Parrot. Sometime during those weeks the inspector disappeared. Everybody figured Otis was involved but there was never any proof. Spike and Otis lived the rest of their lives in a double-wide trailer behind the bar. They died a few days apart. Rumor was that just before the funeral, Otis’s sons hid the bird in their dad’s coffin.

To this day the place was still run by his two sons. Since they took over, the place was cleaner, but the clientele had gotten worse. If you were looking for a nice guy or girl to meet the parents, go someplace else. If, on the other hand, your type was the ex-con, then this was the place for you.

By the time I arrived there were only a few empty seats. I grabbed the lone empty stool at the bar. The bartender’s arms, covered in tattoos, looked like an ad for one of the local gangs. When he made his way to me, I swapped a five dollar bill for a bottle of Coors Lite.

I picked up the bottle and looked around the room. It soon became clear I was in the minority. There was more ink showing in there than on all three of the bookcases I had in my living room. I did technically fit in, but my little tattoo was small and in a spot usually covered by clothes. Besides, the people in this bar would laugh their butts off if I tried boasting about mine. There was nothing scary about a butterfly and a book with the words
‘Let your dreams take flight.’

To celebrate my eighteenth birthday, my best friend, Melissa, got her hands on an assortment of alcohol. Of course we had felt it necessary not to let any of it go to waste. She and her mom lived over a tattoo parlor. Her mom was working the night shift at the hospital. To get our first tattoos we only had to stumble down a flight of stairs and hand over some cash. That weekend had started out great but went straight into the toilet, which was where I spent Saturday, Sunday, and most of Monday. It was the hangover to end all hangovers. My parents thought it was the flu, or at least pretended it was. I swore to God if I survived, I’d never get that drunk again. Ten years later and I’d kept that promise. Sort of, well, I’d tried to anyway.

Man, just being in this place had me reaching for a pack of Capri Menthol cigarettes. I quit six months ago thanks to my mother’s nagging, I mean, heartfelt concern for my well-being. I especially wanted one while driving, after eating, and after sex. Not that I’d had a whole lot of that last one lately. It had been so long even some of these guys were kind of looking good.

Fortunately, before my libido could take over, I spotted a red-haired waitress in a too tight t-shirt, a black skirt that barely covered her butt, and two-inch spike-heeled shoes. The small nametag identified her as Angie. I watched as she effortlessly moved from table to table, taking orders, delivering drinks, and ignoring the occasional ass grab. These guys didn’t realize how lucky they were. If I’d been their waitress, they’d have ended up with a pitcher of beer dumped in their laps.

Two hours and lite beers later, Angie walked out the front door. A minute later I stepped outside and found her a few feet from the door smoking a cigarette and fending off the rather crude advances of yet another admirer. I really didn’t think her meager hourly tips and wages were worth that kind of harassment, but what did I know. One thing was for sure, the waitresses at this place had better be escorted to their cars each night. The jerk finally got the message and went back inside the bar. I could smell the alcohol from several feet away. This guy was a DUI waiting to happen.

“God, what a jerk,” I said with what I hoped was a sympathetic smile.

Angie smirked. “He’s not as bad as most of these guys.”

“Swell, that’s good news.”

“Are you applying for the waitress job?”

“Ugh, I was thinking about it,” I lied.

“Don’t let that scare you off. It’s not a bad place to work and the tips are okay.”

“How long have you worked here?”

“Almost five years.”

“Wow, that’s a long time to work in those shoes every night.”

Angie glanced down at her shoes and back up at me before answering. “At first my feet hurt like hell, but then I got used to it.”

The breeze sent the smoke from her cigarette into my face. I sucked it in like a drunk downing their first drink of the day. Angie noticed and offered me a cigarette.

“Thanks, no, I’m trying to quit,” I said, a frown on my face.

“I hope you have better luck than I’ve had.”

“Thanks.” This totally sucked. She seemed so nice. The few drug dealers I’d had the misfortune to be around were total bastards. It was time to get this over with and go home. “Angie, I have a confession to make, I’m not here about the job.”

“Oh, look, you’re great and all, but I don’t date women.”

Oh my God, she actually thought I was hitting on her. How the hell did I get myself into these things?

“No, I’m a private investigator. I wanted to talk to you about your ex-boyfriend, Brian.”

“Oh jeez. Look, I heard about what happened but that’s it.”

“Why did you break up?”

“We just did, no reason,” she said, tossing her cigarette butt on the ground.

“That’s funny, because I’ve dumped and been dumped and there’s always a reason.”

“There wasn’t.”

“Really? I heard it was because of your drug problem.”

“Drugs? Are you kidding me? I don’t do drugs. I’m clean.”

“So you’re not using, but what about selling?”

“No way, I’m done with that stuff and selling is too dangerous.”

“So then what happened?”

“Oh hell, I guess it doesn’t matter now. He was hanging out with a bunch of losers. I warned him to stay away from them, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”

Before I could ask who the losers were, the door slammed open. There in the doorway stood the bartender, glaring at us. “The girls are swamped. You here to work or what?”

“I’m coming, jeez,” Angie replied.

“Wait, I just need another minute.”

“Sorry, I gotta go.”

“Can we talk again, soon?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Here’s my card. How about breakfast tomorrow? I’ll buy.”

“I guess, one o’clock at Max’s Diner on Main.”

“Perfect,” I replied, avoiding making eye contact with the irritated, very muscular bartender.

I got in my car and pulled out of the parking lot. Ten seconds later flashing lights appeared behind me.

“No freaking way.” I pulled over to the curb and rolled down my window.

“License and registration please.”

I looked up and found myself staring into a bright light. “Brandon, turn off the flashlight.”

“So, ma’am, have you been drinking tonight?”

“Call me ma’am one more time, and I’m gonna kick your butt.”

I could have sworn I heard him chuckle before ordering me to step out of my vehicle. “You’ve gotta be kidding.”

“I’m just doing my job, sis. Step out of the car.”

“Shit,” I said, opening the car door and stepping out onto the street.

“Nice language.”

“Do you honestly think I’d drive drunk?” I asked, no longer sure he was just giving me a hard time.

“No, but I had to make it look good. So, did you talk to Angie?”

“I’m sorry, but weren’t you the one who said we couldn’t discuss this case?”

“Oh, come on, Kim, you know I had to say that or Michael would have reamed me a new one.”

“I guess.”

“So, what’d Angie say?”

While I was quick to get myself entangled in one mess after another, I wasn’t eager to get my brother mixed up in another of my messes. “She didn’t say much.”

“God, you really suck at lying.”

“Shut up.”

“Kim, you need my help.”

“No, I don’t. Besides, if you got caught helping me, there isn’t a police department anywhere that would hire you, not even Dad’s.”

“That’s my business, not yours.”

“Fine, and
this
is
my
business, so butt out. If we’re done, I’m outta here.”