Funny Money, page 7
part #12 of Willows and Parker Mystery Series
Parker glanced behind her. Dutton. He kept getting quieter and quieter. Spooky. She said, “That’s Mel Dutton.”
“He’s a cop?”
“Yeah, Pinky, he’s a cop.”
“And that’s what he does, takes pictures of dead people?” Pinky uttered a long, low whistle. “Nice job.”
Parker said, “Okay, so you were sitting at the desk …”
“Huh? Oh, yeah. Right. I was sitting at the desk, and I hear shouting, and then I heard this tinkling. Not like somebody’s taking a whiz, but louder. A metallic kind of sound. I look up, but I can’t see nothing. I get out of my chair, lean against the wire. There’s a bunch of coins falling down the stairwell and hitting the marble floor.”
“We didn’t see any coins,” said Parker.
“Of course not, ’cause I picked ’em up for you.” Pinky offered Parker a Styrofoam cup containing a handful of bloody coins. He said, “I already know what you’re gonna tell me, that I shouldn’t of touched nothing. But if I didn’t take the money, somebody else would have stolen it. For sure, I guarantee it, and there woulda been nothin’ I could do about it. So, like, I was preservin’ the situation, kind of.” He paused to take a deep breath. “Anyways, all of a sudden there’s this scream, and a real heavy silence. Then the phone rings. I gotta take the call, ’cause if it’s Uncle Morty, and I don’t answer right away, he’ll kick my ass. So I grab the phone and just as I pick it up … splat!”
Pinky paused to collect himself. He took a pair of wire-rim glasses out of his pants pocket, wiped the lenses with the tail of his T-shirt, and put the glasses back in his pocket.
“At that point, I dialled 911. I mean, it’s Nick, and he’s stayin’ on the top floor. Gotta be a sixty-foot drop. Onto marble tiles laid on concrete. There’s a reason they don’t make pillows outta marble, right? The operator asks me do I want the cops or an ambulance, and I said what happened and she said I could expect both of them. Tells me I gotta stay on the line until somebody gets there.” Parker said, “Did you stay on the line, Pinky?”
“Bet your ass I did.”
“You heard yelling,” said Willows. “How many people would you say were up there?”
“I don’t know, maybe two or three.”
“Men, women …?”
“One of each, I guess.”
“Did you recognize the voices?”
“Yeah, sure. It was that kid over there, Nick, and his girlfriend. And Tripper.”
“Tripper?” said Parker.
“Their mutt. It was mostly Nick’s girlfriend’s, but Nick took care of it when she was off working.”
Parker said, “What’s her name?”
Pinky was confused. “I already told you, her name’s Tripper.”
“No, I mean Nick’s girlfriend.”
“Chantal.”
“Is that her first name or her last name?”
“First, I guess. Both, maybe. I never thought to ask, tell you the truth.”
“How long had they been staying here?”
“A couple weeks. He paid in advance. They were due to check out at noon tomorrow, but Nick told me they’d be staying another week, maybe longer. He dropped by the desk …” Pinky frowned. “I mean, he came by last night, asked me if there was a monthly rate.”
“You let dogs stay in the hotel?”
“If you’re asking me is it against the rules, I’d have to say yes. But Chantal’s a real nice girl, and I could see the dog meant a lot to her. More than Nick, probably. So I said as long as the animal was quiet, and they kept a low profile, it’d be okay.”
“She slip you a few extra bucks?”
“No, absolutely not.”
Willows said, “Pinky.”
“What?”
“How much did Chantal and Nick pay you not to notice Tripper?”
Pinky glanced haphazardly around, looking for an exit that didn’t exist. “Twenty a week. I shoulda said no? Uncle Morty pays minimum wage. We’re talkin’ wrong side of the poverty line, and I still gotta pay taxes! And the politicians think that’s okay. So now you tell me who’s hallucinating!”
Willows said, “What happened after Nick hit the tiles?”
“What d’you mean?”
“I mean, what happened? Did you hear Chantal say anything?”
“Like what?”
“You tell me, Pinky.”
“Like, did she scream for help or yell that she didn’t mean to push him, it was an accident? No, she didn’t. I never heard a peep out of her, one way or the other.”
“Okay, let’s go back a minute.”
“Backwards in time?” Pinky liked the idea. He did a slow reverse shuffle. Willows held his temper in check. Pinky was starting to get to him. Maybe it was the time of night, lack of sleep. More likely it was just plain Pinky. Willows jammed his clenched fists into his coat pockets.
Parker said, “Before Nick fell, when he and Chantal were yelling at each other, what did they say?”
“I dunno … not much. It was just a whole lot of noise, like animals growling at each other. Then, bingo. Touchdown!”
“You said you recognized Chantal’s voice.”
“Correct.”
“But you never saw her, is that right?”
“No, that’s wrong. She came running down the stairs after he fell. I could hear her all the way, she was making a lot of noise, huffing and puffing, crying.” Pinky pointed. “She stopped right there, about six steps up. I saw her legs, and then she bent from the waist and I could see her head, except it was upside down. She stared at Nick for a couple seconds, and then she looked at me, and then she just … took off.”
“Back upstairs?”
“No, across the lobby and out the door.”
Parker said, “She has an argument with her boyfriend, the guy she lives with, and he takes a fall and splits his skull wide open. Dies. C’mon, Pinky. She must have said something.”
“Well, she didn’t. Not a single word.”
“Okay, tell us about the expression on her face.”
“Blank.”
“She didn’t look angry, or happy as a clam, or vengeful, or racked with guilt …?”
“No, none of them. Though I gotta admit I’m not sure what I’d be looking for.” Pinky folded his arms across his flabby chest. The weight of his thoughts seemed to pull his face down into his chin. He said, “I dunno, for sure I’m no expert, but I’d say she was in shock.”
Willows said, “Were there any other witnesses to the fall?”
Pinky’s smile was sly. “Just the mutt.”
Other mutt, thought Willows uncharitably.
Parker said, “Describe her for us, Pinky.”
“Chantal?”
Parker nodded.
“Uh … she’s about your height, maybe a couple of inches shorter.” Pinky rearranged his arms. His hand, palm down, hovered on a level with Parker’s nose. “About so. What’s that, about five-foot-something?”
“Close enough,” said Parker. She found the next blank page in her notebook and wrote “5’4”.”
“What colour is her hair?” said Willows.
“Blond, streaked with red, and black roots. Her eyebrows were black. And I bet …” Pinky trailed off. He smiled goofily up at the lobby’s ceiling.
“Eye colour?” said Willows.
“Brown, with gold specks.”
“You happen to notice what she was wearing?”
“Yeah, but don’t gimme no credit, ’cause she always wore the same outfit. At night, anyway. Fake leopardskin jacket over a pink or white T-shirt, jeans and boots.”
Parker and Willows exchanged a quick look.
Willows said, “Was she five-something with or without the boots, Pinky?”
“With.”
“She was hooking?” said Parker.
“I never asked her.” Pinky saw the look in Willows’ eye. “Except once,” he amended. “She misunderstood my intentions, and told me she was already booked solid for the night.” He spread his arms wide. “So tell me, do I look like the kind of guy has gotta pay for it?”
Both times, thought Willows.
Parker said, “Did you say anything to Chantal when she came down the stairs?”
“Asked her what happened, but she paid me no mind. Maybe didn’t hear me. Then she took off, and I yelled at her to stop, but there was no way. What could I do? By the time I let myself out of the cage, she’s gonna be blocks away. Could I catch up with her? Not unless I caught a taxi first. So, like I said, I grabbed the phone.” Pinky smiled. His teeth were the same depressing shade of grey as very old concrete. “Before I know it, there’s almost as many cops as cockroaches. Then you two show up. The detectives.”
Mel Dutton’s flash lit up the wall.
Pinky said, “D’you think he’d be interested in taking my picture?”
“Depends how much you’re willing to pay for the privilege.”
Pinky’s optimistic grin slumped back into his face. “I was hoping he’d pay me.”
“Is that what happened last time a cop took your picture, Pinky?”
“What’re you saying?” Pinky sighed wearily. “Okay, I done a few crimes. Nothing heavy, and I been clean as a Boy Scout’s ears for more’n two years. I turned in every last nickel, if that’s what you’re worried about. And I swear to God I almost stopped drinking during the daytime hours.”
Willows glanced at Parker. She shook her head. Willows said, “That’s it, for now.”
“You done with me?”
Willows nodded. “Yeah, but we’ll need your master key, Pinky. So we can get into the room without kicking the door in.”
“That what you’re gonna do now, go upstairs to look in their room, see if you can find any important clues?”
“You should’ve been a cop, Pinky.”
“I ain’t gonna argue with you, but I doubt it.” Pinky dug deep into his pants pocket and came up with a brass key attached by a short length of rusty steel chain to a block of wood painted dark green. He handed the key to Parker. “Should I go up there with you? I mean, Uncle Morty told me that I should always be in the room if I let the cops or a lawyer or whatever go in without a warrant, to make sure nothing disappears, so we don’t get sued.”
Willows said, “If Uncle Morty arrives, send him upstairs. But don’t call him, understand?”
Pinky frowned. “I hope so.” His mother had been right; there were days when he wished he’d stayed in school. About three of them, so far. He said, “If you don’t need me any more, is it okay if I get back in my cage?”
“Sure,” said Willows. He smiled. “But only if you promise to behave yourself.”
“You got it,” said Pinky. Had he sniffed Willows’ ironic tone? Yes, but he felt safe in the cage, and that was all that mattered.
Chapter 14
The hospitals big stainless-steel-walled elevator was crammed with relatives and friends of the merely sick and deathly ill, assorted harried doctors, a scattering of insomniac patients in rumpled jammies, and half a dozen semi-gorgeous young nurses. The doctors and nurses eyed each other as the metal box plunged towards the depths. The air reeked of sex and death. Nurses probably did okay, payroll-wise, but Marty was willing to bet they had to work shifts, and that most of them burned out decades before the pension kicked in.
Doctors, on the other hand, were universally known to be overpaid. True, they bitched constantly about their incomes, but more often than not they paused in mid-sentence to take a long putt. Marty shook his head, irritated with himself. Why was he thinking about these things?
So he wouldn’t have to think about Carlos and Hector.
The elevator slowed, then stopped. A bell pinged. The doors slid apart. Nobody moved. The corridor was empty. A patient chuckled nervously. The doors slid shut and the bell pinged again. They resumed their descent.
Marty fished out his Startac and speed-dialled Pedro, who picked up between the first and second ring.
“¿Qué pasa?”
“Fire it up.” Marty disconnected as he heard the Hummer’s starter motor whine. He speed-dialled his favourite number. Half a ring this time. Marty said, “Melanie, can I come over?” He smiled. “Yeah, I got a couple bottles of Crystal Brut, that okay?” Her reply made him laugh out loud. The nurses were watching him, every last one of them. Or maybe it was the suit, three pieces, five grand worth of dark-blue silk cut from one of Hermann Maglio’s favourite bolts. But more likely it was Marty himself: the uncompromising way he carried himself, the way his two hundred and twenty pounds of hard bone and bulging muscle were artistically packed onto his six-foot-two-inch frame, his broad shoulders and narrow hips. Or it might have been his smooth skin and healthy complexion, his glossy hair and flawless teeth, ruthless, good-natured mouth, and the look in his dark eye that promised all comers anything, anytime, anywhere they wanted it. But especially right here, right this minute.
Marty hoped Melanie could help him figure out what to do about Carlos and Hector. He was his own man, and nobody else’s, but when Jake put the finger on somebody, that was it, end of story.
Until now.
The elevator pinged again. Everybody got off except Marty and the pick of the nurses.
She gave him a nice smile. “What a night!”
Marty tugged at an earlobe.
She said, “That’s a really nice suit. Is it silk? Are you a doctor?”
“Thank you,” said Marty. “Yes, and no.”
“Was that your wife I heard you talking to on the phone?”
“No, that was Pedro, my wheel-man.” Marty saw he’d confused her. He said, “Guy who drives the car.”
She shook her head, blond curls bouncing. “No, I mean the second call you made, to Melanie. Is Melanie your wife?”
“Just a friend,” said Marty. It was the saddest truth he knew. The nurse offered her small hand. “My name’s Gwynneth, but my friends call me Gwen.”
“Marty,” said Marty. They shook. He half expected her to move in for a kiss, and then drive a knife into his guts. Not that she looked homicidal; it was just one of those situations, and the time was right, what with Jake gasping his last. Marty smiled. Was that why Jake wanted him to squib Carlos and Hector, so people would know he was in charge?
Gwynneth said, “Would you like to take me somewhere for a drink?”
“Yeah, sure, but I can’t. I already got a commitment.”
“Dump her.”
“No, I couldn’t do that.”
Gwynneth gave him a teasing smile. She licked her lips, and he saw that she had a pearl stud in her tongue. How appealing. She said, “You’ve got no idea what …” She frowned, and then her brow cleared. She continued, “… you’re missing …”
Marty smiled. He’d met women like Gwynneth many times before, and knew exactly what he was missing, and that he didn’t miss it one little bit.
The elevator pinged one last time. Never ask for whom the elevator pings, because the elevator pings for you. The doors split apart. Marty stepped aside, and then followed Gwynneth out of the elevator. The matte-black Hummer was waiting for him, Pedro slouched over the wheel picking dried blood out of his fingernails with one of his switchblades. He glanced up from his copy of the New Yorker, and unlocked the door. Good ol’ Pedro. A bilingual gem, except his English wasn’t too wonderful and seemed, somehow, to keep getting worse. But despite this handicap he somehow always managed to make himself understood, and, when necessary, feared.
Gwynneth said, “Which way are you going, Marty?”
“Up, I hope.”
Gwynneth chuckled throatily. “No, I mean what part of the city are you headed towards.”
“False Creek.”
“Me too. What a coincidence, huh? Is that Pedro? He’s quite handsome, in a dark kind of way. Would you mind giving me a ride?”
“You don’t have a car?”
“Of course I’ve got a car. Sort of.” She pointed towards a late-model white Neon.
Marty thought about it, but not for long. He said, “We can give you a ride, but for reasons that probably wouldn’t surprise you, Pedro’s gotta pat you down first.”
“Frisk me?”
“If that’s how you want to put it.”
“How would you like to put it?” said Gwynneth archly.
Marty got Pedro’s attention. It wasn’t hard. He introduced Gwynneth and asked Pedro if he’d mind patting her down. Pedro climbed down out of the enormous Humvee and sauntered over. The top of his shaved head was roughly level with Gwen’s dilated pupils. It occurred to Marty, none too soon, that his new acquaintance had squandered a good part of her shift dipping her pearl-studded tongue into one of St. Paul’s numerous medicine cabinets.
Gwynneth leaned against the Hummer. She pressed her splayed hands on the hood. Pedro eased up behind her and roved his hands over her body.
Gwynneth said, “Take your time, señor.” Pedro rolled his eyes, being cute.
In the car, Gwynneth in the middle and Pedro behind the wheel, Marty said, “Drop me off at Melanie’s.”
“Big surprise.”
Marty gave him a look.
Pedro said, “Ever’ time you visit Mr. Jake, den you go see you sweetie.”
Marty nodded thoughtfully. It was true that Melanie was his island in the storm. Since Jake had snuggled into his deathbed, Marty had required a lot of succouring. He said, “Take the long way around, Pedro.”
“Hokay!”
Marty considered himself a decent fellow, given the nature of his profession. Even so, there were a lot of guys who’d prefer to think of him in the past tense, especially now that Jake was, from a vulture’s point of view, pretty much ripe for the picking.
Predictability had been the death of more than one gangster. From now on he’d minimize the risk of a loud and bloody ambush by taking a variety of routes to Melanie’s semi-luxurious apartment.
But the grim truth was that only a few roads led to her high-rise on the water. Any thug with half a dozen lesser thugs on his payroll could easily cover all the routes. When you came right down to it, a lone thug could do the job, simply by waiting for him in the hallway outside Melanie’s door. Or some murderous creep in a FedEx uniform could bull his way into her apartment.
