The Stroke of Midnight Page 19

  “You’re off your nuts by a mile, both of you. I’ve got a dead woman who was seen talking to you last night at the Kat. I’ve got a .38-calibre bullet—”

  “—but no weapon,” Jacob reminded him evenly.

  Dugan snarled. “I’ve got the legal counsel of a respected state justice panting down my neck, whispering discretion and action in the same breath.” He waved his arm dramatically. “I’ve got homicidal pimps and pushers lined up in the corridor, drugs and guns missing from downstairs, a drive-by shooting on 10th Street and a bystander plugged with a semi-automatic during a convenience-store robbery. I’ve got all this crap to deal with, and you want me to turn a blind eye to your criminal role-playing? Hell, I should be holding the pair of you as suspects. A dozen or more people probably saw you take off after Gina Bartholomew last night.”

  “Have any of those people come forward?” Rudy asked.

  “The investigation’s only four hours old, Rudy. Give us time to make the rounds. There’ll be plenty of finger-pointing by this afternoon.”

  “All in the wrong direction, Dugan.” Jacob used a pen to stir the motor-oil coffee brewed in all cop shops. “Your instincts know that even if your brain refuses to see it. I want to catch a killer; I haven’t turned into one.”

  “And you think you’d be better at doing that than the law-enforcement officers of this city?”

  “It’s the same guy, Dugan. He wants Devon. He’s setting me up. He used Gina to do it.”

  “So where’s your missing gun?” Dugan jeered. “If this is a frame, the gun should have been discovered, together with a full set of your prints.”

  Jacob resisted an urge to snap. “It’s too early for that. He hasn’t killed Devon yet. The gun’ll surface, but not until the murderer’s finished his plan.” Which he wouldn’t do, Jacob swore, until hell froze over and took him with it. Setting his cup aside, he regarded the surly cop. “It won’t help anything if you arrest me for fraud. It’ll only piss this guy off more, make him desperate, maybe even reckless.”

  A bushy brow elevated. “My point exactly. Reckless means we’ll nab him.”

  “Yeah, right. You’ll nab him—after he murders Devon.”

  Rudy inserted himself between the glaring men. “You’ve already got a corpse, Dugan. A fresh one and at least seven others before. You’ve been assigned to Gina Bartholomew’s case. Your gut-cop sense has to tell you her case bisects the attacks on Devon Tremayne somewhere. Your men are working on Devon’s problem, granted, but it isn’t enough. You know it isn’t. Let Jacob see this through. Watch him like a damned hawk, but forget about the deception angle for the moment. It’s no skin off your nose, and it might save Devon’s life.”

  Dugan hissed. A hand raked his woolly hair as he turned. “You’re not asking me to bend the rules; you want me to tie them in knots.” He scowled. “What did this woman say to you, Jacob? Exactly.”

  Jacob recognized the concession but said nothing to it—Dugan wouldn’t appreciate the sentiment. He recounted the details concisely.

  “So if not you, who did know her?” the cop demanded. Dugan accessed her computer record and the entries already made of her clients.

  “Lawyers, cops, a chiropractor, three oral and two cosmetic surgeons.”

  Jacob bent over his shoulder. “Oral surgeons?”

  None of the names he scanned belonged to Andrew McGruder, but then Gina Bartholomew’s client list contained more than a few obvious gaps.

  He read on until his sharp eyes caught something in the middle of her rap sheet. “You busted her, Rudy?” he said with a frown.

  The older man’s fingers curled. “Guess so. Don’t remember it. Must’ve been donkeys’ years ago.”

  “Eight donkeys,” Dugan informed him. “She was twentysix at the time, and already a pro. Her rap sheet goes back nine years before your bust. Look at the list of johns! What is this?” He scanned backward. “Her personal diary? Who entered these names so fast...?”

  Jacob didn’t care who, when or how. He didn’t much care for the expression on Rudy’s lined face either. Leaving the computer to Dugan, he regarded his uncle. “You do remember her, don’t you?”

  Rudy sucked in his cheeks. “Took me a few minutes but I pegged her quick enough.”

  “Funny she didn’t peg you.”

  “Probably she did. I wasn’t her assignment, was I? Whoever sent her wanted your apple cart upset, kid.”

  “How many times did you arrest her?”

  His uncle squinted. “Couldn’t say. A couple or three. Others busted her a lot more. I only worked vice for a few years.”

  Jacob held his gaze. “You were in homicide eight years ago, Rudy.”

  “Back off, boy,” Rudy growled. “I was a good cop. Still am, dammit, on or off active duty. I backed you to Dugan, even tried to tail Devon for you last night. Is it my fault she drives like a crazy woman in that fancy car of hers, or that my old clunker hates fast starts these days?”

  Jacob held up a surrendering hand. “All right. I get the message, Rudy. I was out of line. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re twitchy’s what you are.” Rudy’s scowl deepened. “We all are, Dugan included. But taking bites out of each other won’t solve our problems. There’s something we’re missing, all of us, something we should be seeing but aren’t.”

  “Something to do with Gina Bartholomew?”

  “I doubt it. She’s too new on the scene. It’s in the M.O., has to be. No rape involved, he just kills ’em. Strangulation for the most part.”

  “And a probable stabbing,” Jacob recalled. “He said he’d used a knife before when he attacked Devon at the Wave. He also mentioned the name Angela.”

  “It’s a slow check,” Dugan tossed backward from his console. “Manpower,” he added at Jacob’s look. “Our budget, the holidays and a nasty flu bug, versus a sharp rise in crime over the past six months. We’re stretched to the limit.” His gaze narrowed in warning. “Which is the one and only reason I’m allowing this farce to continue. No unnecessary risks, Jacob, or you’ll be behind bars so fast your head’ll spin off its bolt. Now, what was the name of the woman Devon’s attacker mentioned?”

  “Angela,” Jacob told him. Picking up his cup, he let the rim rest against his mouth as he mused out loud. “Angel...”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Devon waved at the smoke from a score of cigarettes and at least one cigar. “So we’re sitting in a billiard hall three days before Christmas, watching people play pool, drink themselves senseless and sing bad country carols because Tanya suggested that Brando’s death might be linked to this place? I think we’d be better off going through Rudy’s computer files looking for a woman named Angela.”

  “We’ll get to that,” Riker promised. He wove his gaze back and forth across the crowded room. “Cop,” he said of a broad-shouldered, man with a buzz cut. “Rookie, I’ll bet.”

  “Must’ve been the peach fuzz that gave him away. What about his buddy? He looks too shifty to be a cop.”

  “Could be undercover. Or just a playing partner.” He nodded right. “Those three guys are lawyers.”

  She squinted through the smoke. “I’ll take your word for it. I’m not sure I understand how this is going to help you find Brando’s murderer, or what his death has to do with Gina Bartholomew’s.” Although she had a vaguely uneasy idea. “Gina lived several blocks from here.”

  “Her record says this was her turf until quite recently.”

  “Then shouldn’t you be talking to people, asking them who knew whom and how well?”

  He sent her an amused smile. “I’ll get to that, Devon. Right now, I just want to watch.”

  “And I want to know how it’s possible that Gina Bartholomew recognized you when you continue to insist you never met her.”

  He rubbed his fingers over his closed left eye. “You’re not going to let that go, are you?”

  “Not until I’m satisfied you’re telling me the truth.”

  “The tru
th.” He sighed and it sounded impatient. “Okay, the truth is, I think she was sent to the Kat last night.”

  “Why? To make me doubt you?”

  “Maybe. Partly. But also to throw me off the scent. To set me up. Devon, if someone you didn’t know came up to you like that wouldn’t you be tempted to follow him, find out what the hell was going on?”

  “Of course I would. Anyone—ah.”

  “Right. My gun—or rather Rudy’s. The murder. It’s all part of whatever setup he has planned. Maybe he’s trying to spook me as well, I don’t know. But I’ll lay odds that he intends to pin more than a hooker’s death on me.”

  “Not a comforting thought.” For either of them, Devon reflected.

  She toyed, preoccupied, with her cider glass. Still no word from Jimmy, and Riker had been as skittish as a colt all day. Circumspect and moody. Tonight was an improvement, but there was still something he wasn’t telling her—and other things in her own mind that she couldn’t reason out.

  The morning angel. Angel of the morning. The words had begun to haunt. If only they would...

  A distant light flashed mid-thought. Very slowly, Devon’s face cleared. “‘Who “morns” an angel such as you.’ He spelled mourns wrong.”

  Riker dragged his gaze from the tables. “Who did?”

  “In the note I got yesterday morning, he spelled mourns without the u and put it in quotations marks. It must be significant. Morning angel.” Frustration moved in on the heels of discovery. “That’s still not what my mind’s trying to remember, though. Why won’t it come to me?”

  Riker traced a water ring with his finger. “It must have been a deliberate misspelling since he put it in quotes. I wondered about that when you showed me the note.”

  “Well, I can’t believe he’s descended to giving us clues, can you?”

  “I can believe a lot of things, Devon. Insanity leaves itself open to errors in judgment. It’s possible he wants you to know who you’re dying for.”

  “Presumably Angela. Whoever she is or was, she must have been important to him.”

  “She didn’t live in Philly,” Riker told her. “Dugan ran every Angela on record. More than fifty women by that name have been murdered in the past twenty-five years, but none of the unsolved cases match up in any cross-check with the Christmas Murders.”

  Devon spied a little man in gray and poked Riker’s ribs. “There’s that guy who told us about Brando.”

  “Pop.” Riker slid out of the booth. “Wait here, I’ll bring him over.”

  Devon couldn’t imagine what an old pool-hall junkie might know that would help them, but Pop was a rather sad-faced man and appealing because of it. An aging basset hound with a quick smile and a crafty nature.

  He trotted along beside Riker and slipped into the booth without a qualm. “Thought you might be back,” he said, smiling hopefully at Devon. “We heard about Brando. Not a good end.”

  Riker got right to the point. “What’s the word, Pop? Did he drown?”

  The little man snorted. “Brando? When ducks start drowning, I’ll believe it Not till. He did half of Erie once, before he got into the stuff. Bragged he coulda done the whole thing if he hadn’t swallowed the water.” A wink at Devon. “Lake water wasn’t so good ten years ago.” He smacked his lips for Riker’s benefit. “Dry in here, don’t you think?”

  Devon pushed her untouched cider sideways. “Will this do?”

  He took a doubtful drink, shrugged and huddled forward around the glass. “I think Brando was done,” he confided. He tested the cider again. “I think he knew something and that’s what got him done.”

  “Why do you think he knew something?” Devon asked.

  “’Cause he was hurting, and when you hurt you do deals. No one would lend to him anymore. His old lady was bugging him to get off the stuff. But getting off’s hard, and what do you do afterward?” He rubbed his thumb and fingers together. “Takes bread, or something like it. Brando was done for sure,” Pop repeated firmly.

  Devon saw the exchange of money below the table and smiled. A fifty this time. Must be a Christmas bonus.

  “Who did he deal with, Pop?” Riker scrutinized the old man’s face. “Do you have any idea?”

  Pop stuck out his lower lip. “Maybe.” He glanced at the bill in his palm. “Leastways I saw Brando here the same day you came asking for him. Told his buddies he was killing time, waiting for a score. A blue-line shot, he called it. Laughed when he said that. Hockey game was playing on the TV. Philly against the Islanders. The guys, they thought he was talking hockey shot, but I don’t know. Brando had a funny sense of humor. Cops hated it. Called him a wise ass.”

  “Sarcastic.” Devon grinned. “I’m like that sometimes.”

  “So are cops,” Pop said with a sly smile at Riker. “You gotta give back what you get, whether you’re scared or not. Brando knew that better’n most here.”

  Riker sent him a considering look, then said simply, “Gina Bartholomew.”

  Pop screwed up his face. “Rings a bell, but not a loud one. I’m not big on names. Better on faces. She a looker?”

  “She was,” Devon told him. “Someone shot her last night in her apartment.”

  Riker drew a computer photo out of his jacket pocket. Pop peered at the photo, then made a gesture of recognition. “Oh, yeah, I know her. Used to hang out here sometimes late on Sundays. Said that was her slow night for office dogs.”

  “Did you ever see her with anyone?”

  “Once or twice.” Pop’s eyes twinkled. His fingers gave a subtle wag. When he was satisfied, he leaned back and raised his cider. “She liked ‘em young—like you, detective. Young, strong, a bit cocky. Sometimes she got lucky, sometimes she got busted. Went for older guys once in a while, but not much. Professionals, most of ’em.”

  “Anyone specific?” Devon asked.

  “Not that I saw. She just liked men. Flirted with them all the time. Used to sass the cops plenty whenever they came around, in or out of uniform. Usually they didn’t bust her, but even when they did, she’d tease ’em. Too bad she’s gone.” His expression grew vaguely woeful. “She was kinda nice in her own way.”

  Riker cocked a curious brow. “Did she know Brando?”

  “Probably.”

  “That’s it? Just probably?”

  Pop flashed his gap-toothed grin. “I come here to shoot stick, not to spy on people, Riker.”

  “Yeah, right.” Clearly unbelieving, Riker fished in his jeans’ pocket for a blank card. On it, he scribbled his apartment and cell phone numbers. “Call me if anything comes to mind while you’re shooting your stick tonight, okay?”

  Pop closed a shrewd eye. “Never know. It might do.” He scooped up the card, fisted the money, grinned and hopped from the bench before Devon realized his intent. Her hand went automatically to her purse, but this time her wallet was intact.

  “Interesting world, down here,” she remarked with a blend of resignation and irony.

  “It has its own peculiar brand of charm.”

  She rested her elbows on the table. “Did we learn anything valuable?”

  “Not immediately, except that Gina and Brando knew each other.”

  “And they both knew the person who killed them. The Christmas Murderer.” Devon visualized. “I can’t picture Warren in the part. Or Andrew for that matter.”

  “Which is precisely why they’d be perfect for it.”

  Her gaze traveled around the smoky room. Silver balls twinkled dully above the bar. She saw Pop bite into a greasy burger and felt absurdly relieved. Better a burger than a bourbon. But no doubt that would come.

  She sighed at Riker’s expression as he watched her. “You can’t change the world, I know. I can wish, though.”

  “Mmm, well, wish later.” He drank up and pulled out his gloves. “We have work to do.”

  “I hate to ask.” She secured her purse. “What and where?”

  His eyes glinted. Surprising her, he caught her fingers and b
rought them to his lips. “Belated dinner, Devon. My place. Cold stroganoff and wine.”

  Warmth pooled in her stomach, flowing swiftly outward to weaken her limbs. “No more blood and guts?”

  “It’s almost midnight. I’ll refrain if you will.”

  She smiled. “Be glad to.”

  Her mood only faltered for a moment when she glimpsed Pop at the bar. He was studying the shadowy area near the rear door. The door through which a man in a knitted hat, a green sweater and a bulky black coat had just passed.

  “WHERE ON EARTH have you been!”

  It wasn’t so much a question as a shriek, and it made the hair on Warren’s neck curl in protest. Bringing his bleary eyes into focus, he mumbled a sullen, “I’m allowed to have a life, Alma. You’re my sister, not my drill sergeant.”

  She marched down the stairs of their sensibly furnished Chestnut Hill house in her blue flannel robe and matching mules. Head band holding her hair back, make-up creamed off, legs, he noticed through the flap, increasingly veined and fish-white. He contained a shudder but didn’t have the nerve to head for the whiskey bottle he so desperately craved.

  “It’s 2:00 a.m., Warren,” she barked. “You didn’t come home last night, or to work today. I had to make up a story about you spraining your ankle. Under the weather would have translated to hung over, and I won’t have the staff gossiping about you any more than they already do.”

  Warren’s head ached; his mouth and throat were parched, and sometime over the past twenty-four hours, someone had removed his eyeballs from their sockets and rolled them in wet sand.

  “Well?” Arms folded, Alma tapped her foot.

  “I—” He swayed precariously. “I don’t know.” He blurted it out, hadn’t meant to sound so stupidly defensive, yet for the life of him, it was true. For the most part.

  Alma’s flint-hard eyes stared through him. Then her brow furrowed and her neck craned forward. “Good Lord, what have you done with your clothes?”

  What had he...? Warren glanced down, then again in panic. Aghast, he held his hands out at his sides like a scarecrow stuck in a field. “I have no idea. I thought I was wearing my tuxedo.”