Ting-A-Ling (12 page)

“Sounds like you’ve pretty much fulfilled whatever obligation you had to your client, fair comment?”

I nodded. “Yes, I delivered the message to Mr. Paris.”

“And then you just walked out?”

Shit. “Pretty much, we may have said something else, exchanged pleasantries. I really can’t recall, but nothing of substance.”

“Pleasantries?”

Louie’s hand hit my leg.

“Like I said, Detective, I told Mr. Paris my client wished to be repaid. I told him my client would consider payment arrangements and I pretty much left it at that.”

Manning nodded. “Do you find it strange that the restaurant there, Casey’s had been closed for some time and apparently the utilities were still on?”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“But the lights were on and Paris was cooking on the stove, you stated as much. Correct?”

I nodded, not liking what I feared lurked just around the corner.

“Do you recall, was that a gas stove?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Well, you said he had a number of pots on the boil, large containers, you said. About this big, five or six of them.” He indicated the size of the containers with his hands just like I had done earlier.

“Yes.”

“So, if they were on the boil, as you said, there must have been a gas flame or an electric burner. Correct?”

I began to relax. “Yes, I think it was a gas burner, now that you mention it. It was one of those large industrial stoves. I mean, the place was a restaurant.” I half chuckled and looked at Manning and Sinn for a reaction. I didn’t get one.

Manning nodded like he was processing new information, then he suddenly bore into me with icy blue eyes. “What about the kitchen sink?”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Louie hit my leg, hard and said, “I think we’ve been fairly clear regarding what my client does or does not know, Detective. You have our statement. I think at this point its fairly obvious Mr. Haskell is willing to help in this investigation in any way he can. However, even Mr. Haskell has his limits. I would guess a simple call to Xcel energy would answer any questions you might have regarding the utility situation.”

Manning focused on Louie for a moment. Sinn scribbled a note and slid it over to Manning. When he looked at the note his face grew just a little more red.

“Thank you for making time, Detective. Should you need any further cooperation on the part of Mr. Haskell I would appreciate it if you would contact me. With Mr. Haskell’s busy work schedule I think I’ll be able to serve as a more effective ‘first point of contact’.” As he rose to his feet Louie pulled a business card out of his mismatched suit coat and handed it to Manning.

“Thank you for your time, nice to meet you Ms. Sinn, this concludes our statement. Thank you. Dev?” Louie gave me a
‘get your ass in gear’
look and we hurried out the door.

“Jesus Christ,” I said in the elevator.

Louie signaled with his hand and I stopped talking. We waited until we were in his car and a block away before either one of us spoke.

“Where are you taking me for dinner?” Louie asked as he floored it and ran a yellow light.

“You can’t possibly be hungry?”

“Not really, but I need something.”

“How about The Spot?”

“Perfect,” he said.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Mike was bartending and
Louie signaled him for another round before he turned back toward me. “The thing I don’t get is that woman.”

“Sinn?”

“Yeah, if she was acting as council for the department, and that’s unusual, she was sure going about it in a funny way.”

“How so? She just seemed like another pain in the ass lawyer. No offense.”

Louie shook his head, suggesting he took no offense. “That note passing nonsense, what the hell? Lawyers, we all like to hear ourselves talk. Even if it’s in a whisper. A little word or two scribbled on a note? That seems pretty strange to me. I’m going to check her out.”

“Maybe she just needs to have her ashes hauled.”

“That’s your answer to everything, isn’t it, Dev?”

I shrugged and nodded, it seemed so simple. “Hey, I gotta hit the can, I’ll be back in a minute,” I said and slid off the stool.

There was a drunk guy in the men’s room. Let me rephrase that, there was a fat, really drunk guy in the men’s room. He was standing in front of the urinal, the only urinal, weaving back and forth. Although there’d been a smoking ban in Minnesota since forever, this clown had a cigarette going with about a half inch ash hanging off the end of the thing. I’d been here before, dealing with drunks, and I decided to just keep quiet.

He was weaving back and forth, which did nothing to help his aim. He placed a hand against the wall in front of him to steady himself. Then he looked down, at which point the ash fell and, judging from the way he jumped and screamed, he took a direct hit from the hot ash.

“Ahhh-hhhh, Jesus, ouch, ouch, ouch. God that’s hot,” he screamed.

“Careful,” I said.

“Son-of-a-bitch, that hurts,” He yelled as he slapped at his crotch.

The door flew open a moment later and Mike stepped in. “What the hell’s going on in here?” he said. He stood there, holding the door open looking at the two of us.

“He wasn’t following the smoking ban and he got burned.”

The fat guy had staggered over to the sink and had just taken a handful of water and thrown it onto his jeans.

“That it? You burned yourself?”

“God, that hurts, son-of-a-bitch,” he groaned.

Mike shook his head, muttered, “Dumb shit.” And left.

People were still chuckling in the bar when I climbed back on the stool next to Louie. He was more than halfway through his drink.

“What the hell was all that?”

“Some idiot was sneaking a cigarette in the can and burned himself.”

“Burned himself?”

I gave Louie a look.

“Oh, Jesus. You’re kidding.”

“No. Let me ask you a question, Louie. I was thinking of this when I was in the can. When we left, I’m pretty sure Manning was going to ask about the sink at Casey’s. So I’m guessing he knows about my little altercation with Paris and the hot water.”

“Scalding hot water.”

“Yeah, whatever. The question is how would he have that information? He either got it from Paris. Or, he got it from someone else who was there.”

“Well, you can’t be a hundred percent sure he knew anything. It could have just been a lucky guess.”

“You believe that?” I said and gave Louie a look.

“No, not really. Probably about a one percent chance of that happening. One more option, Paris could have told someone and maybe they got in touch with Manning or vice-versa.”

“Why would he tell anyone?”

“Hey, who knows? Maybe he called your client, Denise…”

“Danielle.”

“…and yelled at her. Told her you assaulted him or something. It’s not that big a jump to see him trying to grovel and play the sympathy card so he can buy more time. Might be why you can’t reach her. Maybe she’s frightened or maybe she’s worried you’ll screw things up even more.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Of course, it may be that he ran into someone and they asked him what the hell happened. Didn’t you say he was blistered? I’m guessing there would probably be some discoloration, pink skin, temporary scarring…that sort of thing. It’s not a big surprise to see him going into an emergency room somewhere, seeking treatment, maybe prescription burn ointments or something. The folks in the ER ask some questions, he tells the story, maybe drops your name, conveniently. I think they’re required to file a report. They’d obviously view the incident as an assault.”

That sounded more plausible, Paris using the system to his advantage.

“Course, that suggests he left the place, Casey’s at some point and then that sort of suggests it’s not him they found there.”

“Well, unless he went back, maybe just made a phone call or someone else came to see him there.”

I was staring off in the distance, weighing the different options.

“That doesn’t address another set of alternatives like maybe someone else entirely was there before, during or after. The place is vacant, but apparently the utilities were still on. Maybe some poor homeless soul was seeking refuge, just wandered in and got caught in the fire. We could sit here all night and not come up with all the possibilities. I’ll have another, Mike,” Louie said, waving his empty glass.

Mike took his glass, and then looked over at me. “Dev?”

“Yeah sure, why not?”

“However he found out, that damn Manning knows,” I said. “God damn it, I could be facing a murder rap here and all I did was tell that jerk Paris that Danielle wanted to be repaid.”

“Sounds to me like you better get a handle on where she is and talk to her.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The first thing I
did when I got into the office the following morning was to make some coffee. The second thing I did was to sip coffee and stare out the window at the various working girls catching the bus. Not that my efforts were rewarded, another below zero degree morning with a wind-chill twenty degrees below that. Everyone was so bundled up that with the exception of a bearded guy I couldn’t tell if they were men or women. Louie waltzed in around eleven.

“God, it’s cold. I just hate this shit. Any coffee left?”

I nodded and set down my binoculars. There was a third story rental unit almost directly across from our office. I had detected some movement between the drawn shade and the window sill and thought I was getting lucky, but the action just turned out to be on a television.

“Any luck?”

“No, I thought one of those two sisters across the way was getting dressed, but it turned out to be the damn TV.”

Louie looked at me for a long moment, then shook his head and tossed his suit coat over the back of his chair. He was wearing the same mismatched pinstriped combination from yesterday. His suit coat still had strawberry shake dribbled down the front.

“I meant did you have any luck getting in touch with your client.”

“Oh, Danielle, yeah, I’m about to start checking. Hey, I’m guessing you have another suit just like that at home.”

He gave me a strange look.

“The stripes, they don’t match. The trouser stripes are wider than the ones on your coat.”

He looked at the coat then down at his trousers. “Damn it and I was in court this morning.”

“I’m sure the strawberry shake you spilled on there served as a distraction.”

He chose to ignore my comment. “You better find that client of yours. I’d say the clock is ticking where Manning is concerned and he’s not the sort of guy to just dismiss the allegations.”

I nodded, sat down and went online.

Most of what I could find online concerning Danielle Roxbury was society column related. She seemed to have been in attendance at every local, big name, fundraising event in town. There were a number of images posted; Danielle looking stunningly beautiful at the Friends of Regions Hospital fundraiser, Danielle sipping champagne at the Friends of the Public Library fundraiser. She was one of twenty sponsors and the best looking of the bunch at a black tie fund raising event for cancer research. There was a shot of her in shorts and a too small T-shirt walking along some lakeside path in support of Breast Cancer Awareness. She’d apparently run a half-marathon in support of St. Paul Public Schools last September. She was decked out in a revealing top, sipping champagne with the public radio crowd. There were a number of mentions of her in attendance at various private clubs, a golf outing or two, more dinners with the high society types. She attended a Thanksgiving high school dance called the Turkey Trot where she appeared as the celebrity chaperone. She graced an opening night gala at the Ordway Theatre a few weeks back for a play I’d never heard of.

I was beginning to get the feeling she had slept with me just to see what life was like on the seamy side of town. Maybe that was why I wasn’t getting an answer to the hundreds of phone messages I’d left. It was just that simple. She didn’t want to have anything to do with me. Hmm-mmm, not exactly the first time I’d picked up on that type of vibe from a woman.

I decided to check the county tax records. I guessed any mortgage on her home had been free and clear since somewhere back in the Roosevelt administration, that would be Teddy Roosevelt.

Wrong again, at least as far as the Ramsey County tax assessor was concerned. It seemed back taxes had been owed on Danielle Roxbury’s inherited mansion for the past three tax periods. That’s a year and a half. One would think that at some point over the past eighteen months even a trust fund princess like Danielle would have become aware of an increasing amount of mail from the Ramsey County tax assessor crossing her threshold. She couldn’t possibly think that as a member of the privileged class real estate taxes didn’t apply to her. Could she?