Sticky Fingers (27 page)

Adasha’s face was worried. “So who shot him? The other husband?”

“That would be my first guess.” I got a handful of Slim Jims out of a drawer and ate one while telling Adasha about my evening at Mitchell’s house. She listened, aghast. Or maybe she was horrified watching me eat my usual breakfast.

“Holy shit,” she said when I was finished talking. “You could have been killed.”

“It wasn’t that bad.” I sat down at the table. “The worst part? I had just about decided Mitchell was the one who shot Clarice.”

“Why would he have killed her?”

“He might have been upset that she was cutting off the money to finance their kid’s Olympic dreams.”

Adasha’s brows rose. “The kid has Olympic dreams?”

“Ice-skating. Mitchell was really invested in the kid’s skating. If Clarice decided to stop paying for it all, maybe he got upset and killed her. Sounds stupid when I say it out loud. But frankly, there was no other likely suspect. Until last night’s shooting, I didn’t think the other husband, Eckelstine, had the stones. And unless there’s some nutcase working at the museum—somebody who hated Clarice or had a fight with her—I just don’t see anybody else who could have killed her.”

“Her father?”

“I guess he’s a possibility. Bug Duffy is going to check on him today, make sure he hadn’t busted out of his jail again.”

Adasha said, “Alzheimer’s patients can get violent, you know. But they’re not good at planning anything. If Clarice had been simply killed, I might believe her father could do it. But wrap her up in a carpet? Drop her body in the river?”

“Then try to kill her husband to shut him up?”

“You think that’s why Mitchell was shot?”

I shrugged. “Just guessing.”

“What about the teenage son?”

I finished my Slim Jim and took a cautious peek into her bag of healthy granola. “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about him.”

“And?”

“He got into some trouble a while back, kind of went adrift. Needs a parent. Maybe he hated Clarice for all the usual reasons a kid hates a stepmother. But … I doubt it. She encouraged him in the one thing he’s good at—making clothes.” I saw Adasha’s surprise and said, “Yeah, he designs stuff. Looks ugly to me, but Clarice bought him fabric and wore the results. That’s not the kind of stepmom who’d push a kid to violence.”

“Lack of affection can be just as damaging as any other emotional abuse.”

I sampled some granola. “Not bad for bird seed.”

“I’m serious,” Adasha said. “Father hunger is very real.”

“Don’t start,” I said.

“Okay, I won’t. But a parent who’s distant, withholding, self-involved—that’s just as cruel as the one who beats the child with a stick.”

“You’re saying the boy got sick of hearing Clarice talk about how wonderful she was and killed her?”

“I don’t know him. You do.”

I sipped coffee and thought about Richie for a while. Any kid might snap under the wrong circumstances. “Depends on transportation, I guess. How does he travel? He can’t drive a car. At least, I don’t think so. It’s a long way from the city out to Mitchell’s house.”

“How could he have gotten there last night by himself?”

“I’ll find out.” I shoveled up a handful of granola and began picking out the sweet dried cherries. Without looking Adasha in the face, it was easier to say what needed to be said. “There’s something I probably should have mentioned.”

I felt my friend giving me a steady stare. She said, “Do I want to hear what’s coming?”

“Probably not. But here goes. Somebody tried to hire me to kidnap Clarice.”

She sat back in her chair, eyes wide. “Who?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Marvin Weiss knows, but he skipped town to avoid getting sucked into this mess.”

“Did you—?”

“Take the job? No. I’ll do favors for my uncle when it’s petty stuff,” I said. “But there are lines I won’t cross, Dasha. Despite what everybody thinks about me.”

“Nobody thinks—”

“I turned down the job. But I think it’s possible that somebody did kidnap Clarice. And when things went bad, maybe the kidnapper decided to pop her instead.”

“Pop her?” Adasha looked serious. “Does that kind of language make killing somehow more acceptable?”

“I’m not trying to make it acceptable,” I said quickly. “I just—it’s a way of talking. What it all means is this: I think I need to be looking for two people. The one who hired a kidnapper, and the kidnapper who killed Clarice. And maybe shot Mitchell, too.”

Adasha sat back and folded her arms over her chest—the picture of disapproval. “There you go again. Taking responsibility. Let Bug do this, Rox.”

“I can’t tell him. Not about the kidnapping.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s going to ask questions. I’ll get in trouble. It’ll all lead to Marvin and Uncle Carmine, and pretty soon we’ll all be in jail. And I don’t want Sage coping with that.”

Adasha looked deeply into my face. “I understand that part.”

I didn’t say it, but I was afraid of Sage’s reaction.

I wondered whether, if she knew the real me, my daughter might choose Flynn to be her parent. Or worse, take up with one of her boyfriends and forget about her family. Either way, I was going to lose my daughter, which felt like the worst consequence in the world.

Adasha said, “So what are you going to do?”

“I think the kidnapper made two big mistakes. The first was killing Clarice. The second must have something to do with Mitchell. Why did he have to be shot? Because he saw something? Knew something? Or was he the target all along?”

“Maybe he witnessed the killer shooting Clarice.”

“I’ve got to find out more.”

“How?”

Good question. I said, “I think I need to learn more about Rhonda.”

“Who?”

“Not who. What. She’s a mastodon. Or a woolly mammoth. I don’t know the difference.”

Adasha gave a huge yawn and then blinked, dazed. She said, “Either you just said something that makes no sense, or I just hit the wall. And right now I don’t have the brain power to figure out which it is. I need some sleep.”

“Thanks for bringing breakfast,” I said. “Thanks for coming over.”

“You mean that?”

“Yeah, I do.”

She dragged herself to her feet. “I haven’t even mentioned the therapy thing yet.”

I laughed shortly. “Quit while you’re ahead. How’s Jane Doe?”

“I checked on her last night. She’s okay.”

“Y’know, she’s been talking to her shithead boyfriend by phone.”

“Dammit! She didn’t tell me that. I better go see her, I guess.”

“Good luck.”

“Same to you.” She gave me a big hug, squeezing hard.

When Adasha was finished showing her affection, I said gruffly, “Get some sleep.”

From my doorway, I made sure the gangbangers were gone and watched her run through the rain to the house next door where Jane Doe was staying. After Adasha knocked and was safely admitted inside, I went upstairs, stripped naked in the bathroom, and took a hot shower. My shampoo and soap were rearranged, so I knew Flynn had showered before he left. I found some clean clothes and dressed quickly, trying not to think about Flynn putting on his clothes in the same place earlier.

I pulled on my boots and went downstairs.

In the kitchen, I grabbed my keys and went out into the rain. That’s when I discovered some jagoff had punctured one of the Monster Truck’s tires with a screwdriver.

I cursed and kicked the flat tire a few times. Either the gangbangers had taken their revenge, or Gino hadn’t gotten the message I’d stapled to his hand.

It took me about fifteen minutes to change the tire. I was soaked by then, but strangely invigorated. Directed rage has a tendency to perk me up. I drove across the bridge and up into Lawrenceville. Nooch was waiting on the corner. Fortunately, his face didn’t look so bad. The swelling had gone down a little.

He climbed into the truck, wet through a couple of layers. “Where you been? You’re late this morning.”

“Some asshole stuck a screwdriver into one of my tires.”

“Don’t cuss,” he said automatically. Then he looked surprised. “Was it Gino again?”

“I settled things with Gino yesterday. At least, I thought I did. Probably, the flat tire was some kids from the neighborhood.”

“They should be in school,” Nooch said. He gazed out the window at the passing scenery. “Sometimes I wish I was back in school. The cafeteria food, the gym. Football practice.”

“The sleeping in class.”

“Yeah, that was okay, too.”

Thinking about high school gave me an idea, so I made a U-turn in the street and swung into the parking lot of a CVS drugstore. I dashed into the store and came out two minutes later with a plastic bag full of supplies. First, I gave Nooch a pack of powdered doughnuts, which kept his mouth full long enough for me to reach the back alley behind Gino Martinelli’s house.

Nooch wiped sugar from his face. “What are we doing here?”

“You’re staying in the truck,” I told him. “And if anybody asks, I’m looking at some old windows in a house down the street. Got that?”

Nooch might keep the story straight if I didn’t add too many details. I fished a tube of Ben-Gay out of the drugstore bag, and I bailed out of the truck. Silently, I hotfooted my way up the back steps to the kitchen door. I peeked inside and saw Gino’s wife, Carlene, drinking coffee while Regis and Kelly blared on the television. Carlene wore a woolly bathrobe, and her hair—freshly dyed an unlikely black for the wedding, no doubt—was rolled up in pink curlers.

She appeared to be grooming a small animal, and then I realized she was combing out Gino’s toupee.

I eased away from the door before she saw me, then scouted the back of the house for a way inside. As luck would have it, they’d left a basement door ajar, and I slipped inside. A cat box sat at my feet, stinking up the place, but explaining why the door was open. I found myself in the old coal cellar, although now it was full of yard equipment, including a greasy lawn mower old enough to be in the Smithsonian. I tipped an interior door open and walked into the Martinelli laundry room.

Perfect.

The dryer rumbled, almost at the end of its cycle. I opened the dryer door and found the drum full of Carlene’s unmentionables. Carefully, I closed the dryer again, hoping Regis and Kelly were loud enough that Carlene couldn’t hear me. On the floor I found two laundry baskets full of dirty clothes. Disgusting. On top of the washer sat another basket full of freshly laundered and folded items—including Gino’s collection of extravagant boxers and briefs. Apparently, he liked underwear with funny sayings printed on them.

Lone Gunman, said one pair.

I said, “You’ll be alone, all right, Gino. Just wait and see.”

Opening the tube of Ben-Gay, I hummed while liberally applying the heat-inducing cream to the insides of Gino’s clean underwear.

“The heat is on, Gino,” I said as I tossed his clothing back into the basket.

Five minutes later, I tiptoed out of the basement. The family cat watched me throw the tube of Ben-Gay into an open trash can by the back steps. I slipped away and climbed into the Monster Truck.

Nooch woke with a grunt. “Huh?”

“Shh. Ready to go?”

“Why do you have that look on your face? That’s not your positive look, it’s your scary look. Like you did something that’s going to blow up later.”

“Go back to sleep,” I told him, putting the truck into gear.

“I wasn’t sleeping. I was visualizing!”

My cell phone rang as I drove out of the alley.

“Hey,” Adasha said. “Did you have a problem with your truck this morning?”

“A flat tire. Why?”

“Just so you know,” she said, “it wasn’t those kids in the neighborhood who did it. Jane Doe tells me her fireman boyfriend came around last night. And he got the idea that you were keeping her away from him.”

“Oops,” I said. “I wish I’d known that five minutes ago. I thought it was Gino Martinelli.”

“Sorry. The fireman threatened Jane, and he said he’d cause trouble for you, too.”

“Bring it on, babycakes.”

“Rox, don’t taunt him. That will only make things worse for her and for the kids.”

“Want me to talk to Jane? I’ve had some experience with situations like this.”

“I don’t know,” Adasha said doubtfully.

“Hey, you brought her to me because the system doesn’t always work. So let me take care of this in my way.”

“I can’t think straight. I’ll get some sleep before I give you an answer.”

“I’ll take that as temporary permission to do whatever’s best.”

“Just don’t let anybody get hurt.”

We hung up. I wished I hadn’t thrown away the Ben-Gay. There had been half a container of the stuff left, and I could have used it on the fireman.

We roared up to the gate of the salvage yard a little while later. The sight that greeted us surprised the hell out of me.

“Holy cow,” Nooch said.

Two kids had parked a bicycle in front of the gate, and Rooney was licking their hands through the iron bars. They looked like a couple of orphans from Charles Dickens, except with clothes from the mall.

Richie Eckelstine and Sugar Mitchell.

Both of them were frozen and miserable. But Richie wore a fashion-forward checked scarf knotted around his neck, skinny jeans, pointy boots. A snug leather jacket with epaulet. And an expression of teenage mortification on his face. Beside him, Sugar was weeping.

As Nooch jumped down to open the gate, I leaned out of the truck’s window and said, “What are you two doing here?”

Teeth clenched to keep them from chattering, Richie Eckelstine said, “We have to see you.”

Nooch boosted Sugar into the truck, and Richie scrambled in behind her. I drove them across the yard, and then we bundled them into the barbershop. I turned on the space heater, and I started heating up some water to make instant hot chocolate. Rooney skidded to a stop on the floor beside me, ever hopeful for a handout. I gave him a pat for not biting the kids.

Richie struck a rigid model’s pose and said, “I know this is awkward, us showing up like this. But I didn’t know who else to go to.”

I grabbed him by the elbow and steered him to the corner. “What’s Sugar doing here?” I asked in a mutter. “How do the two of you even know each other?”