Susan’s Snippets with Sonya Trent
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Sonya Trent appeared on Susan’s show with her tall, rail-thin frame arrayed in a riot of paisley scarves left over from the seventies, her fluttering hand flashing enough diamonds to signal passing aircraft. A bush of wild, white hair made Lia think of a gaudy dandelion going to seed.
“Sonya, what were your thoughts when you read about the discovery of Andrew Heenan’s bones last week?”
Sonya blinked through oversized glasses that gave her a bug-eyed appearance and sighed, head tilted at a dramatic angle, the diamond-encrusted, butterfly hand landing on her chest.
Kita, a streamer of drool dangling dangerously, hung her head over the tiny screen on the picnic table. Bailey nudged Lia’s phone out of reach.
On-screen, Sonya said, “My dear, it was only to be expected.”
A nonplussed Susan asked, “You expected him to be buried in a shallow grave under a cottonwood tree?”
“Andrew Heenan trafficked with evil.”
“You mean the Cleveland Syndicate?”
The dandelion head shook slowly from side to side. “No dear. Andrew was more than a stage magician. I’m talking about—” Sonya delivered her next words with an ominous vibrato. “—Daaaarrrk magic.”
___________
Bailey cackled. Steve guffawed. Jim shook his head and smiled. Terry sat, uncharacteristically silent. Startled by the noise, Gypsy jumped out of the Moby wrap and onto the picnic table. All hands dove to corral her before she leapt to the potentially parvo-infected ground. Lia hit the pause button on her phone and searched the faces around her.
“What?”
Bailey stopped laughing long enough to wipe tears from her eyes. “She hasn’t seen it yet. Steve, you tell her.”
Steve lifted his head from nuzzling Gypsy. “When was the last time you visited the Westwood library?”
“Not since Desiree. What does that have to do—?” She took a long look at Susan’s guest. “Oh my God, that’s the children’s librarian.”
Bailey filled in the blanks “—Doing her very best Professor Trelawney.”
“It’s her go-to costume for Halloween,” Steve said. “The kids go crazy when she does the ‘You are in grave danger’ bit.”
“Sybill Trelawney, Sonya Trent,” Bailey giggled. “I love it.”
“Not funny,” Terry grumbled. “She should know better than to mock Susan publicly, and I’ll say so next time I see her.
Home from the park, Gypsy wiggled to get out of the Moby wrap as Lia inserted her key into the front door.
“Ouch, girlfriend, chill for a minute.”
Chewy whined.
“Breakfast is coming, little man.”
The dogs bolted through the opened door to the sound of her alarm panel beeping. Like they’re in Mission Impossible or something. She keyed in the alarm code and headed to the kitchen, dropping her phone and keys on the table. Gypsy ran to the door leading to the rear stairs, barking viciously. Chewy stared at it and whined.
“What is your problem?”
Above, a door closed.
If Susan thought she could waltz into Peter’s apartment any time she wanted, she had another thing coming. Lia shoved a palm at the dogs, commanding, “Wait!” She slammed the door behind her and raced up the stairs, two at a time.
The door at the top banged into the attic door as she burst through. Something heavy and soft fell over her as muscular arms banded around her. She screamed and kicked. Connected with a shin. Dug fingers into a pressure point on a thigh.
He grunted.
Something smashed the top of her head. A hard shove. Pain, shooting through her hip and skull as she landed on the attic steps.
The skeleton key that stayed in the lock snicked.
“Hurt my dogs and I’ll kill you!” she screamed as she wrestled out of the enveloping shroud. She pounded the door, helpless as feet raced down the stairs, her dogs barking, the sound growing fainter as they chased him outside.
Please, God, don’t let them run into the street. Fear for her dogs drove out all other thoughts until the sound of paws thundering up the steps brought relief. Both dogs whined as Gypsy’s puppy claws scrabbled against the attic door.
Dammit, dammit, dammit. Lia sat on the steps and took a deep breath, reminding herself that her burglar left after he locked her in, when he could have taken his sweet time ransacking the house. And he was gone.
“Sorry, kids. Unless you can pick locks, you can forget breakfast.”
Gypsy howled.
She picked up the thing that had blinded her, a fleece throw Peter used to protect his couch from Viola’s hair and other indignities. She sniffed. Fake flowers, not dog. He’d washed it, and it had been conveniently lying in his laundry basket when she charged up the stairs.
None of which explained who had been in Peter’s apartment or what they wanted. Not Susan, unless Susan had morphed into the Hulk since her last video.
Lia eyed the lock. Old locks with skeleton keys were easy to pick. If she’d had any foresight, she would have gone on YouTube when she bought the house and learned how. Keeping the key in the lock had obviously been a stupid idea, but the door was weighted wrong and swung open. And who expected to be attacked in their own home?
She sighed and climbed the stairs. Alma would be working in her garden at some point. If Lia could find a window that wasn’t painted shut, she could holler for help and Alma would rescue her.
Peter found Lia sitting on Alma’s many-times reupholstered sofa. An aromatic cup of herbal tea—chamomile?—sat untouched as she held a towel-wrapped bag of frozen peas above her ear with one hand and corralled Gypsy and Chewy on her lap with the other. Viola sulked in her preferred corner.
She looked down, hair falling over her face. Peter was reminded of the day they met, the way he couldn’t see her eyes. She’d been traumatized then, too.
Months earlier it would have been Honey’s head on Lia’s lap, Lia’s fingers combing the silky fur for comfort. He didn’t imagine the pair of wiggle balls she now owned provided the same degree of emotional support. Chewy sniffed her face as if he could smell her distress and it worried him. He probably could, and it probably did.
He pulled Lia’s hand with the bundled peas away from her head, set the peas on the coffee table, and probed gently at the lump on her skull.
“Ow.”
He handed her the peas. “You’ll live.”
“On the bright side, Gypsy learned how to climb stairs.”
He pulled a chair over and sat, facing her. “Dammit, Lia, what did you get that fancy alarm system for if you don’t use it?”
“I don’t know Peter, I—” Her head jerked up, green eyes damp and confused. “I turned the alarm off when I got home. I’d swear to it.”
The red mark on Lia’s cheek—put there when she landed on the steps, Alma had said—made him crazy. One more time he hadn’t been there when she needed him. He wanted to gather her in his arms and rock her until she cried it all out, but he had to focus and be a cop.
“I know I did. We can call the alarm company. They keep a record.”
“We’ll do that. Whoever our visitor was, he’s a fast thinker and he’s cool headed. Whatever he wanted, he didn’t want us to know he’d been there. He didn’t leave a mess, and when you showed up, he kept you from seeing him and got out of there. You’re bruised, but you aren’t dead. I’m betting he didn’t have a gun.”
Lia removed the peas and took a sip of tea. “I suppose I should be grateful for that.”
“Any thoughts about what he wanted?”
“Not a clue. All my electronics are still there. It doesn’t look like he rifled through any of the places you told me people look for cash and valuables. He was in your apartment. Is there a chance Susan is behind this?”
“Popping in to surprise me is one thing. Sending some creep to burgle the place isn’t in her playbook.”
Lia’s championship-quality fish eye was interrupted when Alma led Cal Hinkle into the room.
“I checked all the doors. No signs of forced entry. All the windows are nice and tight.”
Lia rubbed noses with Chewy, ignoring Peter. “It’s been warm out. Maybe I left one of the studio windows open and he locked it after he came in.”
“Unlikely he’d bother,” Peter said. “Check the outside again. He got in somehow.”
Five minutes later, Peter and Lia stood behind Cal as he pointed to broken branches on one of the overgrown lilac bushes concealing the foundation of the house. Peter knelt in the grass. He prayed for a footprint, but it hadn’t rained for more than a week and the ground was hard.
Gypsy nosed in beside him, sniffing, then disappearing into the bush. Peter pushed through to find Gypsy up on her hind legs, tail wagging furiously, her front paws against an iron hatch embedded in the wall. The hatch read:
MAJESTIC
COAL CHUTE
NO 101.
“I’ll be damned.” He counted the bricks around the hatch, making rough calculations to confirm what his eyes told him. The opening was eighteen by twenty-four inches, easily accommodating an adult male. Peeling paint scabbed the rusty metal. Fat chance lifting prints.
Hinges screeched as he pulled the hatch up. Dim light bled through the bushes, revealing nothing in the room below. He backed out on his hands and knees, then held branches aside so Lia and Cal could see.
“Excellent work, Cal.”
“Thank you, sir. What now?”
Peter looked around. He didn’t know as much as he would like about his neighbors, but Alma knew everyone.
“Check in with Alma. Find out who’s likely to be home and knock on doors. Keep your eyes peeled for security cameras. If we’re lucky, someone has our visitor in the cloud.”
Lia stood by silently until Cal reached the sidewalk. “All those months you slept in the basement waiting for copper thieves and you never noticed the coal chute?”
Peter rubbed the back of his neck while he mentally slapped himself across the face several times. “It was dark down there.”
“That’s your excuse?”
Lia must be over her fright if she was giving him a hard time.
“We’ve got to make the house more secure. We need cameras, but first I’m bolting the chute shut.”
“That’s original. You’re not drilling holes in it.”
“It’s insecure. You’re not safe.”
“We can screw plywood over the opening from the inside, anchor it to the brick.”
“I can secure it with a bolt from the outside right now. I won’t be able to pick up plywood for a couple days.”
“I’ve got a length of one by six I can bolt across the opening and no one will be able to fit through.”
“One good kick will fix that.”
Temper flashed, turning her eyes hard as jade. “You’d prefer steel sheet?”
“You sure you don’t mind me drilling into your original brick?”
“Don’t worry about it. Bailey and I will install it.”
Peter huffed, annoyed, and annoyed with himself for being annoyed. The last thing either of them needed right now was a battle of the sexes. Dial it back, Dourson.
Lia continued, “We’re perfectly capable. But if you insist, you can play carpenter. Bailey and I will go looking for the bad guy. I’m sure Terry would love to help.”
Peter wrapped his arms around her, softened his voice. “Point taken. You and Bailey make our castle safe. Before you call her, I want to look at the basement.”
Lia stood at Peter’s back as he unlocked the padlock on the crypt-like bulkhead doors. Cool air drifted out as he lifted one panel.
“What are you going to do?” Lia asked.
“Your intruder was smart enough to get away without letting you see him. He was probably smart enough to wear gloves. But there’s one kind of evidence he couldn’t get around.”
“What would that be?”
“Unless he can levitate, he left footprints.”
“We’re going through here because he didn’t come this way?”
“What was your first clue, Tonto?”
“Duh. Padlock.”
“Correct. But you haven’t earned the chops to snark at a crime scene.”
“My crime scene,” Lia said. “I’ll snark if I want.”
“I’ll give you a pass since you’re traumatized.”
He stopped at the bottom of the short flight of steps to unlock the door, then stooped, surveying the floor.
“I don’t see anything,” Lia said. “Don’t you need an alternate light source for something like this?”
Peter pulled a mag light from his pocket. “Watch this.” He switched on the light, holding it a few inches above the concrete at an oblique angle. A layer of dust Lia would have sworn wasn’t there appeared, marred by scuffs and footprints. A clear path led from the interior basement steps to her washing machine.
“There are hundreds of them. How will you know which are his?”
Peter aimed the light to the right, where one set of footprints emerged from the room containing the coal chute, crossing the floor to merge with the morass of prints leading to the steps.
“That’s him. Hard to tell from here, but I’ll bet our man wears a size eleven.”
“What do we do now?”
“We back out and lock the door. You go nowhere near the basement or the attic. Unfortunately, our break-in isn’t important enough to rate a visit from the crime scene techs.”
“Not important? But—”
“Budgets and manpower. It’s not personal. I’ll photograph these puppies and peel them off the floor with gel lifters, if I can beg some off Junior. Be a good girl and I’ll let you help.”
Peter pulled into the small parking lot beside Overstreet’s car, still fuming. Junior had gel lifters waiting for him, tacky plastic sheets designed to pick up footprints and other fragile evidence. But he had to make this detour first for his peace of mind.
He’d made a mental leap, one worthy of an action film where the star jumps from one building to the next and grabs the gutter with his fingernails, clawing his way up from certain death. But his hunch had been right. He needed to follow up now or implode.
It hadn’t occurred to Lia yet that her attacker couldn’t unlock the attic door while he was restraining her. The attic door had already been unlocked, which meant the intruder hadn’t been in Peter’s apartment, he’d been in the attic.
The only things in the attic were the remnants of Ruth Peltier’s estate. Lia would have noticed if the Beanie Baby army had been disturbed. Whatever he’d been after had been in the boxes they had yet to sort. Boxes a historian might want to get his hands on.
Terry, whose photo was next to “open source” in the dictionary, had spent several hours with an expert on local history three days before, an expert whose ethics Peter suspected were on the sleazy side.
He shouldn’t blame Terry. Their house was two blocks from Millionaire’s Corner, where four of the richest men in Cincinnati once made their homes. It was natural to mention a potentially historic house to a historian.
Terry had told Overstreet he’d been wondering if the original owners of the property might also have been important. Overstreet had asked if the original owners left anything behind, and Terry told him about the boxes of cherry-picked items José and Alma culled from tons of junk one step ahead of the crowd that ran through the house like Sherman in Atlanta.
The story of Lia and Alma disposing of a hoarder’s lifetime achievement in less than a day had been told and retold often enough. No reason for Terry to keep quiet about it.
Peter sat in his department-issue Taurus and took several deep, cleansing breaths to drain the anger building since he’d gotten Alma’s call. He couldn’t afford to go gonzo on Overstreet, not when all he had was the timing of a conversation. If he kept his cool, he’d know in a few minutes if Overstreet was his guy.
Peter rounded the building and badged the man mowing the lawn—the manager, it turned out—who then let him in.
He restrained the urge to pound Overstreet’s door, opting instead for a friendly rap. Overstreet responded, opening the door with a question on his face. Curiosity, not fear.
“Hey, Detective. What’s up?”
“I have a couple quick questions you could help me with.”
“Sure, whatever you need.” He stepped aside, inviting Peter in. Overstreet scanned the pile of work on his dining room table, likely ensuring he’d left nothing important in plain view.
“Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink? I think I have water and, uh, water, unless you’re off duty.”
“I’m good, thanks.”
Ashtrays and wastebaskets still overflowed, but a new load of laundry piled on the end of the couch. No scotch bottle on the coffee table. Peter sat next to the heap of clothes.
Overstreet sat opposite, his face relaxed. “What can I help you with?”
During Peter’s prior visit, Overstreet had displayed a number of micro expressions, tics that told Peter Overstreet was holding out on him about Heenan. Not a guy who could fool his aunt Sally, much less a lie detector.
“You been in all day?”
Puzzlement showed on Overstreet’s face. “What happened? Is this about Heenan?”
“Maybe, maybe not. Humor me and I can rule out a troubling possibility.”
“No problem. I took a run. On the way home I stopped for breakfast at Price Hill Chili. You can check, they know me there.”
“What time did you get back?”
“Around ten, give or take. What was I supposed to have done?”
Something loosened in Peter’s chest. “Nothing as far as I know. This is exclusionary.”
“If you made a report, I’ll figure it out by Friday.”
Peter ran the math in his head. Overstreet was smarter than the average bear about accessing public records. Might as well win points with the guy since he’d find out anyway. “First tell me your shoe size.”
“Nine.”
He pulled off an ancient sneaker and handed it to Peter. The aroma it exuded reminded Peter of a drying swamp.
“Go ahead, check.”
Peter already knew it was too small for the prints in Lia’s basement. Still, he examined the shoe. Overstreet could have worn a larger pair and stuffed the toes to throw off investigators, but if the waitresses remembered Overstreet, he was off the hook.
“Last weekend you spoke with Terry Dunn about items of historical interest at a Victorian house that was burgled today.”
“Yeah, by Millionaire’s Corner. What was taken?”
“We don’t know yet.”
Overstreet remained relaxed. “Wasn’t me. Stuff I want, most folks are happy to give to anyone who has a use for it. That way they don’t feel guilty about throwing it out.”
“What kind of stuff do you mean?”
“Old papers, photos. Say something happened on Glenway Avenue fifty years ago. The area’s changed since then, more than once. Someone entirely unrelated to the crime might have a photo that shows how it was at the time, and that helps me understand what might have happened. It gives context and can produce leads. Business names, license plates.”
He waved at a row of archival boxes on the bottom shelf of the nearest bookcase. “I have hundreds of old photos, organized by neighborhood and date.”
“Anything that pertains to Heenan?”
“No photos of Malachi. Clifton Hills hasn’t changed. As for Mill Creek, you might check the Bengals to see if they have construction photos of the area.
“The Mill Creek Alliance are the only folks interested in old photos of the creek, for comparison. You might luck out with the Metropolitan Sewer District. Everyone else just wants to forget the bad old days.”
“It occurs to me there’s a lot I don’t know about investigating cold cases.”
“Threw you into the deep end, huh? I can help.”
Peter stood to leave. “I’ll talk to the homeowner and pass along your phone number. If she has old photos she doesn’t want, she might call you.”
“That would be great.” Overstreet accompanied him to the door. “Detective? Be sure to tell your girlfriend I’m sorry she was burgled.”
Peter changed his mind. He was going to kill Terry.
Rain drummed the darkened windows of Peter’s man cave as he stretched, his back cracking vertebrae by vertebrae. The time he’d spent dealing with the break-in meant hours hunched over his laptop that evening, following dubious Heenan tips and writing reports. Pure busywork to satisfy the powers that be when he itched to find the dirtbag who violated his home and attacked Lia. It didn’t help that there were no witnesses, no cameras, and nothing to pursue.
By his feet, Viola lifted her head. Peter looked at the clock. 11:43 p.m. Lia had to be asleep.
She’d been a trooper, holding the light while he photographed and lifted footprints. Later, she and Bailey installed a steel plate over the coal chute. His Lia did not get the vapors, though she was more fragile than she acted.
Figuring she wouldn’t be up for much, he’d brought Kung Pao chicken and rainbow shrimp for dinner. Bailey had stayed, and when he’d come upstairs to work, they were looking for a rom-com to download.
He ghosted barefoot through the dark house with Viola a shapeless black blob padding behind him. Lia’s bedroom door stood open, a signal for him to join her. Gypsy curled on the pillow, snuggled in the curve where Lia’s shoulder met her neck, her face in repose.
Gypsy lifted her head and yawned. She stood and came to the edge of the bed, wagging her tail, asking him to let her down. Chewy woke and all three dogs followed him into the kitchen for late night biscuits.
Viola snorted as Gypsy pawed the water in her bowl, splashing it on the floor. Peter shook his head and poured a glass of water from the jug in the fridge, carrying it to the kitchen door to watch the deluge. He stepped in something warm and wet, the scent of urine drifting up. Gypsy paused her splashing and cocked her head.
Peter pointed at the dog door. “You’re a freaking menace. Can’t you go outside?” The rain continued to pound. He sighed. “I wouldn’t want to pee in that, either.”
He hopped over to Gypsy’s bowl, swished his soiled foot in the puddle of water on the floor, then swiped the bottom of his foot on the rag rug in front of the sink to dry it off.
“I’m not enabling you. You’ll have to work this out with her.”
Gypsy tipped her head the other way, looking at him as if he spoke a foreign language. He thought about Lia’s day, sighed again, and pulled two pee pads out from under the sink to soak up the mess.
The mattress shifted, waking Lia. She emerged from sleep as Peter spooned behind her, one arm pulling her against him.
He enfolded her: love, wrapped in a blanket with chicken soup and all the boo-boo kisses and attagirls she’d never received. He was rain in the desert, while she ached with thirst and feared drowning.
The edifice she’d held in place since a stranger threw a blanket over her head crumbled. She shook, hiccuping soundless sobs. Peter’s arms tightened, containing her spasms until they passed.
His breath whispered against her ear. “Thank God.”
“For what?”
He ran a hand up and down her arm, comforting himself as much as her. “You’ve been such a trooper, I was beginning to think you didn’t need me.”
She stopped his hand, laced their fingers together. “I’ll always need you. I just wait till it’s safe to fall apart.”
“Very considerate of you.”
“It’s not like I do it on purpose.” He’d said nothing over dinner. Now she was afraid of the answer, but had to ask. “What’s happening with the break-in?”
“Besides getting chewed out for handling it myself? Nothing.”
Lia turned in his arms, read frustration in his face. “Tell me.”
“The footprints are worthless until I find the shoes they came from, and there’s nothing else to work with. I filed it. Now we forget it until something comes up. It’s the best I can do.”
“It’s hard, isn’t it, not being able to do more?” He said nothing and she continued, “I ordered security cameras, one for each side of the house.”
“I thought we were going to talk about it.”
“The movie was boring so Bailey and I did research instead. We found cameras that alert your phone when anyone moves in the yard. We can both watch the house from anywhere. They’re so cheap it seemed silly to wait. They’ll be here by Friday. Bailey and I can install them.”
Peter chuffed a laugh. “There’s my stand-up girl. I feel my balls shriveling as we speak.”
“You can be manly anytime upper-body strength is required.”
“I feel so much better.”
She became aware of her hand on his chest and flexed her fingers, enjoying the slide of hair between them. She dropped her eyes.
“Peter?”
“Hmm?”
“You know that life-affirming thing people do after near death experiences?”
“You have a near death experience lately?”
“More of a mugging, really.”
“Not much of a mugging. No mace, no duct tape, no guns, no blood. Hardly worth mentioning.”
“I got an owie on my head. That counts for something.”
His lips pressed against her hair. “There. I kissed it.”
“That life-affirming thing? Do they do it after muggings, too?”
He rolled onto his back, folding his arms. “I’m not sure what life-affirming thing you mean. You’ll have to show me.”