Authors: Sandra Brown
“Okay,” Morelli said, “if not DeCarlo, then who was it?”
Farnum shrugged. “If I knew that, don’t you think I’d tell you?” He wiped puddles from his eyes. “Maybe a burglar.”
“The terrace door was open,” Baxter noted. “A burglar with good rappelling gear could have lowered himself from the roof.”
“These are very expensive apartments. Most of the tenants here are loaded. We’ve had a lot of break-ins lately. Maybe Kim caught someone in the act.”
Part of that was true—the Malador had a crime rate way above average. “We’ll check it out,” Morelli promised. He glanced up at Baxter. “Anything else you want to ask?”
“Well—yeah. You haven’t asked about the victim’s family or friends or bad habits or—”
“I think that’s enough for now.” True, they hadn’t covered all the bases, but he wanted to know more about the crime itself. And he wanted to give poor Farnum a break. “Let’s see if the coroner can shed any light on this mystery.”
Morelli returned to the bedroom. He stopped just before he entered and pulled his cell phone out.
“You going to pick up DeCarlo?” Baxter asked.
“I don’t see the point. But I would like someone to speak with him.”
“He’ll deny everything.”
“But he might tell us something useful, just the same.” Morelli snapped his fingers. “Do you know a mug named Ernie Bartello? They call him Bart the Dart.”
“DeCarlo’s top enforcer, right?”
“Right. If DeCarlo had this done, Bartello’s the one who did it. And if I’m not mistaken, Bartello likes to hang out at the Velvet Rose when he’s not working.” He punched a few buttons. “I’ll send someone out to pick him up. You send someone over to visit with DeCarlo.”
After they made their respective phone calls, they entered the bedroom.
Barkley was in the process of covering the corpse with a bedsheet. Apparently he had finished his preliminary investigation.
“What’ve you got for me?” Morelli asked.
“As I said before, it’s too soon to—”
“What’s the cause of death?”
“There is a bullet wound to the abdomen, near the heart. But I can’t say—”
“What about the time of death?”
“Can’t say.”
“Was she killed here?”
“Can’t say.”
“Did she know her attacker?”
“Can’t say.”
Morelli got right up in his face. “Look,
Doctor,
we’re investigating a murder here—the murder of a beautiful young woman who, as far as we know, never hurt anyone. Most crimes are solved in the first six hours—if they’re solved at all. So we need to know everything you can possibly tell us. Right now.”
Barkley batted his eyelashes, as if the pool bully had splashed water in his face. “I guess there’s one thing I can tell you about this…beautiful young woman.”
“What’s that?”
The barest glimmer of a smile flickered across his face. “She’s a he.”
* * *
Baxter looked as if someone had kicked her in the stomach. “What are you talking about? There’s no way—”
“I’m surprised you didn’t notice it yourself.” Barkley flipped the sheet covering the body up, then replaced it. “I’m going to arrange to have him taken to my office as soon as your forensic teams have finished scouring the crime scene.”
Morelli was just as stunned as Baxter, but he would never let it show. “I think we’d better have another talk with Mr. Farnum.”
* * *
Major Morelli squared himself in front of Farnum, contemplating how to proceed. He made half a dozen false starts, searching for the right words to broach the elephant now in the room. Farnum had referred to Kim as
her.
Did he think they wouldn’t find out? Was he too embarrassed to mention it? Or did he really not know the truth?
Morelli coughed into his hand, clearing his throat. “Mr. Farnum…uh…you say you’ve known Kim Masters almost seven months?”
“Right. Since that first night I brought her home.”
“And that was the first night you spotted Kim in your club?”
“Oh, no. I admired her from afar for weeks before I spoke to her.”
“Why did it take you so long?”
“I don’t know. I was hesitant. I have some…personal eccentricities. I’ve learned to choose my companions carefully.”
Morelli and Baxter exchanged a glance.
“Is something wrong?” Farnum asked. “Something about Kim? My God—what did they do to her?”
Her
.
He didn’t know. Morelli was certain of it. No one could keep up a charade this long or this well. Farnum had been with her for months, but he didn’t know.
Morelli proceeded. “You did say, didn’t you, that you and Kim Masters had a sexual relationship?”
“I don’t see that that’s any of your concern.”
“Believe me, if it didn’t matter, I wouldn’t ask.”
Farnum folded his arms across his chest. “Yes. What of it?”
“And…did you…” Morelli wiped his hand across his brow. “Do you mind if I ask what exactly it was you two did?”
Farnum’s face tightened. “Not at all. Right after you tell me what you and your wife did in bed last night.”
“I’m divorced.”
“All right then. You and your girlfriend. You and your plastic blow-up doll. Whatever.”
“You’ve made your point.” Morelli pressed his fingers against his temples. “Look—”
“Major Morelli,” Farnum said. “I’ve lost the only woman I’ve ever loved. I am not in the mood for games. If you have something you want to tell me—then tell me.”
Morelli slowly exhaled. “The only woman you’ve ever loved…”
“Yes?”
“She’s a man.”
Farnum’s reaction could not have been much different had Morelli hit him in the face with a brick. Many moments passed before he whispered, “What?”
“It’s true. The coroner confirmed it. She’s a man.”
“But—this isn’t possible.”
“I’m afraid it is. You have to understand—there are a lot of drag queens out on the Peoria strip. I’ve heard some of the boys in Vice say one person in five in those clubs is a cross-dresser.”
“I’ve had drag queens in my club since the day it opened. No matter how good they were, I could always tell the difference.”
“Well, I guess this one fooled even you.”
“But it’s just so…impossible. I can’t—I can’t—” And then, all at once, Farnum’s expression altered dramatically. He laughed.
This was even more perplexing than everything else that had happened tonight. “I’m sorry,” Morelli said, “is something funny?”
“It’s all just so…so…” Farnum wiped away the tears crystallizing in the corners of his eyes. “No, not funny exactly. More like ironic.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
“Irony. The juxtaposition of unexpected circumstances—”
“I know what irony is,” Morelli growled. “What I don’t understand is why it’s ironic that your girlfriend turns out to be a man.”
With a quick, fluid motion, Farnum untucked his shirt and pulled it up, exposing the tight binding wrapped around his upper abdomen. “Because I’m really a woman.”
* * *
Two hours later, Morelli cradled a foam cup filled with hot black coffee while the forensic teams did their work. There was something comforting about the feel of the coffee. It might not be much, but at least you knew what it was. Exactly what you thought it was.
Baxter came in and poured herself a cup. “What’s the word from headquarters?”
“DeCarlo flat out denied that he ordered Bartello to make the hit,” Morelli replied.
“Does that surprise you?”
“Actually it does. I thought he would call his lawyer and refuse to talk.”
“Apparently he fired his mouthpiece. Maybe you should send over that lawyer buddy of yours.”
“No point. Ever since his wife had those twin girls, he can’t finish a sentence that doesn’t have ‘goo-goo’ in it.” Morelli held the coffee under his nose, drawing in the rich Kona aroma. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. Prescott is picking up Bartello and bringing him here. My informants tell me DeCarlo had a big falling-out with Bart the Dart earlier this week. Don’t know why, but DeCarlo totally cut him off. Bart’s been coming around to his place every night, trying to worm his way back into favor. But so far, no luck.”
“So even if DeCarlo was behind the hit, he wouldn’t have used the Dartman.”
“Looks that way.”
“I still want to talk to him.”
“Figured as much. But aren’t you forgetting something?”
“What’s that?”
“You said it yourself—if DeCarlo was out to get Farnum, he would’ve gone after Farnum. He wouldn’t have gone after Farnum’s girlfriend. Boyfriend. Whatever.”
“That’s a problem.” He polished off his coffee. “Thanks for the background info. I can always count on you to come up with the goods.”
“Should I be reading in between the lines here?”
“No. Just saying I know I can count on you. That’s why I like having you for a…partner.”
“I thought it was my stunning good looks.”
“That, too.”
* * *
A few minutes later, Morelli’s nemesis-in-homicide, Major Prescott, arrived at the penthouse apartment bearing Ernie Bartello, aka Bart the Dart. Prescott had a grudge against Morelli that went back years. Prescott had been removed from a high-profile murder investigation and Morelli had taken over. Worse, he’d had the audacity to solve the case. Prescott had never forgiven him.
They put Bartello in a separate bedroom, away from Farnum and the crime scene. Prescott motioned Morelli aside for a few preinterrogation words.
“So lemme see if I’ve got this straight,” Prescott said. “Masters was really a man, all dolled up like a woman.”
“Right.”
“And he-she was sleeping with Farnum, who was a woman made up like a man.”
“So it seems.”
“And neither one knew that their love mate was not what they looked to be.”
“That also appears to be the case.”
“They were both pretending to be what the other one really was.”
“By George, I think you’ve got it.”
“What the hell did they do with each other
?
”
Morelli didn’t know if Prescott was being rhetorical, or if he really expected an answer. “I think…they loved one another. Very much.”
“Jeez, what is the world coming to?” Prescott muttered. “Disgusting.”
“It’s not disgusting,” Morelli replied. “It’s sad.”
“Sad? Those sick perverts?” Prescott grimaced. “I think you must be sick, too.”
Morelli did not reply. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a suspect to interrogate.”
* * *
Bartello was a thin man, wiry and tough, exactly the sort of person no one would want to meet alone unless they were packing a two-megaton rocket launcher. Probably not even then. The Grim Reaper tattoo on his forearm and the small but discernible scar on the left side of his face lent two strong clues to his chosen profession.
Morelli was the good cop while Prescott played the bad. Typecasting, Morelli thought, although Prescott might not see it that way.
“What do you know about this murder, Bartello?”
“Nothin’.”
“Did you hit Kim Masters?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Did DeCarlo order you to do it?”
“DeCarlo? Who’s that?”
Morelli tried not to clench his teeth. “I want the truth.”
“Call the psychic hotline.”
“This job looks like your handiwork.”
Bartello shrugged. “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.”
Prescott lurched forward and grabbed the man’s collar. “Don’t screw with us, Bartello. Or so help me—”
Morelli shook his head. Prescott was so bad at this. Like the man was going to be scared enough to break after twenty seconds of softball questions. “Let’s calm down, everybody. We’re just having a conversation, okay?” He nudged Prescott out of the way. “Bartello, did you know your buddy DeCarlo was bearing a half-million-dollar grudge?”
“DeCarlo ain’t my buddy. I don’t work for him no more.”
“You know, I heard a rumor to that effect. What’d you do to tick off the boss man?”
“I didn’t do nothin’. He’s got no business treatin’ me like this.”
“There must’ve been something.”
“It was just one date.”
Morelli eased back. “One date with whom?”
Bartello’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Sophia.”
“Sophia DeCarlo? The boss’s daughter?”
“And what’s wrong with that? It ain’t like I forced her or nothin’. Hell, all I did was kiss her good-night.”
“The boss caught you sucking face with his only daughter and he didn’t like it. So he sent you away before things got out of control.”
“The man was not rational.”
“Because he didn’t want his pride and joy hooked up with a two-bit hit man? Imagine.”
“He’s happy enough to have me around when he needs work done.”
“You just don’t get it, do you, Bartello? That’s how all the DeCarlos in this world are. When they can use you, they’ll use you. But it doesn’t mean they like you. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean you have the slightest chance of making it with his daughter.”
“May I go now?”
“What happened tonight when you went to DeCarlo’s place?”
“Nothin’.”
“Did he give you an assignment?”
“No.”
Unfortunately, Morelli got the distinct impression he was telling the truth. “Did he mention Terry Farnum?”
Bartello answered with a shoulder shrug. “Yeah. He was ravin’. Shoutin’. On and on. Talkin’ about how Farnum had taken his money and wasn’t payin’ him back. ‘This woman has made me a laughingstock,’ he kept sayin’. ‘I won’t tolerate this. I’m Albert DeCarlo!’ But he didn’t ask me to do it. No, he wouldn’t lower himself to deal with the likes of me anymore.”
“So you were—” Morelli snapped his fingers. “Becket.”
Prescott’s head swiveled around. “What?”
“Thomas Becket. The Archbishop of Canterbury. Buddied around with Henry II.”
“Look,
Jeopardy
boy, show off some other—”
“Henry and Becket had a falling-out. Classic conflicts between church and state, each trying to maintain as much power as possible. Henry couldn’t have the Archbishop of Canterbury axed, so he endured the aggravation. One night, though, when he’d had a bit too much mead, he cried out, ‘Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?’ He was probably just blowing off steam. But four of his knights heard the remark and decided to get in the king’s good graces by offing the archbishop. Which they did. On hallowed ground.”