Romano and Albright 01 - Catch Me If You Can (MM) (11 page)

“I thought you were following me.”

“Not anymore. Remember?” He smiled at my tone.

“Hmph. Who
are
you following?”

“On this case? I’m weighing my options. I spent the morning on the computer checking your orange friend.”

I snatched the bag out of his hand. Inside were two cheese-cherry Danishes, and my stomach did a backflip with joy. “Oh. These are just perfect. Do I have to share?”

“I figured you had a sweet tooth.” He handed me a coffee.

“Why? Does it show?” I asked cheekily. His gaze swept down my body. He took his time, smirking over some smart-aleck comment, no doubt. I turned around and headed for the kitchen. I felt him watching me. “So tell me, master detective, why you didn’t ask me about that envelope last night.”

“Figure it out, Romano. C’mon. I know that you can.”

I took my coffee from the tray and added two and a half sugars. “You…opened my mail.”

He nodded. “Of course. It wasn’t sealed. But I didn’t know what the hell it meant until you started babbling.”

He sipped from his cup. I tried not to make a face. He was drinking coffee
unsweetened
. “Did you tell Mallory it isn’t me?”

“Well, she’s convinced that either Peter Stuhlmann is trying to discredit her or Posh Nosh is blackmailing her.” Not quite on the mark. Each time he lifted his cup, I got another look at his left hand. Stripes of white were neatly lined across the backs of his knuckles. Like he’d been lashed or whipped. He saw me staring but didn’t offer any explanation. Instead, he pushed through the swinging door with his coffee and the treat. “Okay, Romano, show me around this taco stand. Let’s see what we can come up with.”

I gave him the nickel tour while I inhaled my Danish. I tried not to be a pig about it, but I probably had crumbs on my nose. Dan checked the men’s room where I’d found Shep, he looked at the watch, he peeked in the trash. He didn’t say much, just sipped his coffee.

I unlocked Peter’s office.

“Why’s there a condom on the floor?”

I got a bit defensive. “It’s not in my job description to pick up Peter’s leavings.”

“All righty then. But are you sure it’s Peter’s? If it’s Shep’s, that’s evidence, should he report it.”

“I guess…it could be anyone’s,” I admitted. I grabbed the not-so-secret key, and we headed to the fifth floor.

Dan whistled, impressed by the hidden stairs. “No one knows about this?”

We stood at the window, admiring the view of the alley and the backside of the buildings. The milk truck sat in front of the dumpster, which was poor planning on my part. Those guys were going to use it as a urinal. “Just Peter and I and any number of people he’s here to have sex with. I guess.”

He squinted at the van. “How ’bout you?”

“Me? Sure, I’ve been up here a few times, yes.” I was purposefully obtuse.

“So Peter has illicit affairs up on the fifth floor.”

“No. Peter has both rare and not-yet-understood artifacts on the fifth floor. He prefers the sex to be in his office—and he likes inappropriately young women. I think he likes to show off his etchings.”

Dan licked a crumb off his thumb. His tongue swiped across his skin, and I had to look away. “Ah. Hey, who’s that?”

Captain and Joseph appeared from around the side of the van. “What the hell? They better not have peed on that truck again.”

He laughed, his tone deep and unexpected in the narrow stairwell. “You shouldn’t leave the truck there. It’s too pretty for them not to piss on.”

The two of them loped over to their pallet, a bottle a piece in hand. I swear to God, it looked like scotch.

“They’re just bums. They sit down there all day drinking. They’re harmless.”

“No. They’re witnesses.”

“When they’re sober.”

We climbed up to the fifth floor and, yadda yadda, I showed him the clown room. I found myself uttering, “Now you can’t tell anyone about this.”

“I’ll be discreet,” he said solemnly.

So, I let Dan in on yet another sworn secret. (The first being not to out Shep—which had lasted for, oh, two seconds. The second being about five minutes ago when on our cozy tour I mentioned Rachel’s delicate incision into womanhood.) Bracing myself, I opened the door. This situation with Peter was still shocking to me.

It didn’t seem as traumatizing for the good detective, although he did snicker once or twice. Then understanding sobered him. “What did you say is missing?”

“I didn’t. And Peter hasn’t said. But…he has a
compulsion
, that from his own mouth. I’m sure he took the painting from Mallory. It was at the last show.” My phone rang while Dan poked around. It was Poppy. “Hey.”

“Ce, listen. I just got messages from six different wait-staff boys, and they tell me that you’re harassing them. What the hell is going on?”

“Always a pleasure to hear from you too.”

Dan was opening and closing drawers in the highboy. He drew out a small tackle box, tilting his head curiously, like an overgrown beagle. He mouthed, “Who’s that?”

I turned away. He was distracting in his black leather and faded denim. He was also unsurprised by this new development with Peter, and that ticked me off. “Poppy, has anyone taken anything from you over the last few days or weeks?”

She was silent. I could picture her big blue guileless eyes. Finally she asked, “Why?”

“Because there’s a lot of that going on. I need to know if someone is harassing you.” I secretly watched Dan, who pulled a red ball from the tackle box and stuck it on his nose. He turned and grinned goofily at me. I covered the phone. “Could you please? I’m trying to focus.”

Bastard winked at me.

Poppy seemed hyper. “Mallory Albright keeps calling me. She’s called me like ten times since yesterday. I think she’s stalking me, I’m not kidding. I’m off this weekend and I’ll call her tomorrow. You know, she still hasn’t paid me for the last gig. I doubt she’s phoning on the weekend to pay her bill. Did you send her your resume yet?”

“Slow down. Where are you?”

Dan set the tackle box on the bed and searched the rest of the dresser. From the bottom drawer, he extracted an absurd pair of red and yellow wingtips. They were hugely disproportionate to…everything. He set those on the bed.

Poppy grew hesitant. “I’m away. I’m…God…I’m with my folks.” She was tiptoeing around something. “I’ll tell you more when I get back, okay? I just want some time to myself to think. There’s lots of work coming in and I need a break.”

“Fine. No one is hassling you?”

“Not really. Although, I’m telling you, more than a few people haven’t paid me. That’s always a hassle. Just…could you lay off the waiters? I need someone to show up for the next gig.”

I said peevishly, “Sure, whatever you want. I need to use the truck ’til you get back.”

“Of course you can. Don’t take a tone with me, Mr. Tone Taker. I love you, don’t be a douche. And don’t grind my clutch.” She disconnected.

Dan was holding a fright wig. “You know, your boss is a clown.”

“Yeah. And you don’t even know him.”

White greasepaint stained his hand. In the box lay a wide array of colorful pots and sticks, brushes and sponges. There was a jar of Noxzema. That explained Pete’s odd cologne. It just kept getting worse. Dan stuck the shoes back in the drawer. “I wonder if it’s a sexual thing.”

Yes. Still getting worse. Peter having sex in clown shoes? Ugh. “Well. There’s an image I didn’t need. Thank you.”

From downstairs the bell rang and we both froze. “Shit.” I took off, flying through the apartment as the buzzer buzzed insistently. It rang and rang. Some idiot was holding the button.

I raced down the stairs two at a time, crashed through Peter’s office, and took the corner around the desk at a sprint. The ball of my foot hit something slippery—the condom. I slid, my right leg buckled awkwardly behind my left, and once again I was flailing. I reached to grab the desk and latched onto the Rodin. That damn statue was a pain in the ass. It tipped, and we both hit the carpet with a hollow
doink
.

The statue split in half.

The buzzer buzzed, and I was sprawled on my belly on the carpet with a used rubber on my shoe. Dan ambled past me. “You are such a spaz, Romano.” He pointed at my shoe. “Don’t touch that with your fingers.”

Dan breezed down the stairs—his dark hair disappeared as he went to answer the door. I despised him at that moment. I hauled myself to my feet, scraped the condom off my shoe with a broken piece of Rodin, and decided that without question Peter was a tool.

Voices floated up the stairwell. I went to see who was below, but froze at Dan’s words.

“Sure. Captain, you said? Yeah. You can use the bathroom. Second door on the right.”

“I really think that we need to look at your friend the cereal guy.” Dan was using the wireless in my office while I finished prepping the Pappineau monstrosities. He dwarfed my spindly desk—which was actually a very nice Sheraton side table. Not a real desk at all. Just one more of Peter’s beautifully collected pieces. It would be nice to have an actual desk. One that was broader, with sturdy drawers, and thick, masculine legs. I’d use a real leather blotter. That side table just screamed
queen
.

I put down the bubble wrap. “Shep’s not a friend. Poppy is a friend. He is my former roommate.”

Dan tipped back on my fragile, antique chair while I waited for it to crumble under his weight. He steepled his fingers, obviously thinking grand thoughts. “Sheppard McNamara. He’s a famous straight guy who wants to play romantic leads. And you two were lovers, right? For years.”

“Yes. Three years. Where are you going with this?”

“He’s afraid of you. He must be terrified of his cousin. Men will do a lot of things to keep their secrets hidden. Lie. Cheat. Steal. I see it every day.”

“Well, he didn’t violate himself. I’m telling you. I saw the video.”

He shrugged. “That may be true, but how do you know the video is recent?” He tapped away on the keyboard, and then whistled. “He’s loaded. Someone must have died and left him a windfall. We should go visit him.” I must have made a face because Dan added, “To have a jumping-off point.”

“He didn’t steal a painting. He was too drunk to walk. He’s not involved.”

“He’s a lead. I need to speak with him. He must remember something.”

“I am not going over there. He’s out at his mother’s anyway.” Maybe. “Besides, I don’t know where he lives. You’ll have to look it up.”

Dan put the chair down with a bang. He closed the computer and stood. The man flipping towered over my frail furnishings. He grabbed his jacket.

“Where are you going?”

“C’mon. We can say we were in the neighborhood or something and we wanted to talk.”

“Can’t you see that I’m working?”

“Caesar. Not a single customer has walked through the door since I got here. Just that bum who used the can. You can wrap the knickknacks tomorrow. Flip the fucking sign and let’s go. We’re not getting any closer to finding Mallory’s painting or your…bust.” He said that with a gleam in his eyes and a quick look at my pecs.

But he did have a point. “Why do you need me?”

“To get in the door.”

What could I do? I capitulated and, as we turned the lock, I almost fell over Joseph who’d tucked himself into the back doorway. At his feet, a KFC bucket was full of chicken bones. He was greasy and as sour as pickled eggs.

“Hey.” Dan nudged our resident vagrant with the toe of his boot. “You awake?”

Joseph curled more deeply into his dirty jacket. “A’yup.”

“Did you go into this place yesterday? Through that door?”

Joseph nodded. I stared at the man, my jaw slack. “No way. You were unconscious. I saw you.”

Dan ignored me. “For twenty bucks—and a free pass at not getting your ass kicked—who sent you in there and what did you do?”

Rheumy blue eyes barely focused. Joseph slurred, “I put that thing on the table and he give us some cash. Cap’n kept watch.”

I felt like an idiot. “You guys made more money yesterday than I did.”

The afternoon light slipped behind the buildings and everything lay in purple shadow. I was hardly surprised when Captain appeared from behind the van. I regarded him with a renewed sense of distrust. They were both crafty bastards, even if they were wasted on scotch. I was this close to asking him for my money back.

Captain stumbled over in grimy wet boots. He joined us on the stoop. He reeked of a desperate life on the streets—the foul concoction of garbage, urine, alcohol and deep fried chicken. “Yeah. He was the guy with the ball cap. He was sort of dark complected.”

“That’s not even a word,” I snapped. “Was he dark skinned or was his complexion dark?”

“Is too. Look it up.”

Dan tried to silence me with a quelling look. “Funny how?”

“He was white, but he was also odd. I dunno. We was sort of liquored up.”

I knew where Dan was going with this, and he was wrong. “That’s Brandon. He was burned when I saw him.”

“Could be. We’ll check him next. But it could also be your friend. His tan was pretty deep when I saw him.”

I turned to Captain and Joseph. “Did someone pay you to tell us this crap?”

“Nope.”

“They probably paid you to say that too.” I’d had enough. Dan shelled out more cash for both the men while I stormed off toward the truck. I wondered if he should ask them for a receipt. Did Mallory cover his expenses? He should have kicked their asses.
I
should have kicked their asses, but I wasn’t about to touch either of them.

There was another puddle on the tire. “You guys need to stop pissing on this truck. Do you hear me? Before I call the cops.”

Dan grabbed my sleeve and practically threw me into the driver’s seat. “Can it. We can hit the car wash. It’s only pee. Relax and drive.”

I waited for him to get in. “I bet they have typhoid. Or…syphilis.”

“Nah. Probably just Hep C.” He fumbled with his BlackBerry, thumb typing, then rattled off Shep’s address. “Those guys aren’t as harmless as they look.”

“No kidding.”

“You’re just pissed that they got the better of you.”