Authors: Teri Riggs
Kennedy barely kept herself from sticking out her tongue or rolling her eyes at him. Irritating little shit.
“I’ll pass on the water.” It’s probably hot anyway. I’m sure Jesus didn’t have a refrigerator popping ice cubes out for him. “I have a few questions for you. If you don’t mind, though I’d like to ask them out here on your porch. It should only take a few minutes of your time. Then you can get your sweaty ass back in your little oven of a house and melt down a few more brain cells.
St. Louis
stepped outside, took a seat in one of the green webbed lawn chairs, the bottom stretching low. Kennedy stayed standing, a good way to intimidate her suspects while interviewing them. A show of superiority would sometimes loosen the lips of the guilty. Not to mention the fact that she was afraid if she sat down on the worn chair, her ass would rip through the tattered webbing.
The man settled back in the chair and crossed his arms. “Well, ask away. I have nothing to hide.”
“Where were you Sunday, Monday, and Wednesday night this week?”
St. Louis
took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Let’s see. I was at the church until about nine Sunday night. I stayed an extra hour to mingle after the service. Then I came home and worked on a speech I gave on Tuesday night. Basically, I just revamped a speech I gave several days ago to another group.”
“Oh yeah, one of your famous speeches endorsing a witch hunt of prostitutes.” Kennedy shook her head in
disgu
st
.
“A good many people happen to agree with my beliefs.” His eyes narrowed. “Shall I continue?”
“Yes, of course.” She went back to writing in her notebook.
“Monday night I was at my campaign headquarters until around midnight. On Wednesday night I went to Bible Study and afterwards, I’m a little embarrassed to say, I stopped by and peeked in on a speech Nick Campenelli was giving to the Women’s League of Voters.”
“You were spying on one of your opponents?” “Politicians do it all the time.”
“What about after that?”
“I went home and was in bed by the eleven o’clock news. I didn’t see the story about Nicky’s little tiff until this morning, but I found it quite interesting.”
She saw the excitement dancing in his eyes as his voice sped up. “The way that wicked woman went after him. It was very entertaining. That’s the man you should be questioning, not me, a good solid Christian.”
“And why is that?”
“Nicky has never been anything but a troublemaker, always up to no good. My mother said he would grow up on the wrong side of the law and do evil, vile things.” He hiked his feet up on the porch railing, uncrossed his arms and put his hands on the top of his head. “It doesn’t get much more evil and vile than wanting to legalize prostitution or committing murder does it?”
Kennedy was having a hard time believing Nicolas Campenelli could be the killer. She wasn’t exactly sure why, maybe because Ed Hershey and this ass wipe wanted her to believe he was the murderer. Maybe because he was Mr. Wonderful like Lucy said. Just the same, he was no less a suspect than the jerk she was talking to presently.
Kennedy eyed
St. Louis
closely. “I’m not here to talk about Mr. Campenelli. I’m here to talk about you.” An urge to put this man in his place overwhelmed her. “That so called wicked woman was angry at your politics, not Mr. Campenelli’s. She’d been misinformed. And then she was killed.” She hesitated, watching for a reaction, giving her temper a chance to cool.
His mouth fell open and he closed it quickly. “Mr.
St. Louis
, did you kill Liz Clayton?” “I most certainly did not.”
“Did you kill Wendy Prentice?” “No.”
“Did you kill Phoebe Mixer last night?”
“Absolutely not!” He tugged at the knot on his tie. “I think it’s time for you to leave, young lady.”
“Did you know any of the above mentioned women?” “I never met them.”
“Let’s go back to where you were on the night of the murders. Do you have anyone who could back up your accounts of where you were on the nights in question?”
“I have lots of witnesses who can verify I was with them until I left for home. Then it’s just me and my Lord Jesus who know I was right here, like I said.”
“Yeah, well I doubt your Lord Jesus is going to be able to verify your alibis for me. What do you think?”
St. Louis
looked mortified. Horrified. His mouth fell opened, and then closed like a door on a broken hinge, while he struggled to speak. Kennedy had to stifle a laugh at his shocked face. When he finally managed to speak, it was with a stutter.
“You shouldn’t talk about our Savior like that. You should get down on your knees and ask for forgiveness for your sins, undoubtedly there are many. You’re on a fast track to Hell.” Spittle flew from his mouth as he fumed. “Next time you want to interrogate me, call my lawyer. We’re finished here.”
With a jerk of his head, he stood up and went inside his hot, little, pink house.
“Hell can’t be any hotter than your fucking house.” Kennedy removed her jacket and placed it on the passenger seat of the Mustang. Reluctantly, she got herself back into her hot car knowing the leather seats were going to fry her ass and the steering wheel was going to burn her hands.
She got into the Mustang, her ass instantly on fire, and started the engine.
St. Louis
watched the detective from the doorway as she drove away, as angry as he could ever remember being; she’d made him angrier than his mother ever had. He picked up the phone on the hall stand and dialed from memory.
“Campenelli.”
“Nicky, my old friend,” he sneered. “How’s politics?”
“Louis?” the man on the other end of the line sounded startled, and well he might. He probably hadn’t expected to ever have to speak to Louis again.
“In the flesh. I saw you on the news the other night. I don’t know how you can continue to protect these whores. Clearly, they don’t care about you once they’ve gotten your money.”
He heard the rasping sound of Campenelli taking a deep breath. “What the hell are you talking about Louis? That was a misunderstanding.” The man had the gall to chuckle. “In fact, she thought I was you.”
Louis choked on the anger tightening his throat.
“Louis? You okay? Listen, I don’t understand how we—”
“Shut up.” Louis hissed.
“Just shut up.
You’ll get yours. You and the
prostitutes that love you. You’ll all burn in hell if I have to see to it myself.”
He slammed down the phone, shaking in rage.
Kennedy
stopped at the rundown church and spoke to Louis’ campaign crew. The atmosphere was a far cry from Campenelli’s campaign offices. Window fans stirred the heated air, and grit crunched under her feet when she walked in the door. Most of the workers were talking near a window on the shadiest side of the building. When she came in, none of them seemed interested in speaking to her until she pointed at the badge on her hip. A woman, worn-looking in middle age, sauntered over to Kennedy.
“May I help you?”
“I need to know if you or anyone else here saw Mr. Louis
St. Louis
on Sunday, Monday, or Wednesday night.”
The woman looked aside, as if thinking for a moment, and then nodded. “He was at church on Sunday until around nine or so. Monday—he had to give a speech on Tuesday, so he stopped in here and practiced it, talked to all of us, you know, gave us a pep talk. He left around 11, maybe? Tuesday, he had the speech. Wednesday, I don’t remember seeing him.”
She turned and looked at the rest of the workers. “Does anyone remember seeing Mr.
St. Louis
on Wednesday?”
Her question was met with blank looks and a couple of shaking heads. She looked back at Kennedy. “That’s it, I guess.”
Kennedy nodded and handed the woman a card she was sure would be thrown away as soon as she left. “Thanks. Give me a call if you remember anything else, please?”
She escaped out the door as quickly as possible.
Miserably hot, she decided desperate measures were needed. Reaching under the passenger seat, she pulled out her flashing ‘Kojak’ bubble light and popped it on the dash. Turning on her siren, she stepped full down on the gas and hauled ass. A breeze at
la
st
.
The cop perks never end.
CHAPTER TWENTY
KENNEDY KEPT THE ‘KOJAK’ LIGHT FLASHING AND SIREN SCREAMING ALL THE WAY TO THE INTERSECTION IN FRONT OF HER APARTMENT BUILDING.
The fast ride caused enough of a breeze to dry the sweat on her body. Yes. Life was bearable again. She parked in her assigned parking space in front of her apartment building.
It was a decent older building, clean and updated regularly. The security was mediocre, but being a cop, she provided her own protection. Her neighbors were fairly laid back, most were senior citizens and retired. They minded their own business and, at the same time managed to keep an eye out for her. Grandpa’s doing, no doubt. The man seems to have connections everywhere.
Walking across the hot pavement, Kennedy immediately noticed something different about her building. She just wasn’t sure what.
She let her hand rest on her holstered Sig Saur. “Jeez, you’re a damn cop, trained to notice details. What’s wrong here?”
It hit her. “The dried up grass is gone.” The dead lawn had been replaced with a rock garden. She relaxed the hand hovering over the Sig. The building’s owner had finally given up trying to keep the grass alive. With the drought and soaring temperatures, there was a ban on landscape watering. The city was encouraging residents to switch to more natural landscaping that didn’t need frequent watering.
“Well,” Kennedy laughed as she surveyed the new landscaping, “You certainly never have to water a rock.”
She stepped inside her apartment and tossed her purse and keys on the small table by the door. After removing her gun and holster, she laid them on the coffee table. Stepping over to the thermostat, she turned it as low as she possibly could.
Kennedy brushed her teeth, stripped down to her panties and tee shirt, and then flopped down on her couch with her interview notes. Lieutenant Hazelwood could cut her overtime, but not control what she did with her free time. After all, who in the hell could solve a murder in eight hour shifts? Her murder board grew in size as she made and tacked up note cards with the alibis that Campenelli and
St. Louis
had provided. She added a list of questions she needed answered. Her head slowly turned back and forth. Nicolas Campenelli’s alibis were as weak as
St. Louis
’.
Could he have murdered Phoebe Mixer because she attacked him? Embarrassed him? Although shabby, it was still a motive. But why would he have killed the other two women? She needed to get her hands on the unedited version of Mixer and Campenelli arguing and see if the aired piece was edited like Nick said. She also needed Sparks and Tenuta’s notes—they’d volunteered to interview the few people who’d witnessed the confrontation to see if they could back up his claim.
Was his explanation for all the pictures in his campaign headquarters believable? Why did she feel this overwhelming need to defend Nicolas Campenelli?
Frustrated with all the back and forth possibilities, she picked up the remote control for the television and flipped through the channels. As usual, the choices sucked big time. “I need cable TV. I’ll put it on my wish list, right beneath the request to fix the air-conditioning in my car.”
Next Monday would be payday. Next Tuesday she’d put the Mustang in the shop and get the AC running again. Next month, if she was lucky, she might be able to knock cable TV off her wish
li
st
.
Kennedy fell asleep dreaming of three hundred and fifty-two channels of pure entertainment and automobile air-conditioning.
Another One Bites The Dust, blasted from her cell phone, jerking her awake. Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she fumbled for the phone. She glanced at the time. She’d been out for almost an hour.
She steadied her voice, tried to sound wide awake. “O’Brien.” “Hey, Kenny, what’s up?”
“What’s up is you left me on my own to get my ass kicked by the lieutenant this morning.”
“I feel real bad about that.” “Sure you do.”
“Any luck finding our killer today?”
Cheery sounding bastard. “No, I had no luck with the investigation today. If anything I’m more confused. It seems that neither Campenelli nor
St. Louis
have decent alibis for any of the murders. But I’ve got to agree with Grandpa, I just can’t see Campenelli being our guy, it doesn’t feel right.
St. Louis
, on the other hand, is as perverted as they come. He’s as nutty as a fruitcake, borderline scary if you ask me. And he hates women.”
“You got a thing for this Campenelli guy or what? He should be topping our suspect list.”
Kennedy snapped back, “No, I don’t have a thing for the man. It’s just my gut feeling. Maybe I’m wrong. I was wrong once, you know, like ten or fifteen years ago.”
That got a laugh out of Wilder. “Okay, I admit it. I’ll go with your gut feeling anytime. By the way, I don’t ever remember you being wrong.”
Now it was Kennedy’s turn to laugh. “Good suck up, Wilder. You must want something major. Man up and ask.”
“Now that you mention it, I could use a favor. It seems this trial is definitely heading into overtime. You’re going to have to handle things by yourself for a couple more days. You okay with that?”
“Sure, I’m okay with it. Not much choice is there? Hopefully, I’ll get that warrant for the film from LVTVS first thing Monday morning. Maybe even a court order for some DNA evidence. Ed Hershey better not hold out on me afterwards. I’ll have a look at the film, make you a copy and hand it off to the Electronic guys.”
“The guys in the Electronics Division are good. Once you pass a project to them, they usually get back to you pretty damn quick. There’s no grass growing under their feet.”
“I’ve got warrants for Campenelli’s and Phoebe Mixer’s cell phone records coming too. While I’m at it, I’ll get warrants for the other victim’s phone records and have a look.”
“Well, you have plenty to keep you busy while I’m out.”
“That’s right. I’ve also got Campenelli’s and
St. Louis
’ alibis to follow up on. That should just about take care of the day for me. Before you know it, I’ll be seeing your ugly face sitting across from me at Metro, life back to normal. At least as normal as it ever gets.”
“Sounds like a solid plan to me. I’m hoping this trial wraps up soon. I’m not sure I can sit through much more of it. I’m here to tell you, this dude is one sorry piece of shit.”
Kennedy heard the strain in his voice. “Murder trials are sometimes as draining as working the case itself.”
“Yeah, listening to witnesses’ relive what they saw, and watching a victim’s family grieving all over again, well man...” He seemed at a loss for words. “Well, it just freakin’ sucks.”
She understood his anguish and wished she could come up with something profound to say to make it easier for him. There were no magic words. And profundity wasn’t really her style. “Well, I guess I’ll catch you later.”
“See you then, partner. Be careful out there.”
“I always am.”
After a quick shower, Kennedy dressed quickly in khaki shorts and a blue tank. Without untying the laces, she slipped on a pair of white Keds. Tucking her gun into the back of her shorts, she grabbed her purse and keys.
The nap had recharged her, given her a burst of energy. It was time for a visit with Grandpa. She needed that special kind of pick-me-up only family could provide. It wouldn’t hurt to pick his brain about the case, either.
Friday
night traffic was lighter than usual... a nice surprise. If Kennedy’d had a computer, she could’ve checked the traffic cams before she left her apartment. A driver could get online, see how busy the streets were and avoid major traffic delays by using alternate routes. Unfortunately, Kennedy had to do it the oldfashioned way. Maybe after the car and the cable. Maybe.
Arriving at the Shady Arms, Kennedy found Grandpa in the usual place—the game room—playing poker. His pile of chips was again the biggest on the table. It always was.
“Hi, Grandpa. I see you’re taking advantage of your friends again.” She waved to the other men. “Haven’t you guys figured out yet that you can’t beat Grandpa?”
“Listen to my lassie, boys. Lady Luck is my mistress and she never steps out on me.”
One of the players laughed. “You sure you ain’t just a cheatin’ old fool, Tommy?”
It was show time. Kennedy grinned as Grandpa’s hands slapped over his
che
st
.
“You break my heart when you talk like that. I win because I’m the
be
st
.
Now pay up, you old geezers. I got company to visit with.”
Grandpa gathered up his loot, three dollars total, and stuck it in his pocket. “I took the old fools to the cleaners this time. They never give up and, fortunately, they never win.”
Kennedy walked, her hand through her grandpa’s arm, into the parlor area and sank into a soft, flower-patterned sofa.
“Tell me what’s so bad that you came all the way out to see me on a Friday night. Isn’t that supposed to be date night for young lasses?”
“I don’t have a date night. I haven’t had a date in ages. No time. No
intere
st
.
No guys out there. I’d just as soon spend time with you.”
“That was good, lass, sucking up at its
be
st
.
Now tell me what’s bothering you.”
“I’m not really sure. I’m at a standstill on this prostitute killer case. The clues just aren’t there. At least I’m not seeing them.”
“No suspects yet? What happened to the two mayor hopefuls?”
“I just don’t see it being Campenelli. It doesn’t work for me. As slimy as
St. Louis
is, I’m not sure it’s him. He’s too damned wimpy. And I can’t see
him having
any kind of sex, forced or consensual with a prostitute. But the thing is, they both lose in the alibi department and both benefit from the publicity the murders are stirring up. Still... I can’t put my finger on what I’m missing.”
“You’re pushing too hard. Hang in there and something will jump up and grab you in the right spot. You’ve got good instincts, the best of any cop I’ve ever known. And trust me, lass, I’ve known a lot of cops. Your father had the same gift. You must’ve inherited it from him.”
“I wish I could have known him. I would’ve liked him, wouldn’t I?”
“You most certainly would have. And he would’ve been so very proud of you. You’re as pretty as your Momma and every bit as good a cop as he was. It’s a shame how things turned out for your parents. They deserved a much longer life than they got. You were the center of their lives, you know. They loved you as much as they loved each other. And believe me your parents’ love was endless.”
“Did you and Wilder ever have any leads on the robbery suspects who killed Da?”
“There were none to speak of. Wild Thing was still young and hot-headed back then. He was a lot like you—couldn’t make nice while playing with others. I was a beat cop breaking in a new partner. We did our best with what we had to work with. It was a nightmare trying to get the facts from the homicide boys after Patrick’s murder.”
Looking down at his hands, he said, “The Las Vegas PD had merged with the Clark County Sheriff’s Department almost two years before and operational details were still being ironed out.” He let out a stifled laugh. “It took over a year just to get the uniforms and patrol cars all one color. The local radio shows used to make jokes about never knowing what color cop car would show up when you needed help.
“There was still a whole lot of politicking going on. A whole lot of back stabbing. And a whole lot of cops sold their souls trying to climb to the top of the heap.”
“That still happens today.”
“Yes, it does.” He nodded and went back to his story. “There was an internal war between a group of what used to be damn good cops. Greed and power ruin many men. Cops are no exceptions. Anyway, the lead homicide detective and his partner were from the old Clark County Sheriff’s Department side and the bank was on what used to be their turf.
“The arseholes weren’t real keen on sharing any info with me or Wild Thing. In their minds, we were still part of the ‘other department’. If the case was going to be solved, by God, it would be solved by their side. That was the mentality of the detectives we had working with us to solve Patrick’s murder.”
“How could they be so territorial when it involved another cop’s murder? I thought all cops fought for and looked out for each other, took care of their own.”
“That’s how it’s supposed to be, and how it is now. It just took a few years for the power struggles to die down. By the time Wilder and I got our hands on the files, most of the evidence had been lost and the few existing leads had grown colder than a well digger’s arse. I couldn’t find the bloody bastards that killed Patrick.”
Kennedy, her heart heavy, watched as her grandfather’s eyes filled with unshed tears. “I regret that I failed Patrick and our family, but I know that someday his killers will get their due punishment. Water seeks its own level, you know?”
“I know.” Kennedy hugged him. “You did the best you could under the circumstances, Grandpa. You didn’t fail us. Wilder told me you spent hours working the case, battling to get what little information there was.”
“Maybe you’re right, lass. I’ll leave it in God’s hands now. I hit the wall years ago trying to figure it all out.”
“When I’m finished with this new case, I may just pull the files on Da’s murder. A fresh view might shake up something. You never know.”
The look she saw on his face was one of pure surprise. “You’ve never peeked at the old files? I guess I always just assumed you had.”
“No. I guess I’m afraid to see the details in print. And seeing the murder scene photos isn’t exactly my idea of a Kodak moment. I’ve come close a few times, but couldn’t quite bring myself to go down and check them out. I will, though. Soon.”
“You’ll do fine. Don’t pull the files until you’re sure you’re ready.” He rubbed a veiny hand over his face.
“I understand, Grandpa.”
“Before you leave today, I’ll give you Patrick’s photo album from the academy. It’s time to pass it on.”
“Thank you. I’ll take good care of it, I promise.”
“I know you will. Now, let’s get back to present day problems. Tell me what you have so far on your prostitute killer. You must have something.” He nudged Kennedy with a shoulder. “Let’s talk it out.”