Frankly, My Detective Page 7

  “Don’t I always, Frannie Baby?” Cosmo handed her the drink he’d poured for her and they raised their glasses and drank to yet another successful business transaction.

  Francesca tossed down her drink and set her glass on the desk. She turned and walked towards the door with a well-practiced sway of her hips, knowing her employer liked to watch her walk away. Just before she opened the door, she turned, flicking her silky dark hair over her ear. “But you know, Boss, you really have to quit smoking those horrible cigars. Not sexy, not sexy at all.” She gave him a quick wink and left as the sound of Cosmo’s deep laugh followed her out the door.

  Now, remembering their capture and rubbing her sore jaw, Galina leaned her head on the cold window of the attic room and watched as her breath clouded the glass. Behind her came the soft murmurs of prayers from Malaya, prayers Galina sadly believed were in vain.

  Below the mountain house, the fog of the previous night had burned off to reveal another beautiful San Diego day. Another day that would bring an unlikely group of people together: a determined private investigator, a struggling police detective and two women fearing for their lives.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  In the city below, the fog from the night before lifted nicely, revealing a bright morning sky. But a deeper fog lingered brutally that same morning in the mind of one hapless San Diego police detective.

  After four large cups of black coffee, plus two super-sized Red Bull drinks, twenty soda crackers, three aspirin and ten antacid tablets, Detective Clifford Dawson’s eyes could finally focus on the computer screen in front of him. Was it really only a few hours ago he was arguing with Scarlett in the bar? God, he wanted more sleep! The foam ear plugs he had saved from his last airplane trip helped dull the sound of horribly loud conversations, the infernal clacking keyboards, and the harsh noise of the clodding footsteps of the other detectives in the squad room. He just couldn’t understand why these seemingly intelligent, thoughtful peace officers had to be so decidedly unpeaceful. Hunched over his desk, he surreptitiously held a cold, comforting can of diet soda against his pounding temple. He had been staring at the familiar face on the screen for a long time. Using his right hand to work the mouse, he kept the makeshift cold compress on his head while he scrolled down the screen and focused on the information there. Just as he thought, Scarlett had done everything by the book. An honors graduate in college; major: criminology, with a minor in psychology, then law school. She worked for two years at a prominent law firm in the city before obtaining her private detective license. No official problems with the police force were listed. At this Dawson laughed aloud and then regretted it at once as he gritted his teeth against the pain it caused.

  “And what’s so amusing this fine morning, detective?” When Dawson didn’t respond, the tall, very blonde detective at his shoulder reached over and pulled out one of the ear plugs.

  “Hey!” Dawson whirled around as the other ear plug was yanked out, this time by a very hefty, very black detective. The partners, Toby Monroe, often called Marilyn because of his wavy blonde hair, and Jamal O’Sullivan, referred to as Black Irish because of his mixed parentage, stood side by side, perfect opposites, grinning down at the pale, disheveled Dawson. “Rough night, Dawson, or just a normal one for you?” O’Sullivan’s dark eyes danced at his own quip.

  “Oh, snap!” Monroe replied with the accompanying swishing gesture; his hair wasn’t the only reason the rest of the squad called him Marilyn. They fist bumped each other and laughed.

  “Guess you two don’t have anything to do. Got all the streets of San Diego safe all by your widdo selves, did ya?” Dawson growled at them.

  “Actually, we came by to give you your best news of the day. Whatcha lookin’ at? Something fun?” Monroe said, as he bent over Dawson’s shoulder to look at the computer screen. Monroe was as quick as he was nosy. Dawson, as well as many others on the squad, found him consistently annoying. Before Dawson could move or complain, Monroe snatched up the mouse and with a quick slide, Scarlett’s face was once again on the screen.

  “Oh, lookie Jamal, the detective has a pretty suspect.”

  “Get away, Marilyn.” Dawson pushed Monroe’s hand away and reduced the screen but not before O’Sullivan had taken a quick look.

  “Hey, she’s not bad. Anyone we know, what’s she up for. She a hooker?”

  Dawson turned on the two of them and snarled. Neither his head nor his stomach was in the mood for their wisecracking. “She’s not a suspect, perp or hooker, you salt-and-pepper morons. Now if you don’t mind, what’s this best news business? Some of us do work around here ya know.”

  “Well, let’s not get our panties in a bunch, shall we?” Monroe remarked as he straightened his already perfectly knotted iridescent blue tie.

  “The captain wants to see you. if you’re still working on the Di Stefano case, that is. Hard to tell when the murder’s been nearly a week old. Jamal and I should have been put on this, if you ask me.”

  “Well, nobody did so thanks for the news, it’s not a week old, so now run along you two and play cops and useless like you always do.” He stood and ran his hands over his wispy hair. Reaching into his desk drawer, he grubbed around until he found a mint leftover from a Chinese restaurant. He quickly unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth as he pushed past the two of them, pointedly ignoring O’Sullivan’s last words.

  “Touchy, touchy, Dawson. No need to kill the messenger here. Let’s go, Monroe.” With a quick glance at the departing detective, O’Sullivan patted his partner on the shoulder and walked away.

  Halfway to the Captain’s office, Dawson reached in his pocket for his notebook. Cursing himself for having a still muddled head, he went back to his desk. He snatched up the notebook and shoved it in his shirt pocket and hurried down the hall, hoping this meeting wouldn’t last long.

  Captain Maximillian Guadalupe Ortega Chang was living proof that San Diego has long been known as one of the top-ten most cosmopolitan cities in the United States. With a Mexican mother, a Chinese father and a Chaldean wife from Iraq, one could say their family holiday parties were, at the very least, interesting. With his ethnicity it was a minor miracle that he had made the height requirement for the department. He excelled in the Police Academy, though, graduating at the top of his class. No affirmative-action strings needed to be pulled to put him on the fast track to promotions. Before he made captain, he completed a master’s degree in forensic criminology in just eighteen months. He was known as a very thorough, organized man who had no qualms about annoying the County Coroner as well as any and all CSI teams with his knowledge of forensics and his complete hate for disorder. Dawson knocked on the open office door, and saw Chang once again reading the Di Stefano file. The captain’s bright yellow highlighter squeaked loudly as he made another determined, perfectly aligned mark on the page before him.

  “Yeah, come in! Close the damned door.” His slightly high-pitched voice always made Dawson shudder.

  “You want to see me, Cap?”

  Chang put the top on his highlighter with a purposeful snap and motioned Dawson to the wooden chair in front of his impeccably ordered desk.

  “Going over the Di Stefano case. Nasty stuff. Somebody really wanted him gone.”

  “Yes, sir, they did.” Dawson nodded, not enjoying Chang’s grasp of the obvious.

  “Any leads, detective? Would be really nice to hear you have some.” His voice edged a little higher, but there was no mistaking his seriousness.

  “Workin’ on some good ones, Cap. Got some outside help with this one.”

  Chang sat forward in his chair at Dawson’s last words, making the detective instantly regret he’d uttered them.

  “Outside help? What the hell does that mean, Dawson? Don’t tell me you’re working with some petty snitch again. Do I have to remind you about the last time? Or have you already forgotten why you don’t have a partner right now?”

  “No, sir, you don’t have to remind me.”

&
nbsp; “Yeah, maybe I do. You lost your last partner because of a lousy snitch. And you know where your ex-partner is now, huh?”

  Dawson hung his head, wondering again why Chang could just not let go of this past incident. “Yes, sir, I know. Believe me, he made a great partner and I wish things turned out different, but how could I know?”

  “You were his partner! How can you tell me you never knew the snitch was his cousin and to save his own skin he revealed what your partner was— is??” Agitated still, Chang began to stumble over his words and quickly got control. Everyone in the department knew control meant everything to Chang, and yet he remained as tough a cop as any Dawson knew. In fact, he had seen the captain reduce very burly men to shaky little boys in a heartbeat.

  Spreading his hands palms up and trying once again in vain to ease away from the irritating topic, Dawson spoke quietly, “Look, Cap, this all went down a long time ago, and we both know Jesse is in a much better place now.”

  Chang glared at Dawson. “Yeah, if being the headliner at the nightclub ‘LIPS’ on El Cajon Boulevard is a better place, I guess so. Only it’s ‘Jessica’ now, I hear. God! Such a good cop, too. Damn it, Dawson.”

  The uncomfortable detective spoke quickly to change the subject. “Cap, I’m working with a P.I. now, a good one, and she’s got some good info on the Di Stefano family that I know will help us out. We’re really close on this one, just need a bit more time.”

  “Close? How close? Any leads on the wife, the shitty brother? I’d like anything! And I’d like it yesterday. Do you read me, detective? Yesterday! And this P.I., a she? God!” He clamped his jaw shut with a snap that made Dawson wince.

  “Sir, please trust me; what’s going down here is not pretty…”

  “IT’S NEVER PRETTY, DAWSON, IT’S A FRIGGIN’ MURDER! I DON’T CARE ABOUT PRETTY! I WANT A SUSPECT AND I WANT ONE NOW!”

  Chang’s office had glass all on one side. Dawson could see heads raise and look towards the glass that vibrated with Chang’s outburst.

  “Sir, I’m gonna promise you we’ll get this done. You gotta trust me on this. I know this P.I.. She’s completely legit.” He again held up his hands, palms toward the captain as if to ward off another tirade. Chang took a deep breath. His face went blank, an expression Dawson knew meant that his boss was practicing some internal kind of Tai Chi, to relax his innards. When Chang finally spoke, his kept his voice low and his words measured.

  “All right, detective. Tell me about this woman P.I. and why I should trust either one of you with this case. Please make your statements brief and choose your words carefully. You are very close to being taken off this case. The department can’t… I can’t and won’t have another fiasco resembling the Falco debacle. I’ve got other detectives just chomping at the bit to get this case, so for God’s sake and yours, give me reasons not to.” With that, Captain Chang sat back, interlaced his fingers, stretched them across his chest, placed his elbows on the arms of his chair and waited.

  Dawson knew a hot seat when he sat on it. He took a great deep breath, took out his notebook, frowned a bit when he saw a page missing, but flipped the previous pages and started at the beginning. He told Chang all he knew about Scarlett, her background, the accident, her meeting with him and why he wanted to work with her, but not her name nor that she was the PI who gave the mitigating information that revealed the crooked judge on the Falco case. He told him what little he knew or suspected about Cosmo’s ‘extra’ dirty little business ventures. He told him everything about the case, everything except about the suspected mole in the department. He didn’t tell him because he wanted to catch that bastard all on his own.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Scarlett didn’t date. That didn’t mean she was a Vestal Virgin or anything of the sort. She had dates for her high school proms. There was one semiserious boyfriend in college, and a quite serious, if somewhat one-sided relationship with an associate lawyer at Griswald, Lacey, Rabinowitz and Matsua. But that ended when the associate realized that, one: she was serious about being a private investigator, and, two: resented mightily that she was so much smarter than him. He did get over both of these obstacles sufficiently enough to remain not just her friend, but to be her legal counsel many, many times. It didn’t hurt that he had a relative in the police department who proved to be very helpful to Scarlett whenever she needed inside information. Proof that there were good moles and bad moles— it just depended on which side of the garden they dug.

  So now she sat in her favorite booth at Ulivo Restaurant. She smiled as Jackie, the tall waitress she knew so well, came over to her.

  “Hey, Ms. Scarlett, you’re lookin’ mighty fine tonight. Big doin’s?”

  “Nah, Jackie, you know me. No real dates for this busy girl. Just waiting for an acquaintance. It’s all business.”

  “If you say so.” Jackie set a glass of the fine house Chianti in front of Scarlett as the young Hispanic bus boy approached the table.

  “Your to-go is ready, Ms... Where did you say it should go?” He held the stay-warm pizza carrier in front of him.

  Scarlett handed him a folded slip of paper and a tip. “Just open this when you get outside, don’t ask or answer any questions from anybody and scurry on back here when you’re done, Jorge. Muchas Gracias!”

  Jorge looked at the folded paper, then the currency and grinned widely. “De nada, Senorita!” Jackie’s eyes followed Jorge as he dashed outside into the warm twilight.

  “So you’re sending food out, but actually eating in?” She turned to Scarlett, one perfectly-penciled eyebrow arched.

  “Just a funny thing I do now and then, Jacks, you know me, whimsical to the end.”

  “Yeah, right, whimsical like a Mack Truck! I’ll come back when your ‘acquaintance’ gets here.”

  Dawson arrived ten minutes late. He stomped into the doorway, turned his head quickly from side to side, his eyes took in all of the intimate room before lighting on Scarlett. Frowning, he made his way around the center tables and slid into the booth opposite her.

  “I don’t like my back to the window,” he spat out, without saying hello. Scarlett’s smile of greeting vanished quickly, as she sat up straight and surveyed his rumpled appearance. She’d worn a deep claret-hued knit dress with a low V-neck that met all her fashion criteria: it was simple and comfortable. Her make-up was subtle and carefully applied to bring out what she thought was her best feature, her eyes. Even her often wild and wavy hair was fairly tamed. Her only concession to making herself looking somewhat dressed up was the gold and diamond heart pendant her father had given her for her eighteenth birthday, and the Italian gold hoop earrings she’d purchased for herself from a charming old gold dealer on the Ponte Vecchio while on a solo trip to Florence. She’d even splashed on a little floral perfume, so she was pretty taken aback by Dawson’s lack of grooming.

  She didn’t expect much, but really! His sparse hair stood up in springy coils. He sported a once- dark-brown, now fading, pitifully rumpled suit. Added to this non-sartorial garment was an extremely ugly orange and red tie which was loosened and had crookedly slipped down his open-collared, pale-gold shiny polyester shirt. To top off this sorry ensemble, he looked bloody angry as he reached for his full water glass and downed the liquid in two swallows. He eyed Scarlett’s wine like a man who’d spent the night in the desert. She waved to Jackie and turned to him, speaking quietly.

  “So, Cliffie, who peed in your Cheerios this morning?” He opened his mouth to speak, but snapped it shut as Jackie approached.

  “Jacks, get my friend here a glass of your lovely Chianti, won’tcha?” Jackie’s ready smile faded when she saw Dawson’s dark visage. “You want I should bring a half-carafe, or maybe a full carafe?”

  Scarlett saw Dawson’s nearly imperceptible nod and ordered the full carafe. When the waitress had departed with a knowing wink, Scarlett turned to Cliff and spread her hands as if to say: “What?”

  ...” He took a deep breath and sat back slightly as Jack
ie brought the Chianti. When she attempted to pour it for him, he put his hand on top of his glass and without looking at her snarled, “Just leave it.” Scarlett nodded to the startled Jackie, who turned quickly and left, her long braid twitching angrily across her straight back.

  Dawson gripped the carafe so hard his knuckles turned white as he poured himself a full glass. He drank greedily, making Scarlett cringe at the sight of him chugging this very smooth, eminently sip-able wine.

  “And second …,” she prompted warily.

  His glass came down on the table with a muffled thud and he reached again for the carafe as he growled. “Second, you sent A PIZZA OUT TO MY STAKEOUT TEAM?”

  Scarlett’s eyes opened wide with feigned innocence. “Well, yeah, Cliffie, I figured they’d be hungry since they’d been shadowing me on all my little errands today. And it is the all-meat special. Wrong choice? Is one of them a vegetarian?”

  He took a deep breath, and while the vivid crimson of his face paled into a lighter pink, he still looked like he was about to explode. “How long have you known about the tail?”

  She opened her menu and casually looked over the choices. “Spotted them first thing this morning when I walked by my front windows wearing my very tiny nightie. “Hope they enjoyed the view. We should order, I’m starved and everything here is so good.” She reached for her wine and gave him a lightly triumphant smile.

  He sat silently for a few seconds, then gave up and grabbed his menu. Still looking very angry he gave up and closed the menu. “Tell you what, since you always know everything anyway, how ’bout you order for me?”

  “Really, you trust me to do that?” Scarlett grinned. “Well, Okiedokie!” She signaled Jackie and ordered the linguini with white clam sauce for herself, the spaghetti with mushroom sauce with a side of sausage and meat balls for him, and extra garlic bread twists for both.

  He calmed down considerably over the salad. The three glasses of wine certainly helped. Reaching for a second twist of the fragrant, warm, heavily oiled-and-cheesed bread he finally spoke.