CHAPTER FOUR

Max and I piled into my car without exchanging a word. That was fine because I needed to talk to Romero.

I jerked out my phone while Max fidgeted with the clasp on his seatbelt. He turned to me, unable to stay quiet for long. “Do you really think I’d get out of hand if I had a bread machine?”

“They’re killers,” I replied flatly, calling Romero’s cell number.

He chewed on that while I told Romero about the pictures I’d found in Dooley’s coat pocket.

“You found what?” Romero shouted. “Where are you?”

“Just leaving Jimmy’s house.”

“May I ask how you found pictures in Dooley’s coat pocket if you were at Jimmy’s?”

I narrowed my eyes at the phone, not caring for his abrupt tone. “You may ask…if you ask nicely.”

“I’m asking as nicely as I can.” He bit off his words with deliberation, like he was controlling himself. “How do you find these things? And why pictures of you?”

“I found them because Dooley had a few things stored at Jimmy’s. He had a coat hanging in Jimmy’s closet, and I went through it. As for the pictures, I don’t know why he had them.”

He sighed. “We’re at Dooley’s apartment right now. Not much of anything here. Bunch of old cookbooks, pots and pans, worn furniture, business cards for the Wee Irish Dude.” There was a moment’s silence like he was thinking that last part over. “And he was going to be Chef Boyardee at the restaurant?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, there’s no clue as to who offed him. And you finding pictures he took of you only complicates things.”

“Hey, I wasn’t too thrilled about it either. And if you want to know, you’re also in one of the photos.”

“Great. Hope he got my good side.”

Romero had a bad side?

“Looks like we have a dead stalker on our hands,” he concluded.

Neither one of us said anything to that, but the heavy exhale on the other end said he was frustrated. “How soon can you drop off the pictures at the station?”

“I’m on my way now. I’ll be glad to be rid of them.”

“Good. They can get a head start running them through the lab. I’m going back to the restaurant. The ID unit’s still there. Probably be there all night.”

I sensed there was more he wasn’t saying, and experience told me I was out of luck if I started asking questions. But I couldn’t ignore the fact that a murderer who hated me had escaped on the same day an ex-con who was stalking me was murdered. And what about the delivery on my porch? Romero was too good a detective not to see the coincidences. It was just like him to deliberately not share anything else on the subject.

I imagined him glancing at the glow-in-the-dark hands on his Iron Man watch, then heard plates clanking in the background. He said something to a cop about taking it easy with the dishware, then came back on the line. “Is Jimmy seriously naming the restaurant the Wee Irish Dude?”

“You have a better name in mind for a surfer-slash-scalper-turned-restaurateur?”

“How ’bout Jimmy’s Cuckoo?”

I screwed up my nose, not that Romero could see it. “Doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

“Speaking of the restaurant, it’s likely Dooley knew his killer. Maybe knew him well.”

I pressed the phone closer to my ear. “What are you getting at?”

“No forced entry into the place. In Jimmy’s preliminary statement, he said he locked up when he left the restaurant, then went to play poker with some buddies.”

I added two and two together, uncomfortable with where this was heading. “Why does it sound like you suspect Jimmy?”

He let out an aggravated sigh. “You should know better than anyone, at this point we can’t rule out anybody. And it’s no secret that Jimmy inherited a shitload of money. From their aunt. They could’ve quarreled about this.”

I was miffed. “You’re wrong about Jimmy. He has a huge heart. Maybe he did inherit a lot of money, but he was going to share his good fortune and invite Dooley to live with him.”

His voice remained hard. “It stands to reason, whoever came to the door was let in by Dooley.”

I moved on. “Is it possible I wasn’t the only one he was stalking?”

“I’m listening.”

“What about the woman caller? Maybe her boyfriend or brother or dad killed Dooley because he wouldn’t leave her alone.”

“It’s possible.”

I searched for other options that didn’t point to premeditation. “What if Dooley had ordered pizza and was expecting a delivery?” Even to my ears, the thought of a chef of Dooley’s caliber ordering out sounded lame. And this didn’t explain his worried state or the phone call that had bothered him.

“Don’t think so. No sign of pizza or pizza boxes anywhere.” Romero wasn’t averse to hearing other ideas, but he wasn’t going to give credence to notions plucked out of thin air.

That didn’t stop me from coming up with another scenario. “Perhaps he’d heard a cat in the alley. Maybe he went to check on it, and he met trouble.”

By the silence on the other end, Romero was either considering this or deciding I was cuckoo. “For a random act, someone went to a lot of trouble to snuff out Dooley.”

I thought about discovering Dooley in the beer keg. “Yeah. There is that.”

“Whatever the reason Dooley went to the door, someone—likely the assailant—shoved him back into the restaurant, probably had an altercation with him, knocked him unconscious, stuffed him in a barrel, and shot him point-blank.”

I grimaced. “That’s a lot of assumptions.”

“Backed by facts. Shuffled tables. Tipped chairs. No blood anywhere except in the barrel. And bruises on the victim. I expect the coroner will confirm he was assaulted.”

Repulsion clogged my throat, the picture Romero painted almost too much to bear. If I’d been able to squelch the squeamishness when we’d discovered Dooley’s body, I might’ve noticed these things for myself.

Romero paused in a way that told me he’d disclosed enough, then said he had to go. I stared out the driver’s side window, thankful I’d learned this much. Still, I couldn’t wipe the grim expression off my face. “Okay. See you.”

He paused again, and this time I knew it was because he didn’t want to say goodbye. I didn’t want to say goodbye either. My fears were growing, and safety was an issue. If I hadn’t been so determined to see this thing through, I would’ve taken Romero up on his offer to protect me. Shoot. Why was it so hard to play it safe?

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Max cried next to me. “Will you hang up already?”

I jumped at his voice, gave him a dirty look, then disconnected the phone.

We drove to the station, and I listened to Max go on about all the pastry recipes he could try if he’d taken the bread machine. “I could’ve even made pizza dough.” He slid me a sly look. “You know how much you love doughy pizzas.”

I squealed to a stop in the bumpy police parking lot, threw the gear in park, and glared at Max. “Look, if you want the bread machine, then take it. I’m not stopping you.”

“Technically, you were.”

“Hey, it’s not my hips the carbs will cling to.”

Max drew his eyes into tiny slits. “If Mr. Long Arm of the Law knew how you were talking to me, he’d think twice before sucking on those luscious vanilla-scented lips of yours.”

Oh boy.

Sexy thoughts of Romero’s deft caresses and passionate kisses came to mind, kisses that revealed how hot-blooded and easily aroused he was. I wanted to turn back the clock to when we were in each other’s arms. No homicides to think about. No dreadful deliveries. I merely wanted to feel that hunger again. But with another murder case on Romero’s hands, who knew when I’d see him next?

I buried those thoughts and calmed my voice. “I just don’t want you complaining that you’ve gained weight. But if you have your heart set on the bread machine, then you have my blessing.”

I grabbed my bag and bundled up my coat. “I’ll be a few minutes. Want to come with me?”

“I’ve had my fill of police stations lately, thank you very much.”

Max had wound up in a Puerto Rican jail while we’d been on the cruise. He’d barely gotten over his ordeal, and I wasn’t going to push the matter.

“But do me a favor,” he added. “Run a brush through your hair. Between your poked eye and that lump of tangled mess on your crown, you’re embarrassing me.”

“Gee, sorry. I wouldn’t want to make you look bad.” I gave him a caustic look, then flipped down my sun visor and gawked at myself in the mirror. “What’s everyone talking about? My eye isn’t even red anymore.”

“Your eye makeup is still smudged.”

Critic.

I whipped a tissue out of my bag, dabbed it around my eye, and got rid of the smudges. Then I swept a brush through my hair. It didn’t help as much as I’d hoped, but it was enough to receive only a minor eye roll from Max.

I went into the station, dropped off the photos with minimal harassment, and angled back into the car.

Max granted me a solemn look. “You’re right about the bread maker.”

I heaved out a sigh. “That again?”

“It’s okay. I don’t want the thing. I’m over it.”

I started the engine. “Thank God for small mercies.”

* * *

My next stop was Rivers View. There was an inmate I wished to speak to. Since I was driving by Waltham, where Max lived, I could drop him off at his condo on the way. I didn’t need to listen to him pining about the bread machine for the rest of the day. And if I knew Max, he wasn’t over it as he’d declared.

I hopped onto I-95, and Max looked from the road to me. “If you think you’re taking me home, you’ve got another thing coming.”

I gave him a sideways glance. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means Romero took me aside before we left the restaurant and made me promise not to let you out of my sight.” He took a quick breath. “And before you say anything on the matter, I value my life more than my job. So if you’re going to fire me, go right ahead.”

I fumed silently, adding turncoat to Max’s list of traits. “Fine. Then you won’t mind coming to the pokey with me to visit Luther Boyle.”

He whacked his hand on the dashboard in shock. “Luther Boyle! As in the Luther Boyle who killed Freddie?”

“At least one of the killers, yes. And sidekick to Ziggy Stoaks.”

Max gulped. “Why are you visiting Luther Boyle?”

I filled him in on Ziggy’s escape and told him I wanted to question Boyle. The men were buddies, after all. I was confident the still-imprisoned half of the duo would know something about Ziggy’s breakout.

“Let me get this straight.” Max tapped his fingertips on the dashboard. “A dildo was delivered to you this morning, and because Ziggy fled from jail and quite possibly could be walking on sunshine or tiptoeing through the tulips, you believe he was the postmaster.”

“That’s the gist of it.” His reference to old tunes wasn’t lost on me. When the mood suited him, Max could be a wordsmith, a player of terms, a gigolo of jive. Well, I could parlez-vous with the best of them. “I’d bet anything he was the one getting dirty deeds done dirt cheap.”

“Touché.” He nodded at my AC/DC line. “You think Luther’s going to tell you anything?”

“I won’t know until I get there.” I gave him a sly grin, conjuring up a Supertramp oldie. “I’m hoping he’ll give a little bit of his time to me.”

“Enough already.” He peered ahead at the road, likely assessing the visitation situation.

“This is your last chance,” I said, hands on the wheel. “I can take the next exit to your place, and you won’t have to enter another jail.”

He puffed out his cheeks. The thing about Max was he could be unpredictable. At times he’d laugh in the face of danger, the risk taker, a smart-alecky Rambo. Then there were other times he’d scream like a banshee if someone said boo. I spied him out of the corner of my eye, looking earnest.

He finally blew out air. “Onward. And no more silly song references.”

I shrugged, continuing down the highway. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”