The Red Hot Fix (33 page)

“Chicago?” Jimmy asked. “They’ve always been a Northwest company. Is nobody loyal to the hometown anymore?”

Micki shook her head. “They started as an Internet business. Always been worldwide. But this would have been their first retail store outside the region.” She directed Mort to a sheet marked with a pink Post-it. “This is a lease locking Rainy Day into twelve thousand square feet of space downtown. Look at the date.”

Mort scanned the copy. “I see the date, but what’s jumping out at me is the monthly cost. You gotta sell a lot of canoes and tennis rackets to cover that nut.”

“Michigan Avenue’s some of the most expensive real estate in the country. I talked to the leasing agent. She put me in touch with the designer. Fit with Felicia was going to have nearly a thousand square feet dedicated to selling her fitness gear.”

“Almost ten percent,” Mort mused. “Vogel was showcasing his mistress in a mighty way.”

Micki pointed to the signature line. “Pierce Stinson signed the lease. The Chicago store was Pierce’s baby. It was common knowledge around corporate that Vogel didn’t think it was such a good idea.”

“Junior was running the store while wifey was running the Wings.” Jimmy smirked. “Keeping Vogel free to play with the mistress. Man, that guy was begging to get whacked.”

“It gets better.” Micki flipped to another page in her notebook. “The leasing agent tells me the deal crashed and burned. Vogel called and canceled the lease. She starts yelling about renovations being nearly completed but Vogel orders her to cancel the whole thing. Call his lawyer and arrange a buyout. Rainy Day isn’t coming to Chicago.”

“When did this conversation take place?” Mort’s radar was on high alert.

“Two days before Vogel was killed.”

“Which puts it on the same day he tosses Felicia out,” Jimmy said. “All that money Felicia might have been spending in her head is suddenly unavailable. I smell a motive.”

“Wait a minute, Jimmy,” Mort said. They all knew Micki had checked Felicia out after her initial questioning. Her alibi was convincing. At least fifteen technicians were ready to swear she was in the studio the entire evening taping a new exercise video. “Felicia was excited. Said Chicago was rolling again.”

Micki pointed to the sheets of paper marked with a green Post-it. “This was signed yesterday. A new lease for the same space. Rent’s a bit higher. Probably a penalty for Vogel’s last-minute back-out.”

“Signed again by Pierce Stinson.” Mort flipped to the next page and let out a low whistle.

“That’s a photocopy of the check Stinson sent the leasing agent. One year’s rent. In
advance.” Micki leaned back. “The Chicago deal’s back on. Pierce gets his showcase and Felicia gets center stage.”

“Oh, sweet Mary.” Jimmy signaled Bruiser over and scratched behind his ears. “You don’t think sonny boy’s doing the mistress, do you? It’s right out of a Greek tragedy.”

Mort closed the file.
Yes, sir. I should have been a carpenter
.

Mort looked through the double-paned glass separating the control room from the studio while Jimmy answered the director and sound man’s questions about police dog training. He saw Felicia stepping off aerobic moves across a set designed to look like an underwater reef. Behind her, six young women in green workout costumes chewed gum, stretched, and generally looked bored. Their outfits weren’t nearly as provocative as the electric-blue second skin of Felicia’s leotard.

“This a video?” Mort watched Felicia turn and clap her hands. The six women fell into formation and slapped on smiles.

“No, that wrapped yesterday,” the man in a grungy knit hat answered. “This is a commercial. That is, if Felicia stops making changes and we can start the damned thing.”

“She’s a fussy boss?” Jimmy asked.

“I’m the boss.” Knit Hat let out a sigh. “At least it’s my name next to ‘Director.’ And ‘fussy’ is too tame.” He glanced at the activity in the studio. “What the hell. I’m paid by the hour.”

“You direct the videos, too?” Mort asked.

“All twelve of them.” Knit Hat checked the monitor. “It ain’t
Citizen Kane
, but it keeps me in Doritos and beer.”

Mort handed him a warrant for copies of tapes from the last three days and waited for a protest.

“That’s cool. Always happy to help a cop.” He called a young woman into the booth and told her which masters to duplicate. “This about Felicia’s latest change of address?”

“What’s your curiosity?”

Knit Hat threw a look to his sound man. “C’mon. We know she’s banging someone big. I mean, you can’t pass a corner in Seattle without seeing thirty girls with tight bodies juggling coffee mugs and yoga mats. Each one of ’em’s a knockout. Yet this one gets her own fitness empire and lives in a penthouse that costs more a month than my folks paid for their first house.” He shrugged. “Then out of the blue she’s looking to couch-surf and crying we might have to shut production. She mopes around a few days, then, boom, she’s smiling and shopping for condos on the bay. Now you’re here asking to see tapes. I’m just wondering if one thing’s connected to the other, that’s all.”

Before Mort could answer, the young assistant returned and handed Mort what looked
like a key chain. “What’s this?”

“The videos you wanted.”

Mort rolled the piece of plastic in his fingers.

“Digital age, partner.” Jimmy pointed to the studio. “Looks like our star’s taking a break.”

Mort rapped on the glass. Felicia turned toward the sound and stumbled back a half step. She bit her bottom lip, looked around the studio, then hurried out of Mort’s sight.

“Not exactly thrilled to see us, is she?” Jimmy grabbed Bruiser’s leash and said his goodbyes to the men in the booth.

Mort thanked them for their cooperation. “Tell Felicia why we came. Make sure she knows the dates of the tapes we wanted.”

“Somebody better explain to me fast why we’re here.” Lyndon Baines Johnson waddled around the interview room while Mort stood by the door. “My client has a game tomorrow night, in case you Keystone Kops haven’t heard.”

Mort nodded toward LionEl. “This losing streak’s gotta hurt. We should have the three of you out of here in less than an hour. Plenty of time for practice.”

Mort was counting on this morning’s meeting to ruffle LionEl’s feathers. One slip was all he needed from the NBA star. He’d take it from there.

LBJ stopped his pacing. “The three of us?” He put a hand over his eyes and made an exaggerated show of peering around the room. “You got a mouse in your pocket? And you can shut the fuck up telling my client he needs to practice. LionEl is the center of the roundball universe. He doesn’t need some city-payroll-watch-the-game-on-TV-sucking-down-cheap-beer-armchair-critic commenting on his game. Now, why are we here?”

Mort looked at his watch. “Let me see if I can find out what the holdup is.” He left a silent LionEl alone with his sputtering agent and joined his crew. Micki and Jimmy were seated in front of a bank of monitors, each showing different angles of the interview room. Bruiser lounged in the corner working his way through a rawhide bone the size of a lumberjack’s arm.

“You catching this?” Mort asked Micki.

“Yep,” she said. “Not hearing a word from LionEl, but LBJ’s coming through loud and clear.”

“Our next guest on time?” Jimmy asked.

Mort checked the clock. “I told him to be here at eleven fifteen. I wanted those two to have time to settle so we can get their reaction when he walks in. Daphne should be bringing him about now.” He kept his eyes on the screens. A minute later monitor number three showed the door to the interview room open.

“You should take a seat and wait for the detectives.” Daphne’s nasal voice stabbed through the speakers. Mort shifted his attention to monitor number one and saw LBJ’s face freeze when Barry Gardener entered the room.

“What the hell?” the fat man asked.

LionEl opened his eyes. He looked over to his agent, said nothing, and closed his eyes again. The hands crossed over his chest flexed into fists.

“This is going to be fun.” Jimmy leaned forward and turned up the volume. “We’re
trapping this, right, Mick?”

“Straight to DVD.” Micki looked over to Mort. “You catch LionEl’s twitch?”

Mort nodded. So far so good.

“Why you here, Barry?” The speakers picked up the groan of the plastic chair as LBJ settled his bulk beside LionEl.

Gardener shrugged and leaned against the wall. Monitor three held him in center frame. “The police are looking for Vogel’s killer. I’m guessing they think it’s one of us.”

Jimmy chuckled. “Kid’s cool. Gets right to the point.”

“LionEl’s paying attention now,” Micki said. “Where was that quick reflex last night?” she asked. “I lost ten bucks … and I had the spread.”

“What the fuck?” LBJ ran a hand across the back of his thick neck. “They got that ho. Why they looking at us?”

“Not exactly a denial, is it?” Jimmy noted. “Look at LionEl.”

LionEl reached into the center of the table and poured himself a glass of water.

“Track that glass, Micki.” Mort smiled at his first break of the day. “We can get prints to compare with unidentifieds at the scene.”

“Trixie didn’t kill Vogel, L.B.” Barry was as relaxed as a guy in a meadow watching the sunset. “You see a guy like that paying for sex from the street?”

LionEl’s and LBJ’s synchronized squirms elicited grins from everyone in the control room.

“So they’re looking at us?” LBJ’s voice shook.

Barry kicked free of the wall and poured his own glass of water.

“That’s two,” Jimmy counted.

“They talked with me after Vogel was killed.” Barry leaned a hip on the table. “They asked me down here.”

LionEl smiled toward his agent. “So they liking you for this.”

“They had questions about the No Fly Zone,” Barry shot back.

Monitor one captured the grin fading from LionEl’s face. “The No Fly? What they know about that? How the fuck they know about No Fly?” He punched a finger toward Barry. “And what the fuck you know? Last I checked, they didn’t let Oreos in the place.”

Jimmy whistled low. “Now we’re going someplace.”

Barry pulled himself taller. Anger sparked in the rookie’s eyes and Mort braced for an outburst. But Barry gulped some water and the anger disappeared. The kid knew how to control himself. That was good for the Wings but bad for what Mort needed to accomplish. Fortunately, LionEl lacked similar emotional management skills.

“I asked you a question, rookie.” LionEl puffed out his chest. “What you doin’ in my
joint?”

A lazy smile crossed Barry Gardener’s lips and Mort knew the guard was playing his own game.

“The No Fly’s public, LionEl.” Gardener’s voice was soft and steady. He nodded to LBJ. “And your agent introduced me to the place.”

The resolution on monitor three was so clear Mort could see the sweat beading on LBJ’s upper lip as LionEl spun toward him. “The fuck? That’s our hole.”

“Trouble in paradise.” Micki laughed. “Let’s see the fat guy wiggle out of this one.”

“We went for a beer one night is all.” LBJ’s voice was two pitches higher than normal. He turned to Barry and telegraphed a request for help. “You had a Miller, right?” LBJ shifted back to his friend. “You were with that blonde from Tukwila, LionEl. Otherwise I would have asked you to come with us.”

LionEl pushed back from the table. He kept his eyes on LBJ but directed his question to Barry. “What night you go out with my man here?”

“Afternoon of game three. And I didn’t have a beer. Not four hours before tip-off.”

LionEl’s focus stayed on his sweating agent. “That’s when Vogel got got. What did my man have to say that afternoon of game three?”

“I can’t believe it,” Micki said. “Don’t these guys watch cop shows? They gotta know we’re seeing this.”

“You’d be surprised what we males forget when it’s time to snort and lock horns,” Jimmy said.

Barry bowed his head and bit his lower lip. LionEl jumped up and LBJ flinched.

“What you say to him, L.B.? Tell me now or you’re gonna need every cop in this house to save your fat ass.”

“Calm down.” Gardener’s steadiness in the face of LionEl’s mounting rage impressed Mort. “It was a business meeting, plain and simple. LBJ knows I had a two-year contract and wanted to rep me in my renewal negotiations with Vogel.”

LBJ covered his face with two fat hands and moaned.

“You want to be this guy’s agent, L.B.?” LionEl threw his arms into the air. “What? My twenty percent ain’t enough? You want to start dividing your time? Take your eyes off me and my needs and go after this pissant newbie?”

Barry stepped behind LBJ. “Chill, man. It’s just business. You can’t blame a guy for wanting to get paid after you’re done.”

LionEl slammed his hands down on the table and shoved his face less than an inch from LBJ’s nose. “After I’m
done
? You at our joint talking to some jive-punk rookie about covering your ass after I’m
done
?”

Sweat stained the armpits of LBJ’s thousand-dollar suit.

“It’s not like that, LionEl.” LBJ tried to push his chair back. “Don’t I always take care of you?”

“
You
take care of
me
?” LionEl tossed a chair aside. “You think I’m some bitch you rub, then take shopping? Fuck you, L.B. I’m the payday. No me and you’re out on the street hustling meat wagons. And now you talkin’ to the kid?” He grabbed the back of LBJ’s suit, pulled him out of his seat, and threw him onto the table. “You motherfucker. The deal was you and me.” He left L.B. sprawled on the table like Thanksgiving dinner for a small city and stabbed a finger toward Barry.

“You tell Mr. Po-lice Man I got tired cooling my heels. He wants to talk to me, he can send a car.” LionEl reached down and grabbed the neck of his flailing agent. “And you, you son of a bitch, you stop talking to rookies. You got nothing to say, you hear me?”

LBJ nodded and gurgled as best he could. LionEl released his grip, lunged his chest toward Barry, and stormed out of the room. LBJ wiggled his mass off the table and waddled his panicked way to the door.