Killertrust (15 page)

Rhetta sprang from her chair
and swept across the room in two strides on her way to the hall door. She
totally understood Woody that time.

He snatched her arm as she
flew by. “Hold on, where are you going?” he asked, when her feet finally
stopped. He held her fast.

She tried to wrestle free. “I
want to see that purse for myself. If that no good, little slime bucket is the
one who attacked me, I have a few words for him.”

LuEllen caught up to her and
edged herself between Rhetta and the doorway. “Just a minute, Rhetta, you just
said that the police called you to go down there and identify stuff that may
have been stolen by whoever knocked you over the head. Don’t you think you
should go down there first? Besides, if Mr. Corini did conk you on the head and
steal your purse, why would he leave it in plain sight?”

Rhetta simmered down enough
that both of her colleagues stepped away from the door.

She sucked in a lungful of
air, and let it out slowly. “I suppose you’re both right. Woody, come with me,
I’ll just casually ask Mr. Corini where he got his new purse.” They turned
right, and trooped down the hall toward Philip Corini’s office.

“Exactly how do you intend to
phrase that question?” Woody asked.

“I’ll think of something.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Woody laid a hand on Rhetta’s arm and slowed her down. “Don’t be accusing him
of anything, Rhetta. Let’s hear his explanation first.”

Corini’s door was still open.
Rhetta stepped into his cramped entryway, and let her gaze follow Woody’s index
finger, which pointed to a purse lying against the corner of the desk.

She stage-whispered, “That’s
my purse! You were right, Woody.” She sucked in hard enough to empty the air
out of the small room.

Corini came out of the back
office in time to hear Rhetta suck in the air. “Well, howdy there neighbor,” he
said, smiling broadly at Rhetta.
Did people say howdy neighbor in St.
Louis? I doubt it. That’s probably his way of trying to get down to our country
bumpkin level.

Rhetta arched her eyebrows
and pointed to the purse on the floor. “Excuse me for saying so, Mr. Corini,
but your man-bag looks like the purse that was stolen from me the night I was
mugged.”

Corini’s head whipped back
and forth, finally stopping when his eyes lined up with the purse. He pointed
to it. “You mean this purse? That’s not my man-bag. I don’t carry a man-bag.”
He marched over to it, bent, and picked it up. “I found this behind my office a
couple of days ago.” He dumped it over, and shook it a little. “It’s completely
empty so I didn’t think it was important enough to call the police. I guess I
just forgot about it.”

“May I see it?” Rhetta asked.

He handed it to her. “Sure.
Do you recognize it?”

She narrowed her eyes at him.
If he was lying, he was doing a really good job. He sounded sincere. “You know
a thief stole mine the night I was mugged here?’

He stepped back, hand flying
to his mouth. “You were mugged? Here? I thought I left all that behind in Saint
Louis.” His face paled. His shock appeared genuine.

“Yes, it happened a few days
before Christmas.” As a reflex, her hand went up and touched the spot on the
back of her head. “I got hit on the head, and my purse was stolen.” She walked
over toward the little man, who took a step back at her approach. “I don’t
suppose you know anything about that?” She deliberately left out the Dumpster
part.

“No, I didn’t know. That’s
just terrible. Are you all right?” He wrung his hands.
I can’t believe
he’s wringing his hands. Is that a sign of stress, like Woody’s head rubbing?
Why is he so stressed? Maybe I should’ve called the cops.
Just then,
a movement at her side caught her eye. Woody was rubbing his head
.
Looks like
they’re both stressed.

Rhetta inspected the handbag.
“I believe this is my purse, Mr. Corini. I’d like to take this to the police
station. I have to go down there in a little while. I’m going to inform them
that my purse showed up here. They may want to talk to you about that.”

“Of course, of course.” He
pulled a handkerchief out and rubbed his forehead. “But, honestly, I found it
in the back, near my steps. I only picked it up because I thought there might
be some ID in it. When I didn’t find anything, I just set it down. I guess I
forgot about it.”

From the looks of the
disarray in his office, Rhetta figured Corini didn’t know where anything was,
and almost believed that he did forget he had a woman’s purse lying on the
floor in his reception area. Looks like no one had done any cleaning in there
in a while, either.

“By the way, I use Taylormaid
Cleaning Service. If you like, I’ll bring you Wendy’s card.” Rhetta grasped one
handle of the purse in two fingers, turned abruptly, and headed back down the
hall to her office.

“Were you insinuating that
his office was a mess?” Woody trotted alongside her.

“That was no insinuation. Did
you see that place?” She wrinkled her nose.

“Did you notice the comb-over
is gone? I think he got hair transplants. They look like somebody row cropped
his head.”

“You mean corn rows?”

“No, I mean row cropped in
bad soil during a drought. Jenn said if I ever did that, I could move out.”
Woody rubbed his own smooth pate. “Do you know what part of the body they get
the hair from for transplants? From—”

Rhetta put her hands over her
ears. “Stop! I don’t want to know any more. Now I’ll be studying his hair to
see if some is curly and some is straight. I wish you hadn’t told me that!”

Back at her office, Rhetta
rummaged through the cabinets and came up with a plastic bag bearing a Walmart
logo. She tucked the purse in it and tied the end closed. “I doubt if the cops
will get any prints off this, but I’m going to take it to them anyway. If they
do find prints, I bet the only ones on it are mine and Corini’s. Did you notice
how guilty he was acting?”

“He admitted to picking it
up, so it’s a given that his prints are on it. That won’t prove he did
anything.” Woody sat at his desk and grasped the computer mouse. His screen
sprang to life. “I think he’s intimidated by you. After all, you are a judge’s
wife, and I think he regrets being in an office in such close proximity to a
member of the court.” He tapped a few keys on his keyboard.

“Why should that bother him
unless he has something to hide?”

“There may be more to Mr.
Corini than meets our eyes. Look at this.” Woody swiveled so that Rhetta could
see the monitor. “I found this on the Saint Louis Post-Dispatch website when I
did a Google search of his name.”

Rhetta squinted to read the
screen but failed to decipher anything. She glanced around for her glasses. She
finally located them on her head, then transferred them to her nose. She
scrambled over to Woody’s desk and peered over his shoulder at the monitor.
After reading it, Rhetta whistled.

Rhetta read the two-year old
news column aloud. “Local accountant arrested for assault.”
Seems like our
own Philip Corini was once arrested in St. Louis!

“Print that, Woody. I’m taking
it to Sergeant Delmonti.”

Woody was ahead of her. He’d
already sent the document to the printer. He retrieved it and handed it to her
as she threw her new purse on her shoulder and stomped toward the back of the
office.

“That little slime ball. I
knew there was something about that little weasel I didn’t like. So help me, if
he turns out to be the one who robbed me, I… I… Damn.” She jerked her coat from
the rack. It snagged on a hook. “Crap,” she said, freeing it and threading her
arms into it. She turned to Woody as she snatched her sock hat, gloves, and
scarf, and practically ran for the back door. “I can’t wait to discuss this
with Sergeant Delmonti.” She tucked the plastic bag containing the old purse
under her arm and fished in her new purse for her keys.

“Uh, Rhetta, your hat…it’s…”

Rhetta interrupted him. “I
have my hat, Woody. I’ll see you in a while.” She flew out the back door,
slipped down the steps and nearly fell, then recovered her balance enough to
make it to her car.
I
really hate winter!
She couldn’t wait
for summer, driving Cami with the sunroof open to the warm blue skies and
singing her head off with the Oldies.

Finally settled in her SUV,
she tugged the hat down over her ears. The hat felt scratchy, but she ignored
it. She’d rather go bare-headed, but it was too cold. She didn’t keep her hair
long enough to keep her head warm.

That
damn Corini
.
She knew she didn’t like him. It wasn’t just a vague
sensation of dislike. She was convinced that he was up to no good. She now had
the evidence in a Walmart bag.

She didn’t turn the radio on.
For once, she didn’t want to sing along and be cheered up. She wanted to stay
plenty upset with Corini. She found a parking space in front of the main door
to the police station after having to circle the block only four times. She
locked Streak and jogged as quickly as her boots on the slushy sidewalk would
allow. She was grateful that the city had cleared the sidewalk, but there was
enough slush left to cause her to fall if she didn’t watch her steps.

The cop shop was located in
the city’s administration building, a renovated two-story structure built in
the 1930’s through WPA, or Works Project Administration. Originally an
elementary school, it now served to house the local city government offices,
including the police station. The rock sided outside looked much like it did
after it was built, thus keeping the original look and pleasing the
historically-minded citizens who had wanted to preserve it. Inside, however,
all the space was divided into office cubbies that comprised a warren any
rabbit would envy.

Finally finding the correct
corridor to the Police Department, Rhetta strolled into the waiting area. A
young duty officer sat behind a wire cage and glass enclosure, protecting him
from any unpleasantries from the masses. She assumed the glass was bulletproof.
She turned and glanced around. She was the only person in the waiting area.
Maybe she wouldn’t have to wait long to see Delmonti.

“Can I help you?” the officer
asked. He cocked his head, and eyed her. A smile began to work the corners of
his mouth.

She bent to speak through the
opening. “I need to see Sergeant Delmonti, please. My name is Rhetta McCarter.”

The officer stifled a laugh
by clearing his throat. “I’ll see if he’s in, please have a seat.” He turned
sideways and tapped on a phone console. His shoulders began shaking and he
appeared to be suppressing his laughter. He cleared his throat.

Rhetta again gazed around the
room, searching for the source of his mirth. Finding nothing or no one there,
she dismissed his actions as an inside joke to which she wasn’t privy, and
picked up a magazine. She hadn’t yet scanned it when Sergeant Delmonti appeared
at a door at the opposite side of the room. She’d thought about a stop in the
restroom, but his presence pre-empted the visit.

“Mrs. McCarter. Thanks for
coming.” He stepped aside to allow her to pass ahead of him through the
doorway. He walked alongside of her in silence for a few steps until they came to
the first office on the left. He motioned her inside, then followed her,
closing the door. She sat in the single guest chair in front of the desk while
he lowered his slender frame into a roll-around office chair behind his desk,
facing her.

She handed him the plastic
bag containing her evidence. “Sergeant, this is my purse. One of the tenants in
my building, Philip Corini, a CPA, said he found it near the Dumpster in back.
He claimed it was empty, so he didn’t call anyone, especially the police. He told
me he didn’t know that I had been mugged.” She sat back, waiting for Delmonti’s
reaction.

He opened the bag, then
glanced inside. “Are you sure this is yours?”

“Positive. It’s a Harvé
Michel bag. I bought it in Saint Louis at a boutique in Clayton. I’m sure
you’re thinking that there are plenty of purses, and how can I be positive it’s
mine? Well, Harvé Michels are all numbered. This one is 0707, and if you check
with Alexander’s in Clayton, they will have a record of me as purchaser.”

Delmonti jotted on a note
pad. “Thank you. We’ll check that.” He set the bag down, and folded his hands
on top of the desk. His perfectly creased dark grey shirt couldn’t conceal the
bulk of the bulletproof vest under it.

“We recovered a wallet
containing credit cards with your name on them and your operator’s license and
checkbook when we busted a crack house on Good Hope Street. We arrested Jamal
Browning, who was the one who actually had your stuff. We think he broke into
several homes in the area. We also believe a second party got the cash and
anything else of value that may have been in the bag, because this is all we
recovered.” He pressed a button and spoke into his phone console. “Corporal
Neysmith, please bring the Browning evidence bag to my office.”

He continued speaking to
Rhetta. “I don’t know why your credit cards and ID were found, but I suspect
that the two perps had a deal whereby one took the cash and anything else of
value while the other got to keep checkbooks and credit cards. They’d need ID
to cash checks or use the credit cards.” Delmonti shook his head and muttered,
“Not that anyone in that place remotely resembled you.”

He went on. “I’d like you to
look through the contents to see if you recognize anything else. We’re pretty
sure he’s the one who robbed you. He’s been identified by several folks who
were victims of his snatch and run. Although none of those folks were
attacked.” Delmonti frowned, as though pondering something. He didn’t share it
with Rhetta. “I know you said you didn’t see your assailant, so I won’t ask you
to identify him. But would you mind looking at a picture of him to see if you
know him?”

The door opened and a female
officer brought the bag of evidence into the office and stood there with it
while Delmonti slid it and a picture of a young male over to Rhetta to inspect.
The female officer’s badge read,
Neysmith, G.

Rhetta examined the contents
and nodded. She pointed, and announced, “That’s my wallet. It’s hand-tooled
calf leather. Randolph bought it for me when we were in Mexico.” She also
spotted her driver license. That really was a terrible picture of her. She
hadn’t realized her eyes were almost closed. Sheesh. Maybe it was a good thing
she had to get a replacement. Spotting a pair of earrings, she added, “Those
are my garnet earrings. I forgot they were in my purse. I wondered what I had
done with them.” She remembered then, with perfect clarity the last time she
wore them. They dangled into her sweater, where one caught and pulled out of
her ear. She found it on the floor and removed the mate, and slipped them into
the zipper compartment in her wallet. “You’ll find one with a broken back on
it. It got caught in my sweater and nearly ripped through my ear. I put them
into my wallet.” A Kohl’s and a J C Penney credit card lay amidst the rest of
the evidence. “There are still two cards missing, a Visa and a Master Card.”

“Did you notify the credit
card companies?” Delmonti asked as he nodded to the officer who cleared her
throat and stifled a smile as she picked up the evidence bag.

“Absolutely.”
What did
Neysmith, G find so funny?

“Good. We’ll bag and tag this
purse and enter it as part of the evidence report of your mugging. I’m sure
we’ll be able to verify your purchase at,” he glanced at his notes,
“Alexander’s in Clayton.” He handed the purse to the officer.

Rhetta stood. “Do you know
when I might get my property back?”

“I’m sorry, no. We’ll have to
keep this until we go to trial. It may be a while. Browning has denied
attacking you and stealing your purse. Claims he found it.” Delmonti shrugged.
“He confessed to several snatch and grabs but is vehemently denying this, even
in the face of finding your wallet and other items on him. He’s adamant he
found them. Of course, you are the only victim he assaulted, so he’s going to
fight the assault charge.” He picked up the picture. “Does he look familiar to
you?”

Rhetta shook her head. “Nope.
I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him before.”

The warmth inside the station
had made Rhetta’s head itch under the sock hat. She hated to remove it because
she knew her hair would stand straight up from the static electricity. She
slipped her index finger under the edge of the hat and scratched her scalp.

Rhetta turned to leave, but
stopped. She turned around. “Sergeant, do you have any more leads on the hit
and run accident I witnessed?”

Delmonti shrugged. “We
haven’t found the truck you said you saw, nor have we had any other witnesses
come forward. This one will stay on the books for a while longer, but I fear we
may never know what happened.”

“I think the poor man was
deliberately run down. For who he was.” Rhetta said, staring straight at
Delmonti.

Delmonti fixed her with an
equally hard gaze. “Do you know something you’re not sharing with me, Mrs.
McCarter?” He tapped the desktop with his pen.

His tone rankled Rhetta. She
wasn’t in the mood to get another big fat rejection or an eye roll. And truly,
she didn’t know anything. She hadn’t had any conversation with Delmonti about
her father. What was the point? Her father wasn’t a murderer. Of that, she was
positive. “No, I sure don’t. Just what I read in the papers, that he was
identified as someone who had died in 1973. Don’t you find that odd?”

He tilted his head. He
ignored her question. “Thanks for coming in, Mrs. McCarter. And if you do see
that truck you identified, you will let us know, right?”

She nodded. Her head really
itched. She couldn’t wait to jerk the hat off and scratch her head. “Of
course.”

Delmonti pointed to her hat.
“By the way, I have to ask, are sock monkey hats the new fashion trend?”

Crap
. Her hand flew to her head and she snatched it off
and glared at the red-lipped monkey that had adorned the back of the hat. She
swore it was mocking her. She had grabbed Woody’s hat instead of her own. As
soon as the hat cleared her head, her hair stood at attention. She tried to
smooth it down. And failed.

No wonder everyone was
snickering. The fashionista wore a sock monkey hat to the police station. She
felt her face redden. That would probably make
First News
tonight.