Finders Keepers Losers Die (11 page)

We caught a cab and she woke me up when we
reached my place. She made sure I got inside okay then returned to
the cab and sped away into the night.

The last thing I remember was looking down
at my shoes and wondering how I was going to bend down and take
them off without falling over.

***

Hangovers are God's way of punishing you for
being wicked the night before. Except I felt cheated because the
previous night couldn't be classed as wicked, not in a fun way. I'd
sort of argued with Gina, passed up on a couple of potentially good
dates, and I still had a mental image of Gina and Will writhing
naked on my desk.

I cracked open an eyelid to look at the
bedside clock. Nine. Too early for a Saturday. I tried to fall back
to sleep but I couldn't stop thinking about Lou and the jewelry.
I'd called Roberta the night before to inform her of my freelance
status and she'd seemed fine with that. As long as I got her
jewelry box, she didn't care who I worked for. But she did want to
know if I would be charging less since I didn't have the name of
Knight Investigations backing me up. I'd agreed since I didn't have
anything backing me up, like equipment, co-workers or
experience.

I rolled out of bed and noticed I still had
my shoes on. And all my clothes. A quick peek in the bathroom
mirror told me I still had my makeup on too, and it was now smeared
around my eyes in a panda bear imitation.

I stood under the shower until the hot water
ran out then scrambled to wash my hair before I froze. I dried,
wrapped a towel around my hair, and swallowed some Tylenol.

I didn't feel like food but I knew from past
experience I had to eat something to soak up the alcohol sloshing
around my system. Dried toast was about all I could stomach.

When the Tylenol finally kicked in, I felt
ready to face the day. I dried my hair, attempting the sexy, messy
look but only achieving the messy part. I dressed in stone-colored
Capri pants, a fitted white top with skinny shoulder straps and
white mules. Stylish yet casual and practical for a day of
snooping.

I headed out the door and looked to the
heavens. Dark clouds had rolled in overnight, bringing thick,
cloying air and the threat of a downpour. I drove east to Lou's
apartment. It was deserted except for the crime scene tape, so I
continued past. I was close to the office and part of me wanted to
stop to have a chat with Carl, but I kept going, turning north onto
High.

Fifteen minutes later I parked in front of
Valerie Stuwicki's neat blue house in Kingfield, a part of Renford
where hard-working, respectable people sat on the front porch on
weekends and watched the world go by. Most of the families had
grown up kids who'd moved out and started families of their own,
while the parents had retired to putter around their gardens and
gossip to the neighbors.

I knocked on the door of Valerie's place and
a sixtyish woman as wide as she was tall answered.

"Yes?" she said. "What do you want?"
Cheery.

"Is Valerie home?"

"Val! Someone here to see you!" she shouted
over her shoulder.

A younger version of the same woman
appeared. She had a pretty face with a pert nose, glossy black
eyes, reddened from crying, and equally glossy hair hanging around
her shoulders. She was attractive but her body could best be
described as pear-shaped. Her hips were way out of proportion to
the rest of her. She looked like she had a cushion stuffed down
either side of her track pants.

"Who are you?" Guess manners weren't big in
the family.

"My name's Cat Sinclair. I'm an
investigator. Valerie, I know this is a traumatic time for you, but
I need to ask some questions."

Don't ask for ID, don't ask for ID.

She hesitated and I put on my sympathy face.
Actually, I did feel sorry for her. Not because she looked visibly
upset but because she obviously had no idea what a loser Lou had
been or she wouldn't be taking his death so badly.

Finally the door widened. I went inside and
was directed to a comfortable living room. A gray-haired man
sitting in a recliner looked up from the television.

"Another cop," he muttered, then turned back
to the TV.

I saw no reason to correct him.

"She's already answered a million
questions," Valerie's mother said, standing in the doorway, her
arms crossed under a very large bosom.

"So you live here with your parents?" I
asked Valerie.

She nodded. At least that solved the mystery
of why Lou never stayed the night. Her parents must have known he
visited but it probably wasn't until after they went to bed that
the lovers performed.

"Of course she does," Mrs Stuwicki said.
"She's a good girl."

"Motherrrr," Valerie whined. "Haven't you
got washing up to do?"

Mrs Stuwicki humphed. "Make it quick," she
said and scuttled away.

Valerie seemed to relax a little with her
mother gone. "What do you want to know?"

"Did Lou ever talk to you about some
jewelry?"

"Jewelry?" Her eyes lit up then teared up.
"Do you mean… He was going to ask me…"

"Um, no." Her face crumpled and she started
to cry so I quickly added, "Well, maybe he was going to. I mean,
maybe something in this missing jewelry box could answer that."

The tears stopped. She dabbed her eyes with
her knuckles. "You see, if we was engaged, even promised to be
engaged, then I'd be a widow, right? And a widow has a certain
status in the community, right? People look up to widows. Widows
get respected." She screwed up her nose. "Now that bitch of a wife
gets to be the widow. I hate her.
Bitch
."

Oh-kay. "So you haven't seen any jewelry at
Lou's lately? Or a jewelry box?" I described the box.

"No. Why?"

"Sorry, that's classified."

She made an O with her lips and nodded
knowingly. "Do you know who whacked him yet?"

People outside of mob movies say whack?
"Everything is being done to find Lou's killer," I assured her.
"But I'm going to need your help."

Valerie's hips rolled forward in the chair.
"Anything."

"Can you describe his patterns, routines?
What did he do, who did he see, that sort of thing."

She stared blankly at me.

"Did he take a walk at the same time every
day, for example?"

"Lou never walked anywhere."

"Okay, so he drove." If only I could get
into the Camaro. "Where did he drive to on Mondays?"

She cast her eyes to the ceiling, thinking
hard. "Most week days he worked at Doors Galore. They sell
doors."

I took out the notepad and pen I'd thrown
into my handbag and wrote down the details as she gave them to me.
The owner of Doors Galore was a cousin of Lou's cell mate. He'd
given Lou a temporary job when he got out which had turned more
permanent either because Lou couldn't find other work or doors were
selling like hotcakes.

I also learned that he ate takeout from
Mama's Pizza or the Chicken Run except for Wednesday nights when he
ate at his mother's and Sunday nights when he ate at Valerie's. I
asked her about The Grotto and any other bars he might have
frequented and she just gave me a blank look. She also didn't know
much about his friends.

"I think they're still locked up," she
said.

I thanked her and returned to my car. I
drove back the way I'd come then headed to Blue Vale, a northern
suburb gentrified away from its blue collar roots by young families
caught in the DIY craze. I found Doors Galore on Blue Vale Road
between a McDonalds and a chain hardware store.

I waited until the attendant finished with a
customer then approached him. "Barry Grimes?"

He checked me over. "Not another fucking
cop." Grimes was forty-something, in good shape with a fake orange
tan and receding bleach blond hair. He looked like a middle-aged
man trying to recapture past glory, but only succeeding in looking
like a middle-aged loser.

I didn't think I could pull the wool over
Barry's eyes and pass for a cop so I came clean. "I'm Cat Sinclair.
I work for an investigation firm hired by Lou Scarletti's wife. I
need to ask you a few questions."

"Yeah? And I need you to piss off. You and
the cops are bad for business."

I looked around the empty store. Usually a
Saturday morning would bring in the DIYers. "I think the hardware
store next door is probably more of a threat, but I'm no expert on
doors. Neither was Lou Scarletti, except when it came to breaking
them down. Why did you hire him?"

Barry took a step back and cast his eyes
over me again. His slippery gaze lingered and I felt like I'd just
been slimed
Ghostbusters
style.
Yech.

"You're a fiery little thing, aren't you?"
He snorted a laugh. "I hired Scarletti because my cousin said he
needed a job. I helped him out until he got back on his feet. No
harm in that, is there?"

"Three months is a long time to be getting
back on your feet, don't you think? You weren't growing tired of
him sponging off you?"

"Not enough to kill him, if that's what
you're saying." He looked more amused by my line of questioning
than offended. Not the effect I was going for but I could work with
it.

"Did he have a locker here? A desk?"

"No desk, but he stored his stuff in the
office through there. Suppose you want to see it."

I followed him through the back door to a
small room containing a desk and not much else. No cupboards or
hidey holes to store a jewelry box.

"So the cops have already been in here?" I
asked.

"Yep."

"And you couldn't have told me this before
we came back here?"

Barry leaned in close and leered. I recoiled
and took a step back, banging into the desk. He rubbed his palm
along my bare arm leaving behind a trail of goosebumps. "Wouldn't
have been as much fun then, would it?" he said.

What he meant was, I wouldn't have gone into
a small room with only one exit with a creep like Barry Grimes if I
didn't think I was getting something out of it. He must have tried
it before.
Shit
.

"Well, thanks for your help," I said, edging
toward the door. "Gotta go now." I turned and walked fast. I
reached the door but he grabbed my arm and jerked me round, hard,
slamming the door shut. He hustled me backward against it.

He wasn't a big man but he was bigger than
me. And a lot stronger. I wouldn't be able to fight him off so I
didn't try.

"I'll help you out some more, Gorgeous. I
got some moves to make girls like you beg." He pressed his body
into mine and licked my neck.

Eeewww
. I tried not to breathe but
the smell of stale cigarettes and sweat was so potent it
infiltrated my nostrils anyway.

I turned my head away and tried to wriggle
out of his grip but I couldn't move. "I have some powerful friends
at my agency," I said, desperately trying to think of something
clever to frighten him off. "If you so much as lick me again, they
won't like it." I sucked at threatening. Truth was, my heart pumped
so hard I had trouble thinking over the noise. I tried to calm
down, but breathing was near impossible because of his stench and
my fear.

Barry zoomed in for another lick and I
braced myself. "Mmm, you taste good," he murmured against my
neck.

That's it! Enough with the licking!
"What are you, a fucking dog?" I shoved at him but that only seemed
to appeal to his sick sense of humor.

"You're a fun one. I love when they fight
back."

The implication that other women had endured
the same treatment, and possibly more, sent my stomach into major
turmoil. It had calmed down since the morning's hangover but
suddenly it gurgled, then churned and rose and—

I threw up all over Barry Grimes.

"Fucking stupid cow!" He leapt back, arms
akimbo and looked down at the mess dripping off him from chest to
toe.

I ran out the door and jumped into my Civic.
I drove all the way home on autopilot and had another shower. When
skin flaked off my neck, I finally felt clean, but the shaking
didn't stop. I put on my bra and underwear and made myself a salad
sandwich in the kitchen. But I couldn't eat it. The smell of Barry
Grimes remained with me, spoiling my appetite.

I hadn't factored in my personal safety when
I took on Roberta's case. Will and Carl never got attacked on the
job, so I'd figured being a P.I. was just a matter of asking a
bunch of people a bunch of questions and putting the pieces of the
puzzle together to find out whodunit.

Then again, being a woman was an automatic
disadvantage. People like Barry Grimes weren't used to being
interrogated by women, so he reacted aggressively to cover his own
inadequacies, or guilt.

Maybe I could take some self-defense
classes. Maybe Carl could teach me a thing or two. He used to box
in his younger days. I wasn't sure about Will. I doubt he'd ever
swung a punch in his life. Then again, he'd been a cop, so he must
know something about defending himself.

I found myself wondering what Dad would do.
That made me think about what Mom said about his involvement in
putting Scarletti away. What
was
it that Dad couldn't put to
rest? Whatever it was, I felt sure that finding Roberta's jewelry
would help me solve the twelve-year-old mystery.

After lunch I sat back and thought about
whom to question next. On top of my list was Mad Max and the other
associates I'd seen Lou with at The Grotto, but after my
confrontation with Grimes, I wasn't sure I had the energy for
another icky situation. Maybe on Sunday in a very public place,
like the café across the road from the police station.

Avoiding all the scary people in Lou's life
left only one other person. Lou's mother.

I got the address off Roberta then dressed
in a knee-length sleeveless linen dress and headed out. Although it
was early afternoon, it felt like twilight with the dark clouds
gathering overhead. It suited my mood.