High Heels and Holidays (12 page)

“If you can go out without causing a riot, yes. And speaking of riots,” he said, taking her arm and steering her back the way they'd come, “I suggest we keep our faces averted and step lively.”

“Why?” Maggie asked, trying to pull her arm free as she looked back over her shoulder. “What's the—oh, cripes. It's true—stand on a street corner in Manhattan long enough, and eventually you'll see everyone you know passing by. Man, I hate knowing that's true. Move it, Alex.”

But it was too late.

“
You!
” Nikki Campion screeched in her unpleasantly high voice. “I thought it was you. Oh, this is terrific. You just wait right there while I get my Uncle Salvatore. Don't move, if you know what's good for you!”

Alex stopped at the curb, even though Maggie was pulling on his arm now. “Are you nuts? Don't listen to her. You
want
Salvatore Campiano to see us? After what we did to Nikki? Or are you anxious to see if you can tread water in the East River—with an anchor tied to your ankle? Alex? What are you doing? Don't just stand there.”

“I'm remembering a quote about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer,” Alex told her as a large man in a camel colored wool topcoat with a real fur collar and wearing a fedora approached, two smaller men following behind him, in the way pilot fish follow a whale. “Ah, sir, a pleasure,” he then said, extending his right hand to the man.

Salvatore Campiano looked at Alex's hand for a long moment, and then clasped it between both his huge paws. “I understand you put in a few good words with the coppers over in England. For my loopy niece here.
Stupido
. My arms are long,
capisca
, but not so long they reach all the way across the sea. What you want for your help, huh? I give you something. Fruit, yes. Much fruit I send you, fresh.” He kissed the tips of his fingers. “
Molto buon
, grapefruit the size of the cantaloupe, I swear it. And,” he ended in a near whisper, stepping closer to Alex, as he took his hand once more, “if you ever were to find a need for my services—you take my meaning here?—you call this number,
capisca
, and I take care of everything for you. Anything you need.”

“Hardly necessary, Mr. Campiano, but I accept with gratitude,” Alex said as Maggie half cowered and half peeked at the powerful mob boss, fascinated.

“Yes, yes, now thank the man, Nikki, and we'll be about our business.”

Maggie's upper lip curled as Nikki Campion grinned at her, then sashayed—she really did; she sashayed—up to Alex and planted a big wet one square on his mouth. “Anything you need,” she purred, repeating her uncle's words.

“I don't believe it. I don't freaking
believe
it—and I'm not talking about that kiss, because I know you didn't have any real choice there,” Maggie grumbled a few minutes later as she and Alex made their way back to the condo building. “One, I don't believe you
put in a good word
for Nikki with the locals and got her off. And two, I can't believe you gave your address to that wiseguy. With a guy like that, that was as good as giving him a key. Oh, and three? Three is, why the heck didn't you ask for a lifetime of free transmission service, huh? Boffo
Transmissions
, remember? But you didn't think of me, huh, did you? Oh, God, listen to me! I'm angry because you didn't ask some scary mobster-type to check my transmission. What's happening to me? I need to seriously rethink my life, Alex. I really do.”

“Maggie, you're overreacting,” Alex said, slipping the mobster's business card into his pocket. “Mr. Campiano seems a very nice man, a gentleman.”

“Uh-huh, sure. A gentleman. Right up until you wake up to a horse head in your bed, you betcha he's a gentleman. Socks,” she called out as they neared the condo building just as the doorman was closing the door on a taxicab, “guess who Alex's new best friend is. Oh, come on, guess. No, never mind that, because you'd never guess. Salvatore Campiano. Can you
believe
it?”

Socks gave a low whistle as he held open the door to the building. “Way to go, Alex!” he said, following them into the building. “That's better than knowing the mayor. Oh, hey, Maggie, someone came by to see you a while ago, but I knew you were out. He didn't leave his name.”

Maggie paused in the act of pushing the elevator button. “For me? I don't know any men. Well, I know some men,” she added, rolling her eyes. “What did he look like?”

“Yes, Socks, what did he look like?” Alex asked.

“Down boy, you're not in charge, remember?” Maggie told him quietly. “We figured that out at breakfast.”

Socks took off his billed cap and scratched his head. “What did he look like? Okay. Tall, black—blacker than me. I mean, the brother was
dark
. Seriously buffed. And good-looking, in a young James Earl Jones way, you know?”

Maggie shook her head. “Nope. I don't know him. Oh, wait, maybe it's . . . no, he wouldn't come here. Why would he come here?”

“Fascinating as it is, listening to you converse with yourself,
who
wouldn't visit you here?” Alex asked silkily.

“A writer I know. He lives about two blocks from here, actually. Bruce McCrae. He works with Bernie, too. Gee, I haven't seen him since last year's Toland Books Christmas party. Maybe he wants to know why there isn't a party this year? Oh, wait. Maybe it has something to do with Francis Oakes. You know, like maybe he wants to know about the funeral or something—he knows Bernie and I are friends.” She shrugged. “Yeah well, he'll come back, if that was him. You coming, Alex?”

They were silent in the elevator, all the way to the ninth floor, Maggie suddenly feeling very
alone
with him again, so that she stepped out into the hall even as the doors were still opening.

“I'd like to speak to you, Maggie,” Alex said as they walked down the hallway. “There's something we need to discuss.”

Maggie stopped in front of her door, her keys already in her hand. He looked serious, and she wasn't ready for him to be serious. “No, Alex, we don't. Let's just play it by ear, okay? J.P. is coming at one, and I want to think a little more about what I'm going to say to her. That gives me what, two hours?”

“Shall I casually drop by a little after one, or are you able to handle her disappointment on your own?”

“She's a lawyer. A professional. She won't go ballistic on me, or anything. I mean—okay, stop over.
Casually
. Give me a half hour or so first.”

“Until then,” he said, stepping closer even as he put his hand under her chin, lifted her face for his kiss. “Ah, delightful,” he then breathed against her lips before kissing her again.

By the time she'd recovered enough to ask him just what the hell he thought he was doing, he was gone, and she was standing alone in the hallway.

Chapter Eleven

S
aint Just was angry with himself, on many levels. Most obvious was the feeling that he should be presented with a white feather for cowardice, as he had been more than happy to find all sorts of diversions rather than speak to Maggie about what was really important: their evening together, and Francis Oakes's murder.

He was not the sort who would ever wish to engage in a mutual retrospective on an evening spent in a woman's arms; the idea smacked too much of a critique, a plea for reassurance that the night had gone well. He was intelligent enough to know how the evening had gone, and it had gone very well. He would much rather move on to the next evening, and the next.

In the past, his past, that would have meant another evening, another woman. Maggie knew that; she had created him, guided him through more than a half-dozen years of amorous evenings with a wide assortment of comely creatures.

She knew this was different, what they'd shared was different.

Didn't she?

Well, perhaps he'd think about something else.

He'd only just sat down in front of his laptop computer, planning to recheck Maggie's conclusions on Santas for Silver, when there was a quick, loud rapping on his door.

“Alex, you in there?”

“
Left
-tenant Wendell,” Saint Just muttered under his breath. “Perhaps I have left it all too late.” He got to his feet, but by the time he'd opened the door, Wendell was knocking on Maggie's door. “Are we having a party,
Left
-tenant?”

Wendell turned around quickly and punched a finger in Saint Just's direction. “
You
we'll talk about later, okay? And don't tell me it wasn't you, because who else is a
handsome as sin Englishman
, huh? You've got an admirer, Blakely, and you know just who I mean, don't you?”

Saint Just smiled. “Ah, Jeremy, yes? You two have spoken?”

“No, Alex, me and Jeremy haven't
spoken
.”

“Jeremy and
I
haven't—”

“Shut up. Jeremy and I haven't spoken—my
captain
and I have spoken. Not that I did much of the talking. You're famous, Alex, freaking famous. And if you get any more famous, you might just find yourself being charged with trespassing, impeding a police investigation, and anything else I can think of to stick on you, and we would have, except that the scene wasn't an official crime scene when you did your little B and E and you'll probably say the door was open when you got there and I don't have time for you anyway. What in hell were you doing at Oakes's apartment?”

“As you said,
Left
-tenant, we'll save that for later, shall we? Or are you here with more information for me?”

“For
you
? Yeah, that's happening. I'm here to figure out why you wanted to know about Oakes, okay? So just shut up and let me talk to Maggie.”

“Of course,” Saint Just said silkily. “And how is Miss Christine today?”

Wendell gave Saint Just a look that would have had a lesser man ducking for cover, but Saint Just only kept a politely interested expression on his face. “You're a piece of work, Blakely. All right, all right. I'll tell you this much. It definitely wasn't suicide. Oakes was—hey, hiya, Maggie.”

Saint Just watched as Wendell attempted a kiss and Maggie turned her head just as the good lieutenant turned his, so that they ended up butting noses instead. Ah, the falling off of what had never been a great romantic bond in the first place. How delicious to watch. He cleared his throat politely, which earned him a searing glance from Maggie before she invited them both inside the condo.

“I'm glad you're back, Maggie. So, what's up? Anything new going on I should know about?”

Saint Just bit his bottom lip as he watched sheer panic leap into Maggie's eyes. Sterling, it would appear, wasn't the only one who could be very literal minded. She was flustered, obviously, and didn't quite know what to do with a question like that, or with her supposed boyfriend and her lover together in the same room, so Saint Just—gentleman that he was—came to her assistance by pulling out the desk chair and indicating that Wendell should seat himself while he—still playing the gentleman—searched the kitchen for liquid refreshments.

When he returned to the living room, three soda cans and three ice-filled glasses on a tray bearing the likeness of Crusader Rabbit, Maggie was telling Wendell about their recent trip to England.

“So I want to thank you again, Steve, for all your help with background checks,” she said, then looked to Saint Just. “Don't we, Alex?”

“Indeed, yes. The information about our fellow guests was invaluable. Soda?”

“Thanks,” Wendell said, ignoring the glass in order to drink directly from the can. A good man, with a pure heart, but sadly lacking in the niceties at times, which was a pity. “Maggie, I'm sorry I couldn't get here sooner but, um, I'm working a new case. Two of them, actually—I just got handed a second one this morning. You know how it is.”

“Oh, that's fine,” Maggie said quickly, then too quickly added, “I mean, I was disappointed not to see you when I first got back but, um, well, you're here, right?” This time when she looked at Saint Just her expression bordered on pleading. Poor thing. She was so good with words on a page; the delightful turn of phrase, the quick comeback, the witty banter. But put her into a real-life situation where those same things are needed, and she quickly folded herself into a mass of insecurities.

How he adored her.

Saint Just sat down on the couch beside her, patting her hand as he told Wendell that the reason Sterling wasn't here to greet him was that he had become a Santa for Santas for Silver. “He's quite enthused about the thing. Have you by any chance heard of this organization, Wendell?”

“No, can't say I have. But they're a dime a dozen this time of year. Tell Sterling I said hi, okay?” Then he shifted slightly on the chair and looked to Maggie once more. “This case I've just been assigned to?” he began, sparing a moment to look at Saint Just as if to say
Yes, and it's all your fault, damn you
.

“A murder case?” Maggie asked, clearly happy to be on ground that was not at all personal. If she only knew. . . .

“Yes, Maggie, and I'm wondering if maybe you knew the victim, since you're both writers.”

“Oh, Steve,” Maggie said, “this is New York, remember? You can't walk ten feet in any direction without tripping over somebody who tells you he or she is a writer. Just like all the waiters in this town are actors.”

“But you might know this one, Maggie. He wrote for Toland Books.”

“Francis Oakes?” she asked, leaning forward on the couch. “Really? Bernie told me he'd died, but the papers reported it as a suspected suicide. Is it Francis? No. Who'd want to kill him? The guy was about as threatening as—as Woody Allen.”

Saint Just, who had been sipping from his glass, coughed and sputtered as politely as possible, earning himself a few slaps on the back from Maggie, who clearly believed his difficulty to be a distraction.

“Was it Francis, Steve?” she asked again.

“You all right, Blakely?” Wendell asked, and Saint Just could hear the amusement in the man's voice.

“Fine as ninepence,
Left
-tenant, thank you. But you fascinate us with this story, although you've said very little so far, haven't you? Please, do go on. I assure you, we're hanging on your every word.”

“I'll just bet you are.” Wendell got up and began pacing the carpet. “Here's the deal, Maggie. Yes, the vic is Francis Oakes. At first look the primary believed the guy hanged himself. You know, living in an attic, no money, no prospects—all that stuff. Oh, and his lover had just broken off with him a couple of weeks before he died. Top that off with the fact that we all know how many suicides there are around the holidays, and for a while Oakes looked like just one more unhappy schmuck who didn't want to face another new year.”

“Poor guy, that's so sad. But it wasn't suicide? The first officers on the scene didn't get that? Francis would have left a note, if he'd committed suicide. He was a writer. He had to have left a note. That would be like an astronaut leaving earth without his spaceship. Well, something like that. Alex, didn't we say that about Sam Underwood? That he hadn't left a note, and writers would always leave a note? Hanging. Man, there's a lot of that going around, isn't there? Oh, sorry, Steve. I won't interrupt again, I promise.”

“That's okay. But that was one of the things that stood out, Maggie, yeah. No note. Still, that isn't all that unusual. Some people decide something at the last minute, and then act on it before they can chicken out, you know? But there was something there, some kind of sicko poem from somebody who sent the guy a dead rat.”

“A dead rat?” Maggie shivered. “That's just plain creepy.”

Saint Just already knew this part, because Wendell had already told him about the poem, the rat. Yet, at that time, the police had still believed Oakes had committed suicide, that the poem and rat had been the proverbial straw that broke his writer's back. Wendell may consider what Saint Just had done as meddling, but it would appear that meddling had at least bumped the incompetent detective from the case and had him replaced with the much more competent lieutenant.

Which didn't mean Saint Just couldn't have a little fun at the man's expense. “This is all very interesting, Wendell. Could you tell us what prompted Oakes's COD to be readjusted to homicide?”

“Would you listen to him?” Wendell said to Maggie, shaking his head. “COD—cause of death. Everybody's into the lingo these days.” He turned to Saint Just. “MOD, in case you're wondering—manner of death—is still asphyxiation by hanging. But we found a lot of pre-mortem bruises at post, indicating that maybe the guy may have had a little help taking that final leap. Can we get on with this now?”

“Yeah, sure,” Maggie said, giving Saint Just a quick slap on the knee. “Stop interrupting, Alex. Tell us about the poem, Steve.”

“I don't have a copy with me, Maggie. It was just four lines—maybe from a nursery rhyme? But the last two lines didn't rhyme, even though they easily could have, you know? The last lines referred to the dead rat, and hinted that Oakes could be just as dead.”

Maggie hugged herself. “I'm trying to imagine opening a package and having a dead rat fall out on your lap. Poor Francis. A big, ugly, smelly rat. With those pointy teeth and that long skinny tail.
Blecch
!”

“Yes, thank you for that image, my dear. But let's try to concentrate on poor departed Francis, all right?”

“I know,” Maggie told Saint Just. “But I was just thinking. We're afraid of rats because they're dirty, and ugly, right? But then there's the name—rat. That couldn't help, right? I shiver just at the word. I mean, what if they'd been called puppies? Would we still think they were ugly, with such a cute name, or would we think puppies was an ugly name? Think about it. How effective would it have been in that old movie, if James Cagney had said ‘You puppy, you dirty puppy!' Nothing. It would have been a big nothing.”

“Is this going anywhere, Maggie?” Wendell asked, earning himself a smile from Saint Just.

“No. But one more, okay? Shakespeare said a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. So he'd probably think a rat was ugly even if we started calling them puppies, right? Oh, and the other way around—puppies would be cute even if we called them rats, right? Have we talked about this before? It all seems so familiar. Maybe last month? No, I don't think so. Well, maybe. Must have been another reference to Shakespeare. Jeez, a dead rat . . .”

Saint Just smiled in real amusement. “She goes on like this from time to time, Wendell. Endearing trait, don't you think?”

“Uh . . .”

Maggie's cheeks colored adorably. “I'm sorry, Steve. So the rat and the poem, right? They weren't connected with the murder, is that what you're saying? They were just a coincidence?”

“That's what we're not sure of,” Wendell admitted, sitting down once more. “The threat—the poem was definitely a threat—might have been quickly followed by the murder. Except for one thing. If you got a dead rat in the mail, wouldn't you immediately get it the hell out of your apartment? So we started thinking maybe the killer brought it with him, although we can't think of any reason to do that.”

“Are there fingerprints on the box, the wrappings?” Saint Just asked.

“No, it came back clean, which sent up another red flag. Damn shows on TV make people believe this stuff is checked in ten minutes, but it takes days. And who said the rat was in a box, Blakely?”

“Forgive me,
Left
-tenant,” Saint Just said without missing a beat. “I am guilty of an assumption there, aren't I? I considered the logistics of the thing, if the rat had been delivered via the post. You did say it was
sent
, correct? I suppose it could just as well have been delivered via messenger. But consider the possibilities, if you please. A dead rat, in a bag, even a sturdy bag? The shape and feel alone might easily have alerted someone, not to mention the biological laws of decomposition that could have—”

“Okay, thanks Alex, we got it,” Maggie broke in, making a face. “Satisfied, Steve? Because he could go on if we let him. I'm not the only one who does that.”

Wendell nodded, then said, “Where was I?”

“Mired in questions with, to this point, no answers,” Saint Just supplied helpfully. “What a shame the trail of clues had been left to grow cold while the authorities labored under a misconception. You did say you were only very recently assigned to the case, didn't you, Wendell? I believe Bernice mentioned Mr. Oakes's sad demise had occurred last week. Heaven only knows how the scene may have been corrupted, isn't that right? Civilians tripping in and out of the deceased's apartment, disturbing valuable crime-scene evidence unless, of course, they were very careful, which the police, it would seem, were not. Yes, yes. A pity. Is it truth or fiction that any homicide that remains unsolved after forty-eight hours is often never solved at all?”