I woke around five-thirty the following morning, Thursday. My shoulders were sore from all the tension. They get like that now and then, especially when I’m dealing with a complex case. I rolled over and spooned Kate who groaned a little and snuggled back into me. Mmmm, nice. I may never get out of this bed.
I eased myself up onto my elbow and gazed down at her. Her eyelids fluttered, and I couldn’t help but wonder what she was dreaming about.
The ride back to her place the previous evening was… enlightening, let’s put it that way. She wanted to talk, and she did. She was running her first murder investigation as lead detective and it wasn’t going well. The major problem was her new partner, and I could well understand why. I knew the guy, not well, but I’d run across him during investigations of my own. He was a vice cop then. It suited him… it suited his personality, and he was used to doing things his way.
But that wasn’t all: he seemed to have an inside track to Assistant Chief Henry Finkle and that wasn’t at all good. Kate didn’t like to talk about it, but I knew what was going on between her and Tiny. I’d even offered to do something about it, but she was having none of that.
“If he needs a kick in the teeth,” she’d said, “I’m quite capable of handing him one.”
Anyway, apparently Dick Tracy—it was a nickname that had come with the job back when he was still at the Academy—had been undercover far too long and, as I said, was used to doing things his way. Detective “Dick” was also a misogynist and didn’t like to be told what to do by a woman. And Kate, I promise, was and still is some kind of woman. He couldn’t have run up against a tougher one and was bound to lose; she could hold her own against any man.
Even so, I felt bad for her. She loved her job and took it seriously. Nobody could match the level of commitment and honesty she brought to the force. She put a lot of pressure on herself to pick up the slack when somebody screwed up or just didn’t care about what they were doing. Public servant to her meant serving the public, and she wouldn’t give any less.
Her eyes opened and she looked up at me.
“You know it always wakes me up when someone’s staring at me.”
“Oh yeah, and how many people have been staring at you when you’re sleeping?”
“Only you,” she said, closing her eyes and wriggling her butt into the spoon.
I kissed her and it felt the same as it did every time—heavenly.
“Don’t go to work today,” I whispered. “I’ll take you to lunch.”
“Let me guess. The Rose Café.”
She’s a sharp one.
“Come on. It’ll be like old times. The two of us, working together again.”
“You left the force, Harry. I didn’t. Somebody’s gotta hold down the fort.” She was barely awake but already thinking about Tracy. “Besides, you’ve got a new gig.”
“Oh yeah, what’s that?”
“Private Investigator.”
What? And she says I’m frickin’ psychic.
She rose up onto her elbow, grabbed the sheet as it fell, before… Well, you get the idea.
“Think about it, Harry,” she said earnestly. “You’d be your own boss. No Wesley Johnston forever on your ass. It’s you, Harry. Think Mike Hammer… I could be your Velda.”
“That would mean you’d have to quit your—”
“Forget it,” she interrupted me. “Find some other Velda. I’m staying put! I’ll be your Captain Pat Chambers.”
“Captain? That’ll be the day. You’re just a sergeant.”
“Okay, Sergeant Chambers then.”
“I’d much rather you just be my Kate Gazzara.” I kissed the tip of her nose, each eyelid in turn, then her lips.
I lay back down, my hands behind my head, and closed my eyes. “You seem to know a lot about Mike Hammer,” I said. “How come?”
“Something you don’t know about me, Harry, is that I read… a lot. I love Mickey Spillane.”
Hmm, I thought. I kinda like the idea. Mike Hammer? Hah… Could be fun… I really hadn’t thought about making the PI thing official—it was just a ploy to get Stitch to open up—but she may have something. I sure as hell need something to do… and this Phoebe Marsh thing might just be my way in.
I continued to think about it… Damned if it wasn’t a good idea.
“Yeah?” she asked, smiling.
“I dunno. I’ve never run a business before.”
“Lucky that you know someone who can help.”
“Terrific! You are gonna quit the force and come work with me?” Would that ever be a dream come true?
“I was talking about Ronnie, you nut. Wasn’t he a business major?”
“Yeah, he was, is… Hmm, maybe I’ll give him a call—”
“Later, big boy,” she interrupted me. “I haven’t finished with you yet.”
It was almost seven when we finally rolled out of bed. We had coffee together and then went our separate ways: Kate to work and me back home to shower and change into clean clothes.
I was a mess; my rain-soaked duds had dried out overnight but were spattered with blood from my nose and half the contents of Goliath’s fat mouth: speckles of chew and snot. I must have looked like I’d just crawled out of a dumpster, and I had to wonder how Kate could even stand to look at me, much less sleep with me, looking the way I did.
She called me while I was on my way to the condo. They’d found Goliath—the big dude that shot the kid. His name was Joseph—“JoJo” sometimes “JJ”—James.
He denied having anything to do with it and, of course, he had a rock-solid alibi for the time of the murder. He was at the movies with a half-dozen of his buddies. I expected that! If nothing else, thugs are predictable.
I parked the Maxima on the road outside the condo and, as I walked up the front steps, I noticed that the front door was open, just a crack, but it was enough to raise the hair on the back of my neck and for me to grab the Smith and Wesson from its holster. I mounted the steps, gently pushed the door open with the barrel of the gun, and took a step inside. The guy appeared out of the kitchen doorway. I had the weapon up to his face and…
“Harry,” August yelped as he dropped the empty grocery bag and flung both hands in the air above his head. “It’s me! Don’t shoot. I was just bringing bagels.”
Yeah, it was my dad. He was scared out of his brains, and I didn’t blame him. Even so, a thought popped into my head: wow, if only all those people he’d sued and taken to the cleaners could see him now.
August Starke is one of the toughest and most honest attorneys in the business. With a tort practice that has gone after some of the biggest companies in the world, his name would bring shudders from any corporate lawyer who had to face him in a courtroom.
“You silly old man,” I said, softly, stunned with the enormity of what had just happened, and the thought of what could have happened.
With pistol still in hand, I threw my arms around him and hugged him.
“Damn it, Dad! I could have killed you.”
“That’s enough,” he said, gruffly, and pushed me away. He took a step back, brushed an imaginary speck of dirt from his shirt, picked up the bag, motioned for me to go on in, and then closed the door.
“I didn’t see your car,” I said, holstering the weapon. “Where is it?”
“It’s parked across the street.” He turned, looked at me, and said, “You’re not looking so good, Harry. You should go beg Wesley Johnston to take you back. You’re not cut out for the easy life. Would you like me to have a word with him for you?”
“Not in this life… or the next,” I said.
He looked sharp in his usual Thursday morning golf attire: black shirt, accented by a gold chain around his neck, white slacks, and a pair of white Golfstreet shoes. He always dressed well, but today he looked particularly good.
“You playing this morning?” I asked as I followed him into the kitchen.
“Of course: nine holes with the Mayor and that new District Court Judge. I shall, as they say, take them to the cleaners.”
My old man was worth more than $200 million, but he loved squeezing his pals on the golf course; never for more than ten on the match and five-dollar birdies. He said it kept them honest.
“The Bagel Shop was busy this morning,” he said, “but not too busy to make your favorite breakfast sandwich—fried egg, bacon, cheese and all the grease you can handle—disgusting. How can you eat that crap, Harry?”
“Just the way Nana used to make ’em,” I said as I took off my jacket and holster, hung them both on a chair at the kitchen table.
I grabbed the wrapped sandwich, peeled away the paper, held it to my nose, and inhaled the intoxicating aroma. “How the heck do they get the egg to taste so good?” I said, more to myself than to my father, as I unwrapped the rest of the sandwich.
“They use bacon grease, lots of it.”
“You want to make some coffee?” I asked. “Or I can do it, if you like.”
“I’ll do it. Dark Italian or Breakfast?”
“Italian,” I said. “Where’s your oatmeal?”
“Done. Italian it is. I think I’ll join you,” he said. “I didn’t know when you would get home, and oatmeal tastes like glue when it’s cold, so coffee will do just fine.”
At fifty-eight years old, my father had the body of a twenty-five-year-old. He ate the right things, worked out at least every other day, and his abs showed it. Me, I work out too, and I love to run, and I play golf now and then too, mostly with August and a couple of his friends on Saturday mornings. So, I do try to stay in shape, bacon grease aside.
“How’s Rose?” I asked, and I took a bite of the sandwich.
Rose is my stepmother and an anomaly. She’s twenty years younger than August—just three years older than me—and if you didn’t know her, or my father, you would be forgiven for thinking she was his trophy wife. I mean, my dad was a prime catch—a rich lawyer, well-respected in the community—but that’s not her at all. She loves him almost to distraction, and I love her for it… and so does August.
“She’s well,” he said. “Started working for some new charity this week. Something to do with kids, I think.”
I nodded and took another bite of my sandwich, but my mind was beginning to wander, and he could tell.
“Where are you, Harry? What’s on your mind?”
I pursed my lips, sighed through my nose, then said, “What do you know about Frank Marsh?”
He looked surprised at the question.
“He just went down for fifteen years, as I recall, some kind of Ponzi scheme. Why do you ask?”
“I ran into his daughter, Phoebe. Nice kid, but I think she might be in all kinds of trouble. Big trouble.”
“She might be nice, but not Frank. He took his investors for something in excess of one hundred million and it’s gone. They’re looking for it, but I think it’s probably a lost cause. So what’s it to you?”
“Just something I’m working on.”
I filled him in what had happened to Phoebe at the Sorbonne, and to the Stitch killing all without going into the gory details.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to drag my father into what I knew could quickly become a huge mess. Hell, I wasn’t even sure I should be digging into it, but I figured giving him the details couldn’t hurt.
“So you’re working the case then? That means you got your job back?” He smiled. He’d always been one to brag about his son the homicide detective, and sometimes he even had good reason to; I’d put a lot of bad guys away.
“Naw, I haven’t got my old job back… Dad, I’ve decided to go into business for myself…” I took a deep breath and continued, “as a private investigator.”
He stared wide-eyed at me for a minute, then reached across the table, grabbed my hand, squeezed it, looked me squarely in the eye, and said, “Harry, that’s terrific. It’s the best thing you’ve ever done for yourself. What can I do to help? You’re going to need clients. I can help you with that. I can send a lot of business your way… I can even use you myself.”
“Hey, hey, slow down,” I said, laughing. I haven’t even started yet; it’s all still in the works. I’m thinking I might hire Ronnie…”
But he was no longer with me, not in spirit anyway. He looked at his watch. “Ronnie, huh?” he said, absently. “That’s good, Harry, very good, but we’ll have to talk about it later. Right now, I’ve got to run. Can’t keep the mayor waiting, now can we?”
He looked me up and down and grimaced. “Call me later… In the meantime, you might want to shower and change your clothes. You look and smell awful.” He winked, stood up, walked around the table, slapped me on the shoulder, and walked out the door.