“THE GUY HAS PUSSY FOR breakfast,” Detective Lee Eccles said, chewing on a ragged toothpick.
“What?” said Detective Tucci, distracted as he pored over his copious notes on the Salli T. Turner murder.
“Salli’s old man, Bobby Skorch. His cock is bigger than the Empire State Building—an’ every broad in Vegas has had herself a slice.”
Tucci removed his glasses, glanced up at his partner—whom he didn’t particularly like—and nodded. “I know. He has quite a reputation.”
Tucci’s wife, Faye, had informed him last night— when he’d gotten home after midnight—that Bobby Skorch was the king of the tabloids. “Not that I read those rags,” she’d quickly assured him. “Only Sometimes I can’t help it when I’m waiting in the checkout line at the market.”
Sure, Faye, he’d thought affectionately. Why don’t you admit that it’s your secret vice? You’re like a teenage boy hiding his Playboy magazines.
But then he had his secret vices too, food being one of them. Especially since Faye had put him on a rigid diet. No fats. No sugars. Life was hardly worth living.
He’d already checked out Bobby Skorch. It turned out that Salli’s husband had quite a rap sheet. Two arrests for drunken driving; assault with a deadly weapon—the weapon being a broken vodka bottle with which he’d made an unprovoked attack on a photographer; unlawful possession of a firearm; driving with a suspended license; and sexual battery of a teenage girl. The usual celebrity list of misdemeanors.
Tucci sighed and looked up at Lee, who was now perched on the edge of his desk, cleaning his dirty fingernails with the wooden toothpick. “What else did you find out in Vegas?” he asked.
“Plenty,” Lee said, digging deep. “Saturday afternoon our boy performed a motorcycle stunt, jump-in’ over like a hundred and three cars—some kind of crazy shit. Came out of it without a scratch. After that, he took himself to a lap-dancin’ joint, where he picked up three strippers an’ ferried ’em back to his hotel. Then I guess he partied for a coupla hours, an’ when he finally left, the doorman told me he still had two of the girls with him.”
“You mean he brought them back to L.A.?” Tucci asked, considering the possibilities.
“They were in his limo when he left the hotel.” Lee paused for dramatic effect. “But here’s the kicker. Bobby didn’t drive back to L.A. like Marty Steiner said. He took a private plane. So why is his asshole lawyer tellin’ us he was in the car for five hours? The fucker flew back. I already questioned the pilot—he told me they arrived in L. A. at eight— which just might have given him time to get to the house, kill his wife, an’ who knows what else.”
“The strippers were on the plane?”
“Yeah.”
“Who met them at the airport?”
“A limo. I’m tryin’ to locate the driver. The jerk’s taken off on vacation. Limo company’s trackin’ him for me.”
“And the strippers?”
“I’m on it.”
I bet you are, Tucci thought. When it came to women, Lee was a disrespectful dog, given to making sexist and derogatory remarks. It was one of the reasons Tucci couldn’t stand him. That and the fact that Lee had once had a date with Tucci’s wife— long before they’d met—but it still bothered him, especially since Faye refused to discuss it.
He’d already decided that as soon as this case was put to bed he was requesting a new partner.
“Any action on the lab reports?” Lee asked.
“She had consensual sex shortly before her death. Put up quite a struggle when the stabbing frenzy began. The lab is analyzing the skin under her fingernails and fibers found on her body. There’s also blood that isn’t hers.”
Lee nodded, hitched himself off Tucci’s desk and strolled over to the coffee machine. Tucci watched him go. All day long he’d had a weird feeling. He’d investigated twenty-six murders and this one was giving him the most trouble. He couldn’t help picturing Salli’s hacked-up body, lying in a pool of blood. Salli T. Turner. So young and vibrant and pretty. So horribly butchered.
Salli T. Turner was headline news, and not just in the tabloids. Her image was everywhere. The blonde of the day. Little Miss Murdered TV Sex Symbol. The girl in the black rubber swimsuit. Star of the hit TV show Teach! and a hundred magazine covers.
Who’d killed her in such a vicious and unconscionable way? he wondered. The public wanted answers. So did Tucci’s captain—not to mention the mayor. And Tucci wouldn’t mind knowing himself.
The two chief suspects were her current husband, Bobby Skorch, and her recent ex, Eddie Stoner. Both men had a proclivity toward violent behavior—especially concerning women.
Eddie had his own rap sheet—which included getting busted for possession of cocaine, assaulting a police officer, and several domestic abuse arrests. Salli had certainly picked herself a couple of charmers.
Tucci bent over his desk, concentrating on his closely written notes. He had always found that when investigating a murder, it was of major importance to write even the smallest thing down while the evidence was still fresh. Not that he had much evidence to work with: No fingerprints. No witnesses. No murder weapon.
Where was he supposed to start? Ah yes, the bullet extracted from the wall near Froo the houseman’s residence. The unfortunate man had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Probably alarmed by the loud music and the frantic barking of Salli’s two small dogs, he’d gone to investigate. Maybe he’d even heard her screams, although none of the neighbors had mentioned hearing screaming—only the music and the dogs. Of course, in Salli’s neighborhood the houses were so goddamn big he was surprised they’d heard anything at all. The bullet that had obliterated Froo’s face had embedded itself in the wall. Tucci was checking on any guns registered to Bobby or Eddie.
He’d already decided to interview the neighbors again. Sometimes a twenty-four-hour break would give people time to remember things they hadn’t considered important.
Details—that’s what solving a murder case was all about. Details.
Detective Tucci was known for his detail work.