address of the honeymoon motel where we’d be starting out our marriage, Mike and me. And, thanks to the caller, ending it.”
Then the lieutenant of Homicide was rushing past me, to talk to Mrs. Hazen his own self.
I let him, and just slipped away.
Figured my work here was done.
NINE
In the conference area in my office, next morning, I sat in the leather chair, every bit the boss in a burgundy Ann Taylor pantsuit, while Dan Green, perched on the edge of the couch, reported. He wore a taupe corduroy sportcoat with a lavender shirt and gray/cream striped tie with blue jeans—typical Dan, casual but professional.
“The condo above Addwatter’s,” he said, demonstrating with open palms, “is empty. Has been for months. Tenants away in Europe.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Really empty?”
“ Officially empty.”
“So there are signs of life up there?”
He nodded. “Looked very much lived in—food in the fridge, wastebaskets with trash, recent magazines, newspapers....”
“Not a sublet?”
Dan shook his head. “Squatters.”
“Any sign of surveillance?”
“No electronic trail, not that I could find, anyway.” He made a face. “Might wanna bring a tech in.”
“No, I’m sold. Good job.”
“Thanks.”
“Anyway, I’m going to whisper in Rafe Valer’s ear about this.”
Dan’s eyes narrowed. “He may already know about it.”
“I don’t think so, or he’d have shared it. On this case, where we’re concerned, this is one time he’s not playing ’em close to his vest. Not now, anyway.”
“Okay.”
“And he can put his people on that condo building. That’s not the type of place where just anybody can roll into an empty apartment and make themselves at home.”
“Yeah. Palms got greased. Hey, it’s Chicago.”
“Right. And we’ll let Rafe work on which Chicago palms got greased. Speaking of Rafe, have you had a chance to look at his Event Planner files?”
He rolled his eyes. “Till my head swims. That guy is thorough. Look up ‘anal retentive’ in Webster’s and you’ll see Lt. Valer’s picture. Ms. Tree, are we really gonna re-open eight cold cases?”
“They’re worse than cold—they’re solved. Written off.”
He just sat there giving me a look.
“What?” I asked.
“What is it with you and lost causes? This agency is supposed to be a going concern.”
I locked eyes with him. “ This lost cause is our lost cause, Dan—if Rafe is right, his Event Planner set up both Mike’s murder and the murders our client looks responsible for.”
He held up a hand. “You’re right. I’m wrong. I apologize.”
Now I gave him a look. A suspicious one.
“And?” I prompted.
He sat forward, urgency tightening that handsome baby face of his, wispy mustache bristling. “Will you please listen and bring Roger back into the fold? With his contacts, and knowledge about Mike’s old cases, we can really use him.”
I shifted in my chair. “Oh, did I mention I’ve got Bea out working on Holly Jackson’s background? There’s a temp coming in, a little blonde named Effie Something, to handle reception and secretarial. Make her feel at home, would you?...but not too at home.”
“Holly Jackson?”
“She’s the other murder victim, remember? The hooker in the motel room.”
Dan grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, well, don’t I feel right on top of this case about now.”
I waved it off. “It’s all right. We each need to focus on a specific area, and Bea’s been begging to get out into the field.”
“Great. She’s smart and has solid police credentials. But, Ms. Tree, she’s no Roger.”
“What I want you to do,” I said, getting up, “is hit your computer, see how many of these murders and accidents can be directly, or even indirectly, linked to Muerta Enterprises.”
Exasperated, Dan rose as well, saying, “Ms. Tree, Roger’s forgotten more about the Muertas than anybody else on this planet ever knew, us included, and—”
“I’ll talk to
Then the lieutenant of Homicide was rushing past me, to talk to Mrs. Hazen his own self.
I let him, and just slipped away.
Figured my work here was done.
NINE
In the conference area in my office, next morning, I sat in the leather chair, every bit the boss in a burgundy Ann Taylor pantsuit, while Dan Green, perched on the edge of the couch, reported. He wore a taupe corduroy sportcoat with a lavender shirt and gray/cream striped tie with blue jeans—typical Dan, casual but professional.
“The condo above Addwatter’s,” he said, demonstrating with open palms, “is empty. Has been for months. Tenants away in Europe.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Really empty?”
“ Officially empty.”
“So there are signs of life up there?”
He nodded. “Looked very much lived in—food in the fridge, wastebaskets with trash, recent magazines, newspapers....”
“Not a sublet?”
Dan shook his head. “Squatters.”
“Any sign of surveillance?”
“No electronic trail, not that I could find, anyway.” He made a face. “Might wanna bring a tech in.”
“No, I’m sold. Good job.”
“Thanks.”
“Anyway, I’m going to whisper in Rafe Valer’s ear about this.”
Dan’s eyes narrowed. “He may already know about it.”
“I don’t think so, or he’d have shared it. On this case, where we’re concerned, this is one time he’s not playing ’em close to his vest. Not now, anyway.”
“Okay.”
“And he can put his people on that condo building. That’s not the type of place where just anybody can roll into an empty apartment and make themselves at home.”
“Yeah. Palms got greased. Hey, it’s Chicago.”
“Right. And we’ll let Rafe work on which Chicago palms got greased. Speaking of Rafe, have you had a chance to look at his Event Planner files?”
He rolled his eyes. “Till my head swims. That guy is thorough. Look up ‘anal retentive’ in Webster’s and you’ll see Lt. Valer’s picture. Ms. Tree, are we really gonna re-open eight cold cases?”
“They’re worse than cold—they’re solved. Written off.”
He just sat there giving me a look.
“What?” I asked.
“What is it with you and lost causes? This agency is supposed to be a going concern.”
I locked eyes with him. “ This lost cause is our lost cause, Dan—if Rafe is right, his Event Planner set up both Mike’s murder and the murders our client looks responsible for.”
He held up a hand. “You’re right. I’m wrong. I apologize.”
Now I gave him a look. A suspicious one.
“And?” I prompted.
He sat forward, urgency tightening that handsome baby face of his, wispy mustache bristling. “Will you please listen and bring Roger back into the fold? With his contacts, and knowledge about Mike’s old cases, we can really use him.”
I shifted in my chair. “Oh, did I mention I’ve got Bea out working on Holly Jackson’s background? There’s a temp coming in, a little blonde named Effie Something, to handle reception and secretarial. Make her feel at home, would you?...but not too at home.”
“Holly Jackson?”
“She’s the other murder victim, remember? The hooker in the motel room.”
Dan grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, well, don’t I feel right on top of this case about now.”
I waved it off. “It’s all right. We each need to focus on a specific area, and Bea’s been begging to get out into the field.”
“Great. She’s smart and has solid police credentials. But, Ms. Tree, she’s no Roger.”
“What I want you to do,” I said, getting up, “is hit your computer, see how many of these murders and accidents can be directly, or even indirectly, linked to Muerta Enterprises.”
Exasperated, Dan rose as well, saying, “Ms. Tree, Roger’s forgotten more about the Muertas than anybody else on this planet ever knew, us included, and—”
“I’ll talk to
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