Sticky Fingers (14 page)

“Is that supposed to be suggestive, Mr. Clean?”

“Shut up.” He blew a sigh of frustration. “You’re just— You could trust a person once in a while, Roxy, that’s all I’m saying. I’m trying to be your friend here.”

“I don’t need any more friends,” I shot back.

“You just don’t know how to handle a man who doesn’t care about getting into your pants.”

“Maybe we ought to climb into the backseat and get off a quick one,” I said. “It might establish who’s in charge.”

“Shut your dirty mouth.” He flushed, and for the first time I thought he might lose his temper in a big way. “Why do you make it so hard to get along with you? I can see why Mitchell and Eckelstine popped you in the mouth.”

“You want to try it yourself?” I stuck my jaw out to be socked.

“Cut it out.”

I saw, finally, that Detective Duffy wasn’t cool with dead bodies the way TV cops seemed to be. He was a little green, in fact. Unhappy. Maybe feeling just as sick as I was.

I turned away from the carpet and its awful contents. “Okay, sorry. It’s been a bad day.”

“You got that right,” he muttered, turning to glare at the river.

“For those kids, especially,” I said. “Who’s going to tell them their mother’s gone?”

“Not me, that’s for sure.”

“That daughter of Mitchell’s—the girl—she— Did you see her? Talk to her? This could really screw with her head, you know.”

The words stuck in my throat after that. I felt a tsunami of sympathy for Sugar Mitchell. She seemed like a sweet kid. She didn’t deserve what was coming.

Bug’s face softened. “Sorry. I should have seen this from your point of view. I know how your mom died, Rox. With you there, a witness to everything. That probably messed you up for life.”

I don’t know what I hated more—the sympathy people were always trying to give me, or the painful hole that seemed to widen inside when the subject of my mother’s murder came up. I liked things better when I didn’t feel anything.

Voice harsh, I said, “Yeah, well, buy me an ice-cream cone and I’ll be fine.”

Bug sighed.

We stood for a moment, staring at the river, trying to forget what was behind us. Out of the blue, I said, “You know anything about Mr. Squeegee?”

“Who?”

“It’s an ice-cream chain or something.”

“Mr. Squishy.” Bug sounded tired. “It’s frozen custard. My kids love that stuff. The Oreo swirl is pretty good.” He dug into his pocket and came up with a pack of gum. He peeled off a stick and offered it to me.

I took it and unwrapped the stick. “My daughter’s dating the heir apparent.”

“Did she meet him scooping butter pecan for his father?”

“She’s not working at any damn ice-cream parlor. She’s going to get an education, dammit.”

Bug popped his stick of gum into his mouth. “Trouble at home, huh?”

“It’s not trouble yet. I’m going to try to visualize Sage in college. Learning to make something of herself. Do you believe in that visualization stuff?”

“Not so much.”

“Me neither. Look, can’t I say something about Clarice’s kids without triggering a sapfest? What happened to me is long buried.”

“Whatever you say, Rox.” He sighed again. “Hang around, okay? You’re still in my custody.”

He turned away and walked over to the crime-scene team.

I hung around for a while, freezing my ass off. Getting mad, calming down, feeling sick, then pulling myself together. Wondering about Clarice. Thinking about her daughter, then out of nowhere wondering if Sage was somewhere safe. I shoved the mental images of my own mother’s dead body as far down into the darkness of my soul as I could manage.

Seemed like I’d spent the whole day watching cops work at a glacial pace.

Finally, I’d had enough. I waited until Bug was on his phone, and then I walked away, stopping by the cruiser only long enough to grab my cell phone from the front seat where Bug had put it after taking it away from me. While I was there, I took Bug’s police parking medallion from the dashboard, too. Might come in handy someday. You never know.

I walked up to the casino, cut cross the parking lot, and went past the weird statue of Mr. Rogers putting on his sneakers. As usual, there were some tourists taking pictures of their kids sitting in the statue’s lap. The kids didn’t think the statue was weird. For a few minutes, I lost myself in the crowd to be sure the cops hadn’t decided to follow me.

Nobody came looking, so I kept walking.

I dialed Nooch on my cell phone. I’d left him in charge of Rooney and the truck.

When he picked up, I said, “Come pick me up in front of the baseball stadium, by Willie Stargell.”

“What are you doing there?” he asked. “It’s not baseball season.”

“Just come get me.”

I tried Marvin’s phone again. I wanted to know everything about the kidnapping job he’d offered to me. Because obviously somebody else took the job, and it had gone very, very wrong. But he didn’t answer.

I reached the baseball stadium within a few minutes and hung around the statues of long-gone players, waiting for Nooch and thinking about Clarice and how she must have died. My teeth chattered in the cold, and I kept my arms folded across my chest.

I considered all the guys who did favors for Uncle Carmine over the years. But my memories were dim. Most of the colorful old hit men were gone now—half out of commission in nursing homes, the other half buried in Catholic cemeteries all over the city.

The Monster Truck pulled up, and I almost screamed.

Somebody had pelted the windshield with eggs. And smashed in one of my headlights. Nooch had turned on the wipers, and the yellow egg mess was now streaked all over the glass and leaking down across the hood. Even Rooney hunkered down in the seat to avoid my wrath.

I grabbed the passenger door and yanked it open. Nooch sat behind the wheel, holding a Pepsi can against his swollen face. Seeing him hurt made my heart jerk.

“What happened?” I demanded.

“It was Gino Martinelli,” he said. “I’m sorry, Rox, I really am. I wasn’t going to hit him, but—”

“You hit him?” I tried not to panic. “What happened to positive energy and all that jazz?”

“I dunno,” he moaned. “I went a little nuts.”

“It’s understandable.” I pulled myself together and climbed into the truck, pushing Rooney out of my way. “Next time we see him, you can beat him into hamburger.”

“No kidding? Usually, you—”

“Just kidding,” I said. I gave up trying to be calm for Nooch’s sake. All of a sudden, I was really tired. Exhausted, almost. “Don’t go hitting Gino, or you’ll get arrested for busting your parole. What happened?”

Nooch took a deep breath. “I was getting myself a hoagie in Bruno’s. Ham and capicola with provolone. My favorite. I was gonna share with you, Rox, honest. But when I came out of Bruno’s, there was Gino kicking in your headlight.”

“He kicked it in?” My voice cracked.

“Well, he tried,” Nooch said. “I picked him up—you know, to stop him from doing any damage, and he started swinging at me. He hit me in the face with his elbow, see?” He stuck out his cheek for me to see the blotchy welt there.

I clenched my teeth. “Yeah, I see.”

“Anyway, I kinda tossed him onto the sidewalk. Then I lost my balance.”

“You fell?”

He blushed. “It was me who broke the headlight, Rox.” He pushed up his knit cap to show me the bruise swelling on his forehead. “I’m really sorry.”

What bugged me more than anything was seeing Nooch with all his positive energy drained like somebody had pulled a plug. That son of a bitch Gino had picked on Nooch because he was too chicken to come at me instead.

I rubbed my face, trying to hold on to my temper. “That Gino is a scamp, isn’t he?”

“What are you going to do, Rox?”

“I’ll figure out something. When I get a minute to think straight. A lot has happened. I need to cogitate a little. How about driving me over to the Wainwright Hotel?”

“On Sixth?”

I turned up the heater, buckled my seatbelt, and flopped back against the headrest. Gino was like a boil on my butt, but the real problem was Clarice. Now that she was dead, things had really changed. While Nooch drove, I said, “Tell me more about the limo you saw the night Clarice disappeared.”

“What limo?”

“You said you saw a black limousine outside the Crabtree house while you waited in the truck. You said it sat there, but went away after a couple of minutes. Did you get the license plate?”

“No.”

What was I thinking? Of course Nooch hadn’t memorized the plate number. “Was it a Premier Limo? Premier has the little star decal on the back bumper. Visualize. Do you remember any little star?”

Nooch squinched up his face. “I don’t think so.”

“Maybe it was from that company that has the little flags on the antenna? Was there any little flag?”

Nooch shook his head. “I’da remembered a flag.”

“What about Anderson Transportation? Their cars always have the A-1 magnetic sign attached to the—”

“Yes!” Nooch bounced in his seat, causing Rooney to growl. “Yes, there was an A on the trunk!”

“See? Now we’re getting somewhere. All of your positive crap is paying off.”

I directed Nooch to pull under the canopy in front of the Wainwright Hotel—one of Pittsburgh’s refurbished landmarks. A couple of taxis were letting off passengers with suitcases. I bailed out of the truck and told Nooch to sit tight.

Alongside the hedge sat an Anderson limo, engine running, driver sitting behind the wheel reading a magazine, waiting for a passenger. I hustled over and knocked on the window. The window hummed down, and the face that looked up at me was none other than that of Pam Anderson herself, daughter of the company’s owner. She was wearing a black suit with a white shirt underneath, very professional. Pearl necklace, pink nail polish, matching lipstick. Nothing like the way she looked when she enjoyed her favorite pastime—her roller derby team. Pam was famous around town as the Bumper—a ruthless member of the Burgh Bombers.

She recognized me and said. “Well, if it isn’t Heidi Klum. How’s life at the top of the best-dressed list, Rox?”

Okay, so I’m not a fashion model. But I didn’t spend my weekends knocking other women on their cans in front of bellowing fans.

I pointed. “You’ve got a spider on your shoulder, Pam.”

She shrieked and jumped out of the limo, then tore off her tailored jacket and threw it on the pavement. She danced around, screaming for a while, then saw my face and finally stopped the hysterics.

“You bitch,” she said.

“I’m getting a lot of that lately. Got a minute?”

“I should shoot you right now.”

She reached behind the waistband of her pencil skirt, but stopped before yanking out whatever firearm she had concealed there. Already, she’d drawn the attention of everybody within shouting distance. The Bumper shooting me in the driveway of the hotel was going to make headlines her company didn’t need. Plus mess up her outfit.

Pam’s dad, Roger Anderson, had made his fortune running numbers before he finally opened a used-car dealership that specialized in not asking questions. He went to jail a few times and finally tried a legit business, driving limos and special-event buses for senior citizens who wanted to visit Gatlinburg and Niagara Falls. He made a pretty good living at it, and now all of his kids were vying to run the operation. Pam, the youngest, was obviously trying to learn the business from behind a steering wheel for the time when her roller derby career finally dwindled.

“Take it easy, Pam. Let’s remember who testified in your brother’s favor last year.”

Pam narrowed her already slitty eyes at me. “He went to jail anyway.”

“But only for three months. He was out in time for your mom’s birthday, right?”

She stopped reaching for her gun. “What do you want?”

“There was an Anderson limo out last night, up on Cherry Street, about seven. Were you the driver?”

“No,” she said sullenly. “I had a date last night.”

“Congratulations. Anybody I know?”

“I hope not!” She bristled as if insulted. “Are we done?”

“I need to know who was driving last night. Who the passenger was.”

“Why should I tell you?”

“If you tell me, I won’t tell the police one of your cars was up there.”

“Why should it matter where the car was?”

“When you read the paper tomorrow morning, you’ll know why it matters. Your dad will be happy you cooperated. Just tell me, okay?”

Pam was savvy enough to understand that something had happened that didn’t need the addition of an Anderson vehicle to the mix. She picked up her jacket and dusted it off. “It was Dooce.”

“What?”

“The rock singer.” She hooked her thumb at the hotel. “He’s staying here. We’re on call for him, night and day. Last night, he went out for dinner. Him and his assistant—Jeremy somebody. My brother Donnie says they took a drive up into the city first. Some neighborhood. Could have been Cherry Street, for all I know.”

“What were they doing up there?”

“How should I know? They wanted to drive around, so Donnie did what he was told.”

I stood in the driveway and tried to figure out what it meant. Dooce was in town for his concert. Dragging around a food writer, too. What the hell connection did he have with the Crabtrees? Or was it some coincidence he’d been near their house?

Pam said, “Be careful, Roxy. The steam coming out of your ears might ruin that hairdo of yours.”

“Relax, Pammy. Bad hair’s not contagious. You know anything else about this evening drive Dooce took?”

“Only that his assistant lost a briefcase somewhere. Donnie had to retrace their route today, but he didn’t find it.”

“Briefcase?” I said. “Or a messenger bag?”

Pam shrugged. “What’s the difference?”

What the heck had Dooce’s assistant been doing up at the Crabtree house? I wondered. Had they been mixed up in Clarice’s kidnapping? Seemed impossible.

I left Pam and walked back to the Monster Truck.

I told Nooch to move over, and as I climbed into the driver’s seat, my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I checked the screen. There was nobody I wanted to talk to, except Marvin Weiss.