Crime and Passion by Marie Ferrarella

we’re here to ask if you took a shower this morning.”
    Santini hooted as he made a face. Their suspect smelled of stale sweat, smoke and alcohol. And a few other scents that were best left unplaced. “Pretty safe bet he didn’t do that, either.”
    Clay nodded, as if he was taking the answer into account. “Okay.” And then he pinned Weasel Smith with a sharp look. “Did you leave a certain drawing taped on Ilene O’Hara’s dining room window last night?”
    Smith crossed his painfully thin arms before him as if to protect his equally thin chest and muttered sullenly, “Don’t know no Eileen O’Hara.”
    Clay worked hard at keeping his temper. They had this man dead to rights. Sometimes the game was hard to play.
    “How about the address?” Clay rattled off Ilene’s address. He got into Smith’s face, trying not to think how frightened Ilene had looked when he’d arrived last night. “Does that ring a bell?”
    Smith remained silent.
    Santini inclined his head toward the man, holding his breath a little in self-defense. “I’d talk to him if I were you, Weasel. He’s got the shortest temper in the squad room and you really don’t want to see him once he gets going.”
    Their suspect looked genuinely frightened. His eyes darted toward the bartender, but if the latter was listening, he gave no indication of it. Smith’s voice bordered on hysteria. “You’re police. You can’t do that. I could sue.”
    Clay’s tone was low, quiet, and all the more chilling for it. “You’d have to be alive to sue, Weasel.”
    That was warning enough for the man. He hadn’t been paid enough to die. “Yeah, I was there.”
    Clay drew his chair in closer. “Who put you up to it?”
    “I don’t know.” Real fear entered the marble-like eyes.
    Clay struggled to keep from grabbing Weasel by the shirt and shaking the answers loose out of him. “Don’t tell me. You just had a vision and drew these three monkeys, then went and taped them up on someone’s house at random.”
    “No.” He raked his dirty fingers through even dirtier, stringy hair. “I got a call from this guy.” Unable to sit still, he’d been tapping his foot under the table. It began to sound as if a squadron of flamenco dancers had entered the bar. Clearly afraid, Smith looked from one detective to the other again. “The whole thing was done by phone. The guy said he wanted me to tape this on some woman’s window, maybe scare her a little, rattle a few windows, try the door, that’s all. He said it was a prank. Monkeys. What do I know?”
    “Apparently very little,” Santini commented.
    “Go on,” Clay urged angrily.
    Smith rocked in his chair now as if preparing for a body blow. “He left the money for me at a drop-off point. I didn’t see nobody, I swear.”
    “You recognize the voice?” Clay asked.
    He knew the answer before Smith starting shaking his head. “No.”
    Exasperated, Clay sighed. Another dead end loomed before him and he was in no mood for it. “You always do business like this?”
    One bony shoulder rose and fell in a hapless movement. “This way I can’t finger anybody.” Just the slightest hint of boldness came to the fore. “Can I go now?”
    “Yeah, you can go.” Closing his hand around Smith’s shirtfront, Clay rose, hauling the man up to his feet with him. “Go directly to jail. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars.”
    “But I told you everything I know,” Smith protested frantically. “Taping a drawing up on a window isn’t a crime.”
    Clay fell back on the charge his partner had originally come up with. “No, but consorting with known criminals is a parole violation. We figure maybe Papa Bill might want to talk to you, tell you how disappointed he is with you.”
    Defeated, Smith sighed as he allowed himself to be handcuffed and led out of the establishment.

    Clay felt beat.
    The rest of the day had been far less rewarding than their encounter with Smith. He and Santini had