The Boom Room (3 page)

“I'll think about it.”

“Do more than think.” Pratt looked at his watch. “Got to go. Gordon and I are meeting with the old man and someone from the DA's office.”

As he rose, Ellis grabbed his arm.

“Keep me in the loop, please.”

“I'm sorry. I can't do that.”

Pratt grabbed his half-finished coffee and headed for the door. Ellis sat there for a minute longer, thinking that it was pretty funny Pratt called McDonnell “the old man” when Pratt was actually five years older than their captain.

Pratt arrived last. Captain McDonnell and Gordon were already seated at the conference table with another man and woman. The assistant DA was a new face, still green if Pratt was any judge, and he'd brought a secretary or colleague of some sort.

“How nice of you to join us, Mervin,” Gordon said with a smirk.

Everyone in homicide knew Pratt didn't like his given name, and most never used it. Gordon made sure he did—whenever he got the chance.

“Pratt,” the captain said, “this is Dan Cheevers. He's going to prosecute the case. Gordon has been filling us in on the murder suspect. What have you got by way of background?”

Pratt put on his reading glasses. “Not a whole lot. By the time I arrived, all the patrons had left the club. Only the bar's staff and the band remained. Oh, and the girlfriend of the suspect and two of her friends.”

“They were gone when I got there,” Gordon added defensively. “Ran like rats deserting a sinking ship. Probably half had drugs on them, if I know the average clubgoer.”

Pratt ignored the comment. “We interviewed all staff members and the band. I also interviewed Clark's girlfriend, Carolyn Tucci. Around three
AM,
the crime tech guys discovered what we believe might be the murder weapon. Clark had a similar knife that he said had gone missing earlier yesterday evening.”

Gordon interrupted. “It is the murder weapon, dammit! Can't you see Clark's guilty as sin, Pratt?”

Pratt raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, he's confessed? I hadn't heard.”

“Enough!” McDonnell barked. He looked at Pratt. “I want this wrapped up fast. We've looked bad in the club district the past few months.” Then his ire shifted to Gordon. “But I also want this done right. We can't afford a screwup. Pratt and Gordon, you're on this until further notice. Gordon's the lead. Got that?”

“What about Snow?” Gordon asked. He's not going to be out sick for long.”

“He can team up with Pratt's partner, Ellis.”

Cheevers finally spoke up.

“When will forensics report on the knife? This case is weak unless we can tie that knife to the kid.”

“Relax,” said Gordon. “Pratt, did you find anyone who would swear that Clark was in the washroom the whole time between sets as he claims? The time when Lewis was stabbed to death?”

Pratt knew better than to tell him the girlfriend, Tucci, had told Pratt precisely that. She swore Clark had spent the entire break in the men's room because he felt ill. Pratt couldn't begin to imagine Gordon's response if he said that out loud.

Chapter
Five

Ellis was out when Pratt got back to his desk. He hoped the kid had finally gotten the message that he had to stay far away on this one. It would end badly for everyone if he didn't.

Pratt wanted to study photos of the body. None had arrived yet. As he reached for his phone, its loud ring caused him to jump. His nerves always got jangly when he'd had too little sleep, and that irritated him.

The voice at the other end had a buzzsaw quality that made him wince. “Detective Pratt?”

“Yes.”

“Finally! I have been sent from person to person trying to find someone who could tell me about my husband's…death.”

“And you are?”

“Margerie Lewis, the wife of…the widow of Joseph Lewis. Are you the one heading the investigation of my husband's death?”

“No, ma'am, but I am working on the case.”

“Can you tell me anything? The officer who was sent to my home last night couldn't tell me much.”

This call should have been handled by Gordon, but he was over at forensics, bugging them about the knife. He seemed to think pissing people off would get him quicker results.

“There isn't a whole lot to tell you at this point.”

“The
TV
is saying someone has been arrested.”

“That's true.”

“And did he stab Joe to death?”

Pratt squeezed his eyes shut. Time to take one for the team.

“We have strong reasons to believe that.”

The Widow Lewis's next question astounded him. “When can The Boom Room reopen?”

He would have expected an emotional outburst along the lines of “Fry the bastard!” or possibly some weeping. After all, she'd just lost her husband. Frankly, she sounded only mildly irritated.

“May I come over and speak with you?” he asked.

“I want you to answer my question.”

“I have no answer at this time. Perhaps by the time I get there, I will know more.”

“As you can imagine, I'm very busy today. When would you come?”

“I can be there within the hour.”

“Fine. Suit yourself—if it will help speed things up.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Lewis. See you shortly.”

Pratt sat drumming his fingers on his desk after hanging up the phone. Something wasn't right here.

Before heading out to the Lewis house, Pratt got a promise from forensics that the crime scene photos would be on his desk by midafternoon. He hated looking at them on a computer screen.

Margerie Lewis obviously cared very much about the way she looked. Close to Pratt's age—meaning pushing fifty-five—the blonde (from a bottle) answered her door dressed as if she was going out on the town. She wore a simple black dress with a colorful scarf around her neck. She did not look like a newly minted widow.

“Now, what can you tell me about my husband's murder?” she asked, sitting primly on the sofa.

Pratt got out his notebook and pen.

“We have a suspect in custody, and I believe he has been formally charged or will be shortly.”

“Is that the boy from the band?”

“Yes, ma'am. How did you know that? It hasn't been released to the press yet.”

“I spoke to the bar manager this morning. He told me.”

The detective filed that information away. Who had called whom? he wondered.

“Why are you so interested in talking to me, detective?” she continued. “You've already got your murderer.”

“Just doing my job.” Pratt crossed one leg over the other so he could write more easily. “Did your husband ever talk to you about the club?”

Margerie rolled her eyes. “All the time. I think he cared more about that dump than he did about me.”

“Did he have trouble with people in the past?”

“Do you mean did he get along with people?”

“Well, yes.”

“He was a good businessman. That sometimes meant lowering the boom on an employee or supplier. Bartenders and waitresses will rob you blind if you don't watch them constantly. Suppliers will try to rip you off.”

“Did he currently have any problem employees?”

She paused to think. “Joe didn't mention anyone recently.”

Twenty minutes later, Pratt had poked around enough with his questions to know there was something not being said.

“You asked on the phone when the club could be reopened and—”

“I need to have that dump open, detective. I will be selling it.” She tried a smile. “Kids are a fickle lot. They'll find someplace else to go if The Boom Room stays shut too long—and they won't come back. I need a buyer while it's hot.”

“Right now it's an active crime scene. We're working as fast as we can.”

Mrs. Lewis didn't look happy. “I'm sure you are.”

Pratt closed his notebook and rose to his feet. Putting on his coat, he asked, “Tell me, is it hard to sell a nightclub?”

“I hope not. I have zero interest in owning one.”

I'll just bet you don't, Pratt thought as he started his car to head back downtown.

It might be well worth the effort to dig around in the Lewis family closet. He'd never met a widow who had appeared less broken up over her husband's murder.

Chapter
Six

Back at the office, Pratt got busy writing up his notes from the previous evening. Every detective he'd ever worked with hated paperwork, but he found it soothing—and useful. Many times in the past he'd had breakthroughs while organizing his thoughts for the record.

McDonnell startled Pratt when he dropped a manila envelope on his desk. “These came for you while you were out.” He turned on his heel and went back to his office, clearly not happy about something.

The eight-by-ten crime scene photos were crisp and clear. Pratt thumbed through them. He was down to the last half dozen before he found what he was looking for.

Pratt knew the trick was not to simply look. The trick was to see. Last night he hadn't known enough when he'd glanced into that office. He'd looked at things, sure, but he hadn't understood what they might mean. It wasn't until this morning that it had struck him. Something about Lewis's body was odd. Three of the photos told the story.

“What you looking at?” It was Ellis, back from wherever he'd gotten off to.

Pratt turned the photos over. “You know what they are.”

His partner sat down, took out his laptop and opened it. “Relax. I didn't see a thing.”

“Where have you been?”

Ellis looked at him for a long moment. “Doing some thinking.”

“And?”

He sighed. “I've told the captain I need time off to be with my family. He's going to see what he can do.”

“You've made the right decision, son. I was going to tell McDonnell if you didn't.”

“He told me you're staying on the case even after Snow comes back.”

“That surprised me. He knows how much Gordon and I dislike each other.”

“Maybe he wants your brains with Flash's brawn.”

Pratt smiled, but it was tight. “He sort of said that.”

“Can I ask you one thing about the case?”

“Maybe…”

“Mom and Dad spoke to Jamie this morning for just a moment in court. He swears he didn't do it. Sure, he was sore at Lewis, but he was just sounding off.”

“Every murderer claims they're innocent. You know that.”

“Mom says she can see in his eyes Jamie's telling the truth.”

“That should really convince a jury.”

“My mother is a realist. She's also very strong. She wouldn't shy away from the truth like most people. May I ask you my question?”

“Sure.”

“Gut-level response: do you think Jamie murdered Lewis?”

Ellis already had his mentor pegged. He knew when something was bothering Pratt. They sat for a good half minute before the older man spoke.

“We shouldn't talk here.”