Hot Trick (A Detective Shelley Caldwell Novel) by Patricia Rosemoor Page B

arranged. How many people were in the know about what escape he planned to perform? His PR person and manager. And if Silke knew, then so did Oriel. Who else?
    When I’d called Silke earlier, she’d mentioned meeting Sebastian for rehearsal later, but she didn’t know the specifics. That would be a good time for Norelli and me to make our appearance.
    In the meantime, I needed something to do. I approached Norelli, saying, “I want to check that address in Bridgeport.”
    “I need a few hours of down time so when I get that info on Fox, I have the steam to go after him.”
    If he’d slept at all since I’d attached myself to him, I hadn’t seen it. “No problem. I probably won’t be gone long. I just thought I would check it out.”
    “Not alone.”
    His warning reminded me of Jake’s accusation that I was playing Lone Ranger again. I had been thinking of going on my own, but now I was double-warned.
    “Don’t worry. I’ll see who’s available to come with me.”
    But as it turned out, no one was. With all the comings and goings, it seemed like it was crime night in Chicago. Everyone was busy with some report or call. Everyone but me.
    I stewed for a while, but being an impatient creature, eventually I couldn’t stand it. In the end, I decided to go alone. I was only going to check out the address, see what the street looked like, maybe talk to the neighbors, ask if anyone saw a woman of Julie Martin’s description. If I was really lucky, I would get a real name for Snake Eyes.
    I would be fine. I’d have my radio and could call for backup if needed. Not wanting to drive my Camaro—it had taken enough abuse and was a recognizable target—I checked out a department car, a dark blue sedan.
    Twenty minutes later, as the sun was setting, I arrived in Bridgeport. I stood between a couple of brick two-flats, staring at the flower beds. Bridgeport was a south-side neighborhood very similar to Silke’s. Some of the streets had been raised decades ago, so high first floors were now at street level and the yards several feet below.
    That’s what I stared at now—a side yard, part of a double lot—and wondered why I was surprised. The address in the email to Julie Martin didn’t exist.
    I imagined her getting out of her car as I was doing and looking around, perplexed. What to do?
    An elderly woman carrying groceries gave me a curious expression as she headed toward the two-flat to the south of the open lot.
    “Excuse me, ma’am.” I flipped her my star.
    She turned her back on me, muttering, “I didn’t do nothing wrong and I don’t want any problems.”
    I caught up to her. “I was just wondering if you saw a woman out here last night, looking like she was waiting for someone. Dark hair, well dressed. She drove a newer model Cadillac.”
    “I didn’t see nothing.” The woman hurried up the front steps.
    I was younger and faster and easily got between her and the door. “This is an official investigation, ma’am. The woman’s name was Julie Martin. Last night, she was murdered.”
    Dropping her groceries to the porch floor, the woman crossed herself. “Oh, I don’t need trouble. I didn’t see nothing.”
    So why didn’t I believe her?
    “Not even the woman?”
    She dipped her head and stooped to gather some spilled groceries. I beat her to it and as I held onto the grocery bag, looked her straight in her terrified eyes.
    “Anything you can tell me might help catch the Martin woman’s murderer. We’ll take him off the streets, ma’am, put him behind bars. You want your neighborhood to be safe, don’t you? You don’t want anyone else hurt?”
    “All right, all right.” She straightened and reached for the bag. “Maybe I did see her. There was a stranger out here, looking around like she was confused.”
    “Then what?”
    “Someone must’ve called her from across the street because she turned and then headed that way. That’s all I know. Honest. I live on the second floor and that