Murder Is the Deal of the Day Page 13

  “We’re a couple of detectives, we are,” Gil said.

  “You heard Francine. We’re Hunt to Hunt. ”

  “I liked that, didn’t you?” Gil asked.

  “It was kind of cute. What if the usual method, meaning the phone book, is as little help as it was with Kathleen Sands?”

  “Then we might have to use the same method we used last night.”

  “Go to another meeting?”

  “Francine said the next one’s in five days.”

  “Where is it this time?”

  “Some church on Olive called the Congregation of His Almighty Power.”

  “These churches have great names, don’t they?” Claire commented. “I wonder if they’re all divinely inspired?”

  He licked jelly off his fingers. “Somebody gets paid to do it, I bet. Why I even bet there’s an eight hundred number you call. Hello? I want to start up a church and I need a name—a catchy name. Church of the Casino Queen? Thank you. I’ll mail you my fifty bucks today.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Gil, we can’t go to another meeting; we got kicked out last night, remember? After Rita told Mr. Delgado about all the questions we were asking, he got upset.”

  “We weren’t really kicked out,” Gil said. We were asked— very politely—to leave.”

  “And asked never to come back.”

  “We don’t have to attend the meeting, Claire. We’ll just wait outside for her to come out and then we’ll approach her like we did Francine.”

  “She didn’t strike me as the talkative type.”

  Gil sat up a little straighter. “You spoke to her?”

  “No,” Claire said, “but after Francine described her, I thought I remembered seeing her. There was a woman in the corner and she was just . . . well, staring.”

  “At what?”

  “At me.”

  “Maybe she recognized you.”

  “Maybe, but it made me very uncomfortable.”

  “Well, you can tell her that when we meet her,” Gil said.

  “That’s five days from now. What do we do until then?”

  “We try to find relatives belonging to Kathleen Sands and Susie Kennedy.”

  “But we’ve already tried to find Susie Kennedy’s people and we keep coming up empty.”

  “So, we’ll try again.”

  She shook her head, stood up, and tightened the sash at the waist of her terry-cloth robe. “I wish I had your patience,” she said. Then she began gathering up their cups and plates.

  He came up behind her and put his arms around her waist as she stood in front of the kitchen sink. “You have me,” he said into her ear, “and I have enough patience for both of us.”

  She leaned back against him and they stood that way for a little while before getting dressed and venturing out into the world.

  Chapter 34

  The address Francine gave Gil and Claire turned out to be an old schoolhouse that had been renovated and divided into apartments. It was located in Soulard, a neighborhood originally settled by many Eastern European groups, especially the Czechs. The Soulard market, famous for its fruits, vegetables, and flowers, had been in operation for more than 150 years. The area was still charming, with its redbrick row houses, but constantly being rehabbed and refurbished by urban homesteaders.

  Gil mounted the steps and examined mailboxes outside the large front door. Francine wasn’t sure which apartment Kathleen Sands had occupied, but there it was plain as day:

  KATHLEEN SANDS, 2d.

  Gil pressed the bell, waited a few minutes, then pressed it again. When he still received no answer, he pushed the bells for IA, IB, 2A, 2B, and a few others. Obviously, the people who lived there went to work during the day. This was going to be a big bust if he couldn’t even get into the building.

  He pressed a few more bells and finally someone answered. “Yes?”

  “Uh . . .” He wasn’t sure which apartment he had disturbed. “I’m sorry . . . I’m looking for Kathleen Sands.”

  “Apartment two D,” the voice said. He thought it was a woman, although it sounded distorted.

  “Uh, wait—I pressed it and no one answered.”

  There was a long moment of silence and then the voice said, “Oh, that’s right. She’s dead. You did hear that she died, didn’t you? I mean, you’re not a relative and I just told you that over the intercom?”

  “No, I’m not a relative, and yes, I knew she died. Could I ask you some questions about her?”

  “Are you a reporter?”

  “No.”

  “Then who are you?”

  “This would be easier face-to-face.”

  “I’m not letting you in if you don’t tell me who you are. In fact, I think I’ll call the police right now.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Gil said. “Call the Major Case Squad and ask for Detective Holliday. He’ll vouch for me.”

  “I need to know your name before I can ask him.”

  “Gil Hunt.”

  “And?”

  “And I own a bookstore, but this isn’t getting us anywhere. Look, some other women have been murdered the same way Kathleen was, and I’m trying to help find out who did it.”

  “Make up your mind. Are you a bookstore owner or a detective?”

  “I’m not any kind of detective,” he said, “I’m just a guy who’s trying to help his wife.”

  Nothing happened for a few moments and then the voice said, “Come on up. I’m in two F.” Seconds later, she buzzed the door open and Gil went in.

  He walked up to the second floor and found the woman standing in the brightly painted hall in front of her apartment. She had red hair trimmed neatly in a bob. Her complexion was pale and freckled. She had an artsy way about her that Gil thought was very attractive. She was wearing a smock spattered with flecks of various colors. She was obviously in the middle of painting something, and Gil wondered if it was a canvas or her apartment.

  As he reached her, Gil realized he hadn’t paid any attention to her name on the mailbox. In the next moment, she bailed him out.

  “My name is Maureen Concannon. I’d offer to shake hands, but mine are covered with paint. No, I’m not painting my apartment; I’m an artist.”

  And a psychic, Gil thought.

  “Just out of curiosity, why did you let me in?”

  “You mentioned Detective Holliday. He interviewed me . . . about Kathleen. And I am kind of psychic. I could sense you were troubled, not trouble.”

  “You’re right,” he said, “I am troubled. Can we talk inside?”

  “We can talk out here,” she said, “for two reasons. One, I’m working on something and I don’t let anyone see my work in progress.”

  “Okay.”

  “And two, I may be intuitive, but I’m not stupid. I don’t just let strangers into my home.”

  “It seems to me you’re in as much danger out here as you’d be in there.”

  She took her hand out from behind her back and showed him what looked like an electric razor. “Stun gun,” she said. “Besides, what if you just wanted to see the inside of my apartment to check if I had anything worth stealing? No, we can talk out here, Mr. Hunt.”

  “Fine with me.”

  “Now, tell me how I can help you.”

  Gil tried to get comfortable by leaning against the wall. “Let’s start with how well you knew Kathleen Sands.”

  “We weren’t friends, if that’s what you mean. We’d pass in the hall, say hello, talk about the weather. I found her pleasant. She had a good aura. So how well did you know her, Mr. Hunt?”

  He explained about Claire—who she was, what she did, and the pressure she was under.

  “You love your wife very much,” Maureen Concannon said when he was finished. “I can certainly feel that.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “There’s something I don’t understand, however.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why do the police suspect your wife just because ther
e was a tape of her at each scene? That doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “It doesn’t make sense to me, either.”

  “No, I mean it’s not logical. I spoke with Detective Holliday and his partner. Neither seemed stupid, although she did have a fairly dark aura.”

  “What would that indicate?”

  “It could mean a lot of things. That she’s ill, she’s heading for trouble, or she’s simply a very negative person.”

  “I’d vote for the last one.”

  “But are those tapes enough of a reason to suspect your wife of murder?”

  Gil frowned. “No, but they do tie her to each murder scene. And since we haven’t received any threats against her life, she’s not in danger. Which, as far as the police are concerned, leaves Claire free to commit murder, I guess.”

  Maureen shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can be of any more help to you today, Mr. Hunt, and I do have a canvas waiting for me.”

  “Just a few more minutes, please,” he said. “Can’t you think of anything else? Something that might help me?”

  Maureen hesitated a moment. “She was quiet, clean, pleasant—but I said that before. I guess I could tell you where she worked.”

  “You could? That would be a great help.”

  “She was a hostess in a restaurant over on Olive. What was the name of that place? Oh, damn, it’s on the tip of my tongue.” She struggled with the memory a few more minutes. “Oh shit! This is annoying.”

  “Maybe you have it written down somewhere? I could wait out here while—”

  “No, no,” she said, “I didn’t write it down. Why would I? She just happened to mention it one day. I’ll remember it, though. . . . Can I call you? I’m sure it’ll be tonight. I’ll remember it while I’m working. That’s what always happens.”

  “All right.” Gil didn’t carry business cards, but he did have bookmarks that he’d had made up some time ago, and he usually carried a few with him. This time, he had just one, and he found it folded inside his pocket. It had the name, address, and phone number of the store printed in raised black letters.

  “I’ll write my home number here, too.”

  She accepted the bookmark and looked at it. “Do you carry art books?”

  “Some. I have a little bit of everything.”

  “New Age?”

  “I do have a New Age section, as a matter of fact.”

  “I’ll have to drop by.”

  “Please do. I’ll give you a nice discount for your help.”

  She put her hand on the doorknob. “And as soon as I remember the name of the restaurant, I’ll give you a call.”

  “Thanks so much.”

  “I hope it helps.” She opened the door just wide enough to slide inside.

  Gil went back downstairs and out the front door, all the while rehashing what Maureen had said. He blamed fear, the shock of being included in a murder investigation—all of it— for pulling him and Claire in too close to think clearly. Talk about not seeing the forest for the trees. It had taken an unbiased stranger to make Gil fully understand how unfair the investigating officers had been treating him and his wife.

  The more he thought about it, the angrier he got. Before he could talk himself out of it, he decided to go directly to Detective Holliday’s office while he was still mad enough to speak his mind.

  Chapter 35

  Gil Hunt had a notoriously long fuse, but the more time he had to think about what Claire had been going through, the shorter it got. When he finally arrived at Holliday’s office at the Major Case Squad, he was furious and demanded to see the detective. He was immediately shown into the squad room.

  Holliday was there, seated behind his desk, dressed in a short-sleeved shirt, looking harried. Although there were other people in the room, Myra Longfellow was nowhere in sight. Holliday looked up as Gil approached, having been warned of Gil’s arrival in advance by the front desk.

  “I’ve got to talk to you,” Gil began, his heart pounding the way it did whenever he got worked up. His voice shook. He hated getting this way; that’s why it always took so long. He also felt stupid that he hadn’t done this before, damn it; this was about Claire!

  “Sit down, Mr. Hunt.”

  “I don’t want to sit down!” Gil snapped. “I think my wife has gone through enough of this bullshit, Holliday. There’s no earthly reason she should have to suffer the pressure of being a suspect when there’s no goddamned evidence—”

  “You’re right.”

  “—that she was even . . . What?”

  Holliday stood up and leaned across his desk. Gil could smell the perspiration coming off the man’s body.

  “I said you’re right, Mr. Hunt, but I’m not going to discuss anything with you if you’re going to stand there shouting like a maniac. Either sit down or I’ll kick your ass out of here.”

  Gil was taken aback momentarily. When he sat down, Holliday did the same.

  “I’m right?”

  “Yes, sir. We have no evidence against Mrs. Hunt.”

  “The tapes . . .”

  “The tapes draw your wife into the equation, certainly, but they’re not reason enough to suspect her.”

  “But you said—”

  “I don’t think I ever said she was a suspect.”

  “Well, your partner sure as hell did,” Gil said. “In fact, she said it when they met right here.”

  “I know, but my partner has very different thoughts on this case than I do. The fact of the matter is, if she suspects your wife, it’s based more on intuition than any hard evidence.”

  Gil sat back in his chair and studied Holliday for a moment.

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because from what I can see, your wife’s a real nice lady. Don’t get me wrong. If she did it and I could prove it, I’d lock her up. I just don’t happen to think she’s guilty.”

  “Well,” Gil said, “she’ll be glad to hear that. What about your partner?”

  “My partner doesn’t like your wife and there’s nothing I can do about that.”

  “Which is about as illogical to me as suspecting her of anything.”

  Holliday smiled. “Sure, you’d say that. You’re her husband. You can’t think of any reason why anyone would dislike her.”

  “You’re right. I can’t.” Gil leaned forward. “What about helping us with—”

  “No can do. Your wife brought in information we already had. I have to warn you again not to interfere with a police investigation.”

  Gil decided not to tell Holliday he had just come from Kathleen Sands’s building. They were on official ground, and Holliday seemed to be conducting himself accordingly— except for telling Gil that Claire wasn’t a suspect in his opinion.

  “Go home, Mr. Hunt,” Holliday said. “Put your wife’s mind at ease.”

  The use of Gil’s last name confirmed what he had been thinking: that being on a first name basis when having lunch together at Fitz’s was one thing, but this was entirely another.

  “I’d like to, Detective. However, I need to know one more thing.”

  Holliday waited.

  “Do you think my wife is a potential victim?”

  “I won’t lie to you,” Holliday said. “Somebody obviously wants her dragged into this, but I haven’t the faintest idea why. Is she next in line to be murdered? I don’t know, but if I were you, I’d keep a close eye on her.”

  Gil studied the man again. Clearly, he wasn’t going to offer anything more. Not here in a room surrounded by other detectives.

  “Okay,” he said, standing up. “All right.... I’m sorry about bursting in here.”

  “Forget it.”

  Gil nodded. Neither man seemed very comfortable at the moment. Gil decided that any further discussion in this environment was useless. Maybe later he could get Holliday on neutral turf.

  “Well . . . thanks,” Gil said.

  “Have a good day, Mr. Hunt.”

  Gil t
urned to walk out of the squad room, but when he got to the door, Detective Longfellow appeared. They stared at each other for a few moments before she grudgingly moved aside to let him pass.

  “What the hell did he want?” Longfellow asked Holliday.

  “He’s just worried about his wife.”

  “Well, he should be. She’s hiding something.”

  “Give it a rest, Myra,” Holliday said wearily.

  “What?”

  “The poor woman is probably in danger of being killed herself, not a killer.”

  Longfellow put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Did you tell him she wasn’t a suspect?”

  “I told him that as far as I was concerned, she wasn’t. I can’t speak for you.”

  “You could back me on this, Jason,” Longfellow said accusingly.

  “How, Myra? There’s no evidence against Mrs. Hunt. What do you have against her, anyway?”

  “Nothing. Why should I? I’m just doing my job.”

  “Fine,” Holliday said, “let’s both do our jobs and keep personal feelings out of it.”

  “Better take your own advice.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I think you’ve got a thing for Mrs. Hunt, that’s

  what.”

  “You know, Myra,” Holliday said, “if you were a man . . .”

  “Yeah? If I was a man, what?”

  Holliday looked up at her and said, “You’d be a real prick.”

  Chapter 36

  “You did what?” Claire asked over dinner. He had called her at the studio and asked her to meet him at Cafe Napoli, not far from their condo.

  “Well,” he amended, “I started to tear into him, but he stopped me.”

  “How?”

  “By agreeing with me.”

  “Wait,” she said, putting down her fork, ignoring her pasta. “Start from the beginning.”

  He did, telling her about Maureen Concannon and then about going to Holliday’s office to confront him.

  “Why did you decide to do this now?” Claire asked.

  Gil shrugged. “I don’t know, but I sure as hell should have done it long before now. There was never any reason for you to be a suspect, and it shouldn’t have taken a conversation with a psychic artist to push me into questioning it.”