Shamus In The Green Room (10 page)

watch commander asked me if it was an emergency. I didn’t

know how to answer that.

Around nine-thirty, I crawled into bed, exhausted. But once

the lights were out, I was wide awake. I decided to go out to my

office, where I regularly drifted into unconsciousness without

trying.

It was almost one in the morning when Smarinsky called

back. Sleep had continued to elude me. I was going through all

my old Hammett books and papers for no particular reason.

“Hey, Ms. Caruso,” he said. “Sorry about the hour. What’s

going on?”

Another question I didn’t know how to answer.

“Good to hear from you, Detective. Busy day?”

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No response.

“Me, too,” I continued. “Busy, busy, busy.”

“Ms. Caruso—”

I didn’t let him finish. “I went to the scattering of Maren

Levander’s ashes.”

He paused. “And why did you do that?”

Because I wasn’t sure those were Maren’s ashes. “Because I

thought it was the decent thing to do,” I said.

“And I need to know that because . . . ?”

“It’s your case, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Case closed. Suicide. Pity. End of story.”

“That’s what I’m curious about,” I said. “How exactly did

you make that determination?”

“I’m not running an all-night forensics seminar, Ms.

Caruso. Ow!”

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” he yelled. “Stupid table. No, I’m okay!” he bel-

lowed. “My wife is concerned here.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, really I am, but you told me to

call you if I had any questions.”

“I’m officially rescinding the offer. And you don’t seem to

have any questions. Do you have any questions?” I thought I

could hear his blood pressure rising.

“What about tattoos?”

“What about them?” One-sixty over eighty. One-eighty

over ninety. I could kill him like this.

“Scars, tattoos, distinguishing marks? You ask about all

those things when you ID a body,” I said. “That’s what you do,

right?”

“Maren Levander had no distinguishing marks. You saw for

yourself.”

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That was the problem. “Forget it. The whole thing was just

so upsetting. I’m obviously crazy.”

“Is there anything more?”

“No. Nothing.” Coward.

“Good night then, Ms. Caruso.”

I was turning off the computer when the phone rang again.

Detective Smarinsky.

“I’m sorry I called you so many times,” I said, feeling some-

thing like dread in the pit of my stomach.

“Come down to the station house tomorrow,” he said.

You don’t fool around with the police. My dad was a cop,

my brothers are cops, I’m engaged to a cop. What was wrong

with me?

“I’m fine,” I said. “Really. I need a therapist, that’s all. I have

to learn to deal with death. Can you recommend somebody?”

“I’m not asking, Ms. Caruso.”

I got that part.

“Let’s make it noon,” he said.

“Do I need a lawyer?”

“You watch too much TV.”

“We’re just chatting?” I asked hopefully.

“Just chatting.”

Right.

t

T h e p h o n e r a n g a g a i n . A n y o n e b u t S m a r i n -

sky, I thought, still half asleep. I looked at the clock: 8:06 in

the morning.

“Up and at ’em, honey,” someone shouted in my ear. It was

Bridget, sounding unnaturally chipper.

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“What’d you do to the real Bridget?” I grumbled.

“Andrew and I went clubbing!” Andrew was last summer’s

On the Bias intern: young, handsome, and the only one ever

who hadn’t been gay. The two of them were in love, which I

think was a first for Bridget. Her natural ferocity held most

suitors at bay. “We were dancing all night!”

“Good for you.” I picked my gray sweatshirt up off the

floor and tugged it over my head. I’d left the windows open last

night and it was cold. “Just don’t give away your Schiaparelli

capelet today.” I’d consulted the price tag the other day: 1,099

big ones. It was a beauty, but out of my league.

“I don’t need sleep when I’m happy, as you know,” Brid-

get said.

“I forgot.”

“It’s Thursday, Cece.”

I waited a beat.

“The new magazines are out.”

She was speaking of our mutual fetishes: US Weekly, Star,

People, and In Touch. It was pathetic, but most hobbies are.

“And?”

“And have you been to the newsstand yet?”

“Obviously not,” I said.

“Better get over there.” She hung up abruptly.

I stared at the phone, then shook my head. Gambino,

who’d come over around three, got up to take a shower.

“You must be exhausted,” I said.

“Who was that?”

“Bridget.” I hauled my uncooperative body out of bed.

Maybe I could tell Smarinsky I had the flu.

Gambino turned on the hot water and came out to look for

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his clothes. He gathered up his pants and shirt from the floor,

and retrieved his gun and holster from the hall closet.

“Do you have time to go out to breakfast with me?” I asked,

wrapping my arms around his waist and nuzzling the back of

his neck.

“Yeah. I don’t have to be downtown until noon.”

Me, neither. Of course, I wasn’t telling him that. He had

enough on his mind. He was due in court today, giving testi-

mony in a murder case. A Colombian dealer had killed one of

the department’s longtime informants. Everybody knew the

guy was guilty, but the case wasn’t exactly airtight. Gambino

and his partner, Tico, had been somewhat hasty. There was a

question about the timing on their executing a warrant. Gam-

bino’s boss was looking for a scapegoat. There’d been a three-

hour meeting with the D.A.’s office earlier in the week, and

there were more to come. Tensions were high. The Colombian

had fired his original counsel and hired a high-profile lawyer

from out of town who had a reputation as a cop hater.

Gambino went back into the bathroom. I flung open the

door to my closet and rooted around for something unim-

peachable. Something pastel. Maybe with a Peter Pan collar.

“What do you think about cheese Danishes at Canter’s?” I

called out.

“No complaints from me.”

While Gambino was in the shower, his cell phone rang.

I picked it up, but when I said hello, the caller hung up.

Twenty minutes later we pulled into the loading zone in

front of Centerfold Newsstand on Fairfax.

“What’s this?” Gambino asked.

“Pit stop.”

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He said he’d wait in the car.

“And there she is,” crowed Antwon from his perch behind

the counter. He put down the issue of Maxim he was perusing.

He didn’t look like the Maxim type, but you never can tell.

Anyway, it’s good to know your merchandise.

“So,” Antwon asked, nibbling delicately on a pinkie nail,

“how you doing, mystery woman?” When I looked puzzled, he

leapt up from his seat, then walked me over to the rack directly

opposite. There was an evil glint in his eye. “Voilà! And to

think I knew you way back when!”

My gaze swept across the covers of the tabloids.

Oh, no.

“You take a good picture, woman!” Antwon’s dreads were

bouncing in glee. “Look at her,” he said, dragging over a small

woman holding an issue of Soap Opera Digest in her hand.

“The buxom brunette beauty! One of my regulars!”

“Who Is She?” screamed US Weekly in bright red letters.

“Rafe in Love!” proclaimed Star.

“Buxom Brunette Beauty Steals Rafe’s Heart!” elaborated

In Touch.

People, at least, had taken the high road, with a shot of a

former Olympic champion fighting Lou Gehrig’s disease.

A horn honked outside. That would be my fiancé.

I hadn’t counted on this particular development, though

god knows why not. It was actually kind of funny, when you

looked at it a certain way.

“You could buy ’em all out,” offered Antwon. “That’s what

Liz Taylor did whenever she was on the covers. She’d send that

husband of hers with the mullet cut.”

“Larry Fortensky?”

“That’s right. He’d come with his mullet cut, his tight

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stonewashed jeans, and his big ol’ minivan every morning for a

week, loading ’em all into the back. Sweet Larry Fortensky!”

“Honey, what’s taking so long?” Gambino had appeared.

I threw myself across the magazines, a despairing odalisque.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Resting,” I said with a tight smile.

The Soap Opera Digest woman made herself scarce.

“Get up, Cece,” Gambino said.

I got up and stood next to Antwon, who was twitching

with excitement. Gambino picked up the top copy of US

Weekly. The photograph on the cover had been taken as Rafe

and I were exiting the coroner’s office. Rafe had his arm

around me protectively. The worst part was how awful I looked

in that bat-wing-sleeve sweater. I was getting a breast reduc-

tion immediately.

Gambino looked at it for a minute or two, then tossed it

nonchalantly back into the pile. “What, you think I’m some

kind of Neanderthal?”

Antwon was about to answer when I kicked him.

“Garbage in, garbage out. Next week they’ll have a new vic-

tim. Let’s go.”

Antwon gave me a little wave.

Canter’s cheese Danishes might have made everything bet-

ter, but unfortunately, they were closed for a film shoot.

Hooray, as they say, for Hollywood.

CHAPTER

ELEVEN

The one saving grace of the morning was Smarinsky can-

celing our meeting. Something more important had come

up, and he’d decided to cut me loose. A simple call would’ve

saved me the trip, but I had a suspicion this was his way of

punishing me. It was fine. I wasn’t due at Rafe’s until later in

the afternoon, and I had no idea what I was supposed to say to

him. I wasn’t at the point where I could accuse him of any-

thing. Not yet, at least. But there were still avenues to explore.

Since I was downtown already, I thought I’d take a chance and

see if Captain Donaldson was in. He was a far more pleasant

character than his colleague. Maybe I could pump him more

successfully.

Donaldson was busy on the service floor, but would be

free in half an hour, if I could wait. In the meantime, I asked

the receptionist to point me in the direction of the gift shop.

Shopping is an outstanding way to kill time. And assuming

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you aren’t averse to debt, it’s an excellent stress reducer, as well.

All those colors and textures get the blood flowing, wash out

the toxins. Of course, retail establishments run the gamut and,

sad to say, Skeletons in the Closet lacked mightily in the ambi-

ence department. The goods weren’t much to speak of either.

I have no idea what kind of person would clamor for a pair of

Undertaker boxers, with a pattern of dead-body logos, or a

Foot with Toe Tag T, though I do find it curious that there

were no smalls in the pile. Lots of XXLs, though.

“Careful! That’s a breakable!” The shrill voice came from

behind a stack of glossy black gift bags imprinted with the ever-

popular dead-body logo. A woman appeared, wielding a Kit

Kat bar like it was a grenade. I put down the skull paperweight/

business card holder I’d picked up—with fine anatomical de-

tail, spring-mounted jaw, and snap-off top—and looked at my

watch. I had to go, anyway.

Captain Donaldson was waiting in the lobby. He smiled at

me as if we were old friends. It was disarming, which was

probably the point. He hadn’t gotten where he was by getting

people to clam up. That was Detective Smarinsky’s specialty.

“I finished up more quickly than I expected,” he said.

Doing what, I didn’t want to know. He reeked of

formaldehyde.

“Shall we go somewhere more private, Ms. Caruso?”

“Yes, thank you.”

His office was a muddle of papers, the walls lined with

thick, leather-bound books on intriguing subjects like statistical

genetics, perinatal autopsies, forensic entomology, disposition

of toxic drugs and chemicals, practical aspects of ballistics,

medicolegal investigations. Intriguing to some of us, at least.

He offered me a seat. The chair felt sticky.

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“So what can I do for you today?” He faced me across a

jumble of rainbow-hued file folders.

I didn’t answer immediately.

“Your experience here must have been most upsetting. I can

only imagine. Something like that isn’t easily forgotten. It can

churn up all sorts of confused feelings.”

Father McGarrigle. That’s who he reminded me of. Our

parish priest back in Asbury Park. My mother desperately

wanted me to marry his nephew, Taylor, who was gay. Last I

heard, he was in Miami, running an Asian-fusion restaurant.

Taylor, I mean.

“I appreciate your sensitivity, Captain, but I’m actually not

here about Maren Levander.”

“Oh, no?” He plucked a yellow file out of the stack and

started running his fingers across the tab.

“I write books about crime fiction,” I said. “I don’t know if

you knew that.”