“Miss Abbey, please help us!”
Benito fell through the office door, blood pouring from his forehead onto his ripped blue denim shirt and black twill work pants.
PI Jennifer Abbey jumped from behind the desk and rushed to him as he collapsed to the floor.
She knelt down and pulled off her jacket, placing it under Benito’s head. With a quick rip, her blouse followed, and she balled it in the gash to slow the deep red flow.
Benito looked like he had been introduced to a two-by-four, with the bloody gash, flecks of brick dusting his hair, and his skin quickly losing color. “What the hell happened?” she asked as she pressed on the wound with her skinny arms.
“We told you something wrong. We show. We talk. Nothing work. No one believe, and now—”
The young, dark-haired man kicked off.
Jennifer frowned. A week ago, Benito and a couple of his Italian friends had swung by the agency, asking for help. They worked for Michael Bertelli, the man building affordable housing during World War II in South Philly. They’d told her in their broken English things weren’t right at the job site. Foundations weren’t sound, materials weren’t up to code, and they were forced to cut corners. Afraid the buildings would collapse. They’d tried to talk to the boss. He’d threatened deportation, accusing them of being WOPs. They’d insisted they were proud citizens of the United States of America. The County Planning Commission had also ignored them. They’d gone to other dicks, but were turned away. They didn’t know what to do. When they’d come to her, she’d told them they didn’t need a gumshoe. They needed an architect and an engineer, and she’d sent them away with an apology.
Damn! Now Jennifer regretted that decision.
She searched Benito’s pockets, looking for anything to prove their concerns or what had happened to him. Inside one was a scrap of paper with names and phone numbers. She shoved it into her gray trousers. A sterling silver pendant of Saint Thomas hung around his neck. In another pocket, she found Benito’s passport, with citizenship papers and a US government-issued driver’s license tucked inside. So he was a citizen. There were a few crumpled bucks in a third pocket. She was counting them when the front door crashed open again.
Jennifer stood up and shoved the dough in her pockets. “Gallo, what are you doing here?” she asked.
Police Officer Peter Gallo was not a welcome sight. As a former football linebacker, he was an imposing force. He had light brown hair, eyebrows, eyes, and tanned skin that matched. His entire face was one note. He had the same personality, one note. Still, his face broke into a grin as he eyed Jennifer up and down, starting at her keister and ending at her mug. When the two coppers behind him snickered, she looked down and remembered her state of undress. She grabbed her jacket and threw it over her slim build, hiding her bra. Her rack was nothing to brag about, but that was beside the point.
“Nice to see you too, Dollface. Someone dropped a dime about a hurt man. Just following the trail of blood. That’s what professionals do. Who’s this?” he asked, pointing at the stiff on the floor.
She hated people calling her Dollface. No one hardly ever used her real name. “I was gonna call. He stumbled in and —”
“That’s him! That’s the guido! I saw him snooping around my office. Him and his good-for-nothing pals.” A fat man with a beet-red face entered, shouting and pointing at Benito. The coppers stepped around Gallo and bent over Benito. The young blond flatfoot took his pulse, looked at his boss, and shook his head.
“Bertelli,” Gallo warned, snarling at the fat man. “I told you to wait outside.”
The fat man yanked his wire-framed glasses off and wiped the lenses on his shirttail. His balding head glistened with sweat as he gasped to catch his breath. He looked like a giant marshmallow and ripe for a heart attack.
“You can’t tell me what to do,” he said. “I pay your salary, copper. Throw the guido in the pen!”
“Bertelli, shut your trap! This is a police investigation. And the man is dead.”
Bertelli blanched and leaned against the wall. “What? When? How?”
“I’ll ask the questions.” Gallo turned and looked at Jennifer. “Dollface, why is this man here?”
“His name is Benito. He’d just walked in,” she said. “His head was bleeding something fierce. Looks like he got beaten with something hard.”
“What did he say?”
“That he needed my help. He said something was wrong, no one believed him, and then he died. Like I said, I was gonna call when you barged in.”
“Ever seen the victim before?”
“Uh…” Bertelli was watching her like a hawk. “Can’t say. If you get my drift,” she said, jerked her head in Bertelli’s direction.
“Take Bertelli outside,” Gallo ordered.
“Oh no, you don’t,” Bertelli said. “You ain’t giving me the bum’s rush!”
“Slap the bracelets on if he don’t cooperate. Call the meat wagon.”
The coppers grabbed Bertelli’s arms and escorted him out, struggling against the irate man’s weight.
Gallo stepped toward Jennifer once the door had closed behind them. “Okay. Spill.”
“Benito was a client,” she said, chin jutted.
He stared, waiting for more.
“I got dough from him to check out his job site. He and his friends were scared things weren’t right, and they’d take the rap. I originally nixed the whole thing, but—”
“But what?”
“You saw what happened.” She shrugged.
“What did you find out?”
“I’m working a few leads. Nothing’s panned out yet.”
“What else did he tell you?”
“They talked to their boss. And then the Planning Board.”
“And,” Gallo said.
She didn’t trust the look of contempt and secrecy etched on his face. Something hinky was going on.
He stared again, waiting.
“I don’t remember. I’m being square. Why don’t you ask the stiff?”
“Dollface, let it go. He’s just a sap. This ain’t your lay anymore.”
“Let it go? Benito said there was something hinky at the construction site. He was bumped off after asking for help. You gotta be kidding me!”
“He worked construction and got hurt in a job-related accident. End of story.”
“No, it’s not.”
The coroner walked through the front door and dropped to the floor next to the body. He did a quick assessment of vital signs, took information off the identification papers, and pronounced the man dead at the scene. A uniform took photos and left. Two muscular men appeared, put Benito in a black nylon bag, lifted him onto a gurney, and wheeled him out.
The coroner gave Gallo a clipboard. He glanced it over, signed it, and handed it back.
“Thanks for coming so fast.”
“Looks like a blow to the head. We’ll need an autopsy,” the coroner said.
“He worked construction. Probably just a routine accident.”
The coroner nodded and left.
“Now,” Gallo said, turning back to Jennifer, “where were we?”
“Discussing the next step of the case,” Jennifer reminded him.
“There is no case. You’re dropping it.” He poked her in the chest.
“Like hell I will. You can’t tell me what to do.”
“Bertelli is an egg with lots of pull. He brings big business and dough to South Philly. He’s turning this city around. The County backs his propositions all the way to the bank.” As he was talking, he advanced, one step at a time. “Nothing is going to stop this project. Especially no skirt.”
Jennifer stood her ground, not saying a word.
“I heard the rumble on your old man, about him being behind the eight ball. A real patsy.” Gallo was nearly spitting in her face. “Stuck his schnozzle where it didn’t belong and paid the price is what I heard. Be a smart broad. Stay out.”
Gallo walked out.
Jennifer’s body shook with anger. Gallo had no right to talk about her husband. He didn’t have the entire story on Jeff. Never would.
She pulled Benito’s crumpled bit of paper out of her pocket and glanced at it. Chicken scratch, but as she was trying to make heads or tails of it, the door crashed open. Again.
“You!” Bertelli pointed a fat finger at Jennifer. “What was that stiff doing here?”
She shoved the wad back in her trousers. “Look here, you boob. Don’t talk to me that way.”
“I’ll talk any way I want, Dollface,” he said. “What did that ingrate say? If he told you anything—”
“Get out!” Jennifer said, shoving him. The door started to open, but closed quickly before any head appeared. “You’re bad for business. Get out!”
“Stay out of my business,” Bertelli said.
“If your business tangles with my business, not my fault. Your problem, not mine.”
“Don’t listen to those greasers. They’re lying to you. Stringin’ you along.” The fat man started wheezing.
“Lies, huh?”
“Everything they say is lies. They’re mad because they don’t get paid more. They’re greedy. Don’t believe them.”
“Don’t tell me what to believe.” She rested against her desk, arms folded across her body.
“Listen up, Dollface. They want to make trouble because they think they deserve more dough. Greasers deserve nothing. If they want more, they can leave.” Bertelli pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his sweat. “I know whose hands to shake, and it ain’t theirs.”
The fat man strutted over and got toe-to-toe. His breath reeked of cigar smoke. “This is how it’s going down. Whatever you’re doing for those greasers, stop. I can swing lots of dough your way.” He looked around the sparse office. “You need clients, right? Play your cards right, and you’ll have to turn clients away. I’ll keep you so lousy with lays you’ll have to change the moniker to Abbey and Associates. Savvy?”
Jennifer yawned.
“But,” he warned, grabbing her shoulders, “you keep tooting around, I’ll shut this joint down, and you’ll be on the streets.”
He walked out, slamming the door behind him.
Jennifer removed the crumpled paper again and smoothed it on the desk. The names were illegible. She picked up the horn and dialed the top number.
“County Planning Commission.”
“Sorry, must have the wrong number,” she said and replaced the receiver.
The next number was scratched out and undecipherable. She dialed the last number on the list.
“Commissioner Gephardt’s office. How may I help you?”
“Sorry, wrong number,” she repeated, and slammed down the horn. Commissioner Gephardt was the head of the Building Site Planning Board. Benito and his friends went all the way to the top?
Jeff had had a run-in or two with the Planning Commission. Several board members were on the take, but Jeff had refused to snitch. He’d known how to keep a secret. He’d known who buttered his bread. She shouldn’t have pushed him so hard to spill, because when he decided to open his mouth the trouble hit them in spades. She had no proof, but she believed with all her heart her pressure to come clean had caused his death.
She picked up the piece of paper and rubbed it between deft fingers. As she did, she felt the scrap start to slip and slide, as if the center was coming apart. Curious, she flicked one edge with a ragged thumbnail, watching the scrap separate. Well, hot damn, the one piece of paper was really two! Sweat dropped on the desktop as she carefully worked the pieces apart.
Fifteen exhausting minutes later, the scrap came apart and her jaw dropped. The second sheet was a list of letters and numbers. And more numbers. G-11-7-2000. M-28-7-500. C-14-8-1000. What was this nonsense? She shoved the papers in the desk drawer.
The Italians had some explaining to do. Now.
***
Jennifer rushed to the construction site, determined to talk to Benito’s friends. Yellow hard hats perched on steel beams lining up support posts, others fastened screws with portable drills, still more cut boards with circular saws. Sparks flew everywhere, and the noise drowned out any shouts to grab someone’s attention.
She walked to the nearest man and tapped his shoulder. “Do you speak English?”
“Yeah. Whatcha want?” he asked.
“I need to speak to someone.”
“Who?”
“Friends of the guy who left when his head got hit and he started bleeding?”
“Right. Him. You gotta wait. We don’t stop for no skirt.”
“Miss Abbey?” She barely heard the voice over the hum of sputtering equipment.
“Him!” she yelled, pointing to a familiar face in the distance. “I want to talk to him!”
“I’m the foreman. I said break. Go away.”
“We’ll talk now. I’m a private dick. I have questions. And I mean to get answers.”
The foreman scratched his head and shrugged.
She motioned to Benito’s friend. He walked to the structure, grabbed a hard hat, and tossed it. The crowd laughed as it fell to the ground when she slapped it instead of catching it. She picked it up, put it on, and followed the Italian.
“Miss Abbey, why you here?” Luca asked.
“I thought I saw you come by the office, but ran off? Was that you?”
They both looked around and saw everyone watching. “Amato in hospital,” he said in a low voice. “We think…”
“Another accident? What happened?”
“Don’t know.” His worried face paled. “He fell. Up high. How you say? The safety broke?”
“Will he be okay?”
“Don’t know. But we need help.”
“If you want my help, spill,” she demanded in frustration.
“Che?” His confusion was clear on his dirty face.
“Talk. I need something to go on.”
“We no pay. We make very little.” He shook his head.
Her hesitation drew sweat from his brow. “Don’t worry. I’ve been paid.”
“How?”
“Benito slipped me a fiver. Now talk.”
The Italian shook his head. “Each time we talk, someone hurt.”
“Who else have you talked to?”
“Watch out!”
She looked up as a steel beam tumbled from the sky, preparing to crush everything in its path. The wind was knocked out of her as someone barreled into her and sent both of them flying.
Boom! The beam bounced. Boom! It slid forward as she screamed, trying to squirm from underneath the man. Holding her tight, he pushed his toes against the ground, and they rolled. A mound of dirt stopped the beam less than three feet from their bodies.
“You okay, Dollface?” the foreman asked, pushing himself off of her.
Her wet eyes met his concerned ones. “Thank you. But what happened?”
“The chain must have broken. I’m just glad I saw it, else you’d be dead.” He grabbed her arms and pulled her to a seated position. “You okay?” he asked again.
She trembled as her dirty hand hid her hot face. Several men rushed over, chattering and mumbling in different languages.
“Coppers are on the way. Stay here,” he said. “Everyone back to work,” he called over his shoulder.
Gallo got out of his heap and stepped over the rubble. “Dollface, what are you doing here?”
“Told you I’m on a case.”
“I said to leave it alone.”
“Not gonna happen,” she said, standing up and brushing herself off. “My client died after he hired me. I mean to finish the lay he paid me for.”
“So your client died. So what? It’s a construction site.”
“Oh, yeah?” she asked, her head cocked. “What about Amato? I heard about his accident. What about what happened to me? Another accident?”
“It’s a construction site. This job’s not safe.” He saw the crew watching. “Show’s over. Nothing to see. Blow,” he ordered.
The foreman clapped his hands, and everyone headed back to their assigned job. The noises didn’t seem as loud as before. Or maybe the beam crashing to the ground had done a number on her hearing.
“Gallo, something is going on, and I will figure it out.”
“No.”
“Yes.” She set her jaw. “You’ll have to slap the bracelets on to stop me.”
He grinned and shook his head. “Sounds fun, but I’ll pass. Besides, your ticket is suspended. Cease and desist all investigative activity.”
“What?”
“The PI license. It was issued to your husband, not you. You have no authority.”
“That’s goofy! You’re wrong.”
He shrugged his broad shoulders. “It’s the law. Stop your work. You can’t do a damn thing.”
“You know it’s a mistake.” She was no weak sister and refused to take a powder.
“Don’t know. Don’t care. Just deal, else you’re headed for the pen.” The copper walked off, leaving her cursing in vain.
Jennifer went back to the office, fuming. What did Gallo mean she didn’t have a ticket? Of course she did. When Jeff died, she immediately found the rules and had gotten her own legit PI license.
She’d show him. She pulled the top drawer of her desk open, looking for the paper. Nothing. The right-hand drawer was next. No luck. Before long, she was pulling files and tossing them on the floor in frustration. No ticket.
“Ahem. Should I come back later?”
She looked up and saw a very short man peering over the chair back.
“I’m sorry,” she said, extending a hand in greeting. “I’m Jennifer Abbey. May I help you?”
“My wife is cheating on me. I need the goods.”
A customer with dough and a problem any gumshoe could handle. Jennifer snatched up a pad and pencil.
“Why do you think she’s cheating?”
“She leaves the house and don’t tell me where she goes. She writes in a book and cheeses it. I can’t find it anywhere.” His plump face grew red as he spat out the details.
“Doesn’t mean she’s cheating.” She put down the pad.
“I want that book.” He jumped up on the chair, towering over her. “Get me that book, or else.”
“You’re tooting the wrong ringer. That’s not my type of lay,” she shot back, grabbing the back of the chair.
“Mr. Bertelli told me you’d do it.”
“He’s wrong.” She let go of the chair and opened the door.
He got down and left as quickly as he’d appeared.
She was back at her search when the horn rang.
“Abbey Investigations. Can I help you?”
“I need help,” a soft voice whimpered. “My husband left a week ago to buy cigarettes and hasn’t returned.”
“You file a missing person report with the coppers?”
“They said he probably took a powder. Said it happens all the time. They won’t help me. Mr. Bertelli said you would find him and bring him home.”
“I can’t force someone to come home.” Another client turned away.
The woman wailed. “But Mr. Bertelli guaranteed me—”
Jennifer disconnected before she said something stupid. She needed money bad, but not from Bertelli.
Jennifer searched the files with renewed vigor. Bingo. The tickets—both of them—were in the wrong file. They were legit; one for her and one for him. She was clearing the mess away when a manila envelope caught her eye. Inside was the business license, in both their names, dated a month before Jeff had died. Stapled to the envelope was a note in her husband’s handwriting.
‘Happy Birthday, my darling. May we be the next Nick and Nora Charles.’
Tears sprung to her eyes. He had never gotten the chance to give her the note.
All three licenses went into her purse as she hatched a plan to hit city hall and fix the problem.
The horn rang again. She snatched it up. “Abbey Investigations.”
“It’s Gallo. I told you to stop investigating.”
“What investigating? I’ve been busy with other stuff. I’ve had no time to investigate.”
“Then why did I just talk to a hysterical skirt saying you wouldn’t take her case, and she had to call us? Again.”
“Look Gallo, I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I found my ticket. You can’t shut me down. Mess with me, and I’m gonna shut you down!”
“We’ll see about that.” He dropped the call before she could open her mouth again.
As she walked out the door, another man appeared. He leaned on a dapper cane, exuding an air of sophistication not seen in these parts.
“Let’s talk,” the old bird said.
“I’m closed.”
“I have business to discuss. It is delicate and cannot wait. I will make it worth your time and trouble,” he said.
Ah, real dough. She backed up and ushered him in.
“Can we make this snappy? I need to get downtown.”
“Of course.” He sat down, hands on top of his cane. “I had an intruder. He stole ice from me. A lot of ice. I want it back. I was told you could locate the thief.”
“Did you call the coppers?”
“Like I said, it is a delicate matter. The ice is, let’s say, not your normal ice. I need the utmost discretion. You need to—”
Damn it. She held up a finger. “Let me guess. Mr. Bertelli recommended me?”
He nodded coolly and reached inside his jacket.
“You can forget it, because I won’t help you,” she said. “I have no interest in taking any of Mr. Bertelli’s referrals.”
“May I ask why not?”
“Hell, no. I need to go. Get out.” She stood, walked to the door, and held it open.
The man rose slowly. He nearly lost his balance and grabbed the edge of her desk. “You are making a big mistake,” he called over his shoulder as he sauntered out.
With the front door locked, she grabbed a hack to city hall to straighten the ticket mess out.
Luca was pacing the sidewalk in front of her door when she arrived back at her office.
“Miss Abbey, we need help.”
“Broken record,” she muttered, unlocked the door and tossed her purse on the floor. “I can’t help if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”
“Every time we—”
Jennifer waved in dismissal. “I get it. One of you gets hurt—and I might get hurt too. But you still want me to keep investigating, so I’ll take that chance. Sit down.”
“We got more bad supplies,” he said. “We scared.”
“What proof do you have?”
He shook his head sadly.
She grabbed Benito’s papers from the drawer and slapped them on the desk. “What do you know about these?”
He nodded. “Benito.”
“What do they mean?”
He stared at them for a moment. “Money and dates.”
“Are you saying these might be bribes?”
“Si,” Luca nodded. “Benito say so, but—”
“Where did Benito get these?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Don’t know. Maybe friend? He knew office person?”
“Did he call the County officials?”
“What is—”
“Did he show these to anyone important?”
“Si! He call people.” Luca picked up a page. “No one listen. They tell him he WOP and know nothing. No one listen.” He tossed the paper on the desk, shrugged, and shook his head. “That why we came here. We heard good about your marito. But he is dead, no? You can help us?”
“I’ll do what I can.” She stood and grasped his hand.
“Thank you much. I must go work.” He buzzed her knuckles with his lips, smiled at her, and left.
Bertelli? Bribes? To who?
She knew the why. Bertelli wanted government contracts. The profit was huge on a housing project, especially if corners were being cut. New families needed places to live after the war ended.
She needed to figure out the how. Did Bertelli bribe the Planning Commission to get the contract? She stared at the phone numbers again.
Gephardt had to be the answer. She picked up the horn and dialed.
“Commissioner Gephardt’s office. How may I help you?”
“My name is Jennifer Abbey. May I speak to the commissioner? It’s important.”
“Please hold.”
“Gephardt,” a deep voice barked.
“Commissioner, this is Jennifer Abbey. Some construction workers paid you a visit on my advice. They said you would check into the questionable actions of a business.”
“What business?”
“Michael Bertelli’s housing project.”
“Yes, I remember. The men didn’t give me any evidence. I nixed the accusations.”
“That’s not true,” she argued. “I saw the evidence.”
“There was nothing to investigate. Bertelli’s project is above reproach. Now, if you will excuse me.” He hung up.
Jennifer had just put down the horn when Bertelli barged into the office, followed by the old bird with the cane. She slid the papers in the desk drawer.
“How dare you turn business away!” Bertelli shouted.
Jennifer rose and faced the fat man, determined not to show any fear. “I won’t say it again. You can’t order me around. You don’t own me.”
“I can give you big business. You’re a gumshoe in need of business.” He hit the desk with his fist. “I thought we had a deal.”
“You thought wrong. I don’t need any bribes from you.”
“They are legit referrals.”
“Some man asking me to glaum a woman’s diary? A wife demanding I bring her husband home? And,” she continued, “him wanting me to investigate the theft of ice that’s already hot? I’m not stupid. I know what you’re trying to do, and it ain’t happening.”
He grabbed her arm and shook her until her teeth rattled. “Look, Dollface. I control that neighborhood. If you don’t play by my rules, you’ll never work here again. Savvy?”
“Oh, really!” She yanked her arm from his vice grip.
“That’s how it is. I know people. I get things done. One call. People jump.” Bertelli snapped his fingers. The old bird smiled, a knowing look in his eyes.
“Are you threatening me?”
“That’s a promise.” He knocked over the desk lamp. “Don’t bother dropping a dime. You and the greasers got nothing on me. It’s your word against mine. Who do you think they’ll believe? Back off or dust out. Your choice.”
The men walked out.
Her hand shook as she picked up the horn and dialed.
“Gallo.”
“It’s Abbey.”
“What do you want now?”
“Be square. Who’s in Bertelli’s pocket?”
“Everyone,” Gallo whispered. “Including me.” He hung up.
As she replaced the horn, she saw an envelope under the desk. She scooped it up and opened it. Inside was a stack of C-notes. About three dozen of them.
Where the hell did they come from?
Suddenly she knew. Her blood boiled. She went in the closet, put the envelope and Benito’s papers in the strongbox, slammed it shut and replaced the carpet that covered her hiding place. She locked the office and went home.
She had to figure this out. And fast.
***
The next morning when Jennifer reached the office, Luca was waiting in front of the door. Again.
“Now what?” she asked
“I need papers,” he said.
“Papers?”
“Benito’s.” Sweat poured down his neck. He looked around for something. Or someone. Again.
She opened the door and ushered Luca in. “Why do you need them?”
“Danger. Please. Papers. Need to give back, or—”
The door opened. The shadow of the old bird with the cane blocked the early morning light, followed by Gallo’s larger shadow.
Luca’s head snapped around and he ran from the office, knocking the men into the doorframe in his hurry.
“What’s going on here?” Jennifer stepped up to the men to keep them from entering the office.
“That’s the chippy,” the old bird said. “She took it.”
“Took what?” Jennifer asked.
“You stole money from me.”
“I did no such thing!”
“Copper, do your duty,” the old bird ordered.
Gallo took in the gumshoe and her accuser and shook his head. “Was this man here yesterday?” he asked her.
“Yes,” she said.
“Did he try to hire you for a lay?”
“Yes.”
“Did he give you any dough?”
“No. I turned it down.”
“The chippy’s lying.” The old bird banged his cane on the floor. “I dropped three large. I left it right here. She said no and gave me the bum’s rush, but kept the dough.”
“You’re the one who’s lying. Check! You won’t find it.” She stepped back and glared at the old bird while Gallo did a quick sweep of the office, opening drawers and looking under notepads and furniture.
“Nothing here,” Gallo said.
“I left it right here,” the old bird repeated, banging his cane.
Jennifer shot a smug look. “Told you! Nothing.”
He raised his cane over his head, and she ducked. Only the copper’s quick reaction saved her, stopping it in midair. “Enough. Let’s go to the clubhouse and file a report,” Gallo said.
“I want her arrested. She stole dough from me,” he yelled.
“Prove it!” she said, her head cocked. “You handed me nothing. I wouldn’t believe anything this goofy bird says. I bet he’s on Bertelli’s payroll.”
“Speaking of payroll,” Gallo started, “what are you doing here? I told you to close this joint down.”
“Hmmphf.” She stomped to the file cabinet, pulled out the business license and tickets, and tossed them on her desk. “I don’t know where you get your dope from, but I’m legit. Get the hell out of my office.”
He didn’t check the papers, just shrugged and left, pushing the old bird in front of him.
“This isn’t the end of it!” the old bird said as they left.
Jennifer grabbed the envelope from the box and counted the dough. Three large, on the nose. The old bird left it here on purpose. But why? A bribe? A plant?
She was so close to the answer it left a bitter taste in her mouth. She pulled Benito’s papers out of the purse and looked at them again. Luca had said the numbers were dates and amounts. She knew the phone numbers were connected to the Planning Commission.
Had Bertelli bribed the Commission to get the housing project? Who did he bribe? Gallo had as much as admitted everyone was on the take, including him.
She shoved the dough and Benito’s papers back in the envelope and stashed them in the closet’s safe spot.
“Where are you, you little—”
She walked back into the office and saw Bertelli, his face redder than his tie. He was knocking chairs over, pushing files off the top of the cabinet, and generally making a royal mess.
“What are you doing?” she asked, stepping behind her desk.
“Where is it?” One arm swept the top of the desk clean.
“Where is what?” She grabbed her wedding photo before it could shatter on the ground.
“I want the papers that greaser stole. I know you have them. They’re mine.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His face grew even redder, as beads of sweat formed on his upper lip. He sneered. “I want those papers, Dollface.”
He continued the rampage through the office, pulling open a filing cabinet drawer. She marched over and slammed it shut, watching him snatch away his stubby fingers just in time. “You’re on private property. I’m going to ask you nicely one last time to leave.”
“Not a chance. Now hand it over.” He planted his feet and held out his hand.
“I warned you. Now get out,” she said. “Get out!”
He didn’t budge. She shoved him. He shoved back, barring his teeth. His hands were hot and sweaty, and she stepped back before grabbing the horn and dialing the clubhouse.
“It’s Jennifer Abbey. I have a trespasser.” She nodded as the dispatcher asked for details. “5349 Main. I know the trespasser.” She froze when she heard a click. A rod was pressed to her head. “Never mind. He’s gone.” She dropped the horn and raised her hands.
Bertelli was staring at her, his eyes ice cold over the rod’s black barrel. “I want those papers. Give them to me. Now!”
Her hands shook. Her heart raced. She couldn’t breathe. Her vision blurred, and her face felt cold.
Bertelli waved the rod. He tugged his shirt collar. Sweat plopped on the floor. She took a step to the left. He cocked the rod.
“The papers are under the lamp,” she whispered. “I’ll give them to you.”
Moving slowly, Jennifer lowered her hands and reached for the lamp. As her hands closed around its heavy bronze base she swung. Bertelli’s head jerked as the glass dome connected with his cheek, shattering and spewing shards on the floor. A dazed look appeared in his eyes as he touched his face, his fingers coming away wet from the blood spurting out.
But Jennifer wasn’t sticking around to see what happened next and bolted from the office.
She shot down the street, as fast as her short gams could move. Glancing behind to see if Bertelli had followed, she collided with a giant wall of flesh.
Gallo grabbed hold of her before she tumbled. “Where are you going, Dollface? I got an intruder call from your office.”
She leaned over, hands on knees. Her heart slowed, and she held up a finger as she caught her breath. Straightening up, she stared into his eyes.
“The man trashed my office and threatened me. I’m sure he’s gone now.”
Gallo pushed past and ran to the office, drawing his heater as he moved. She followed on his heels. They stopped next to the door, hearing bumps and crashes inside. He pushed her against the brick wall and stormed through the door.
“Police, freeze,” Gallo shouted.
She followed him in, taking in the mess.
“Gallo, put that heater away. It’s me,” Bertelli ordered.
“What the hell are you doing?” Gallo holstered the weapon.
“My office!” Jennifer cried.
“What’s going on, Bertelli?” Gallo demanded.
“This dollface is no good. She has something of mine. And I’m not leaving till I get it back.”
Jennifer sighed.
“She stole from me. Her and those greasers. I want it back.” The fat man drew in a breath and clutched his heart. “I want those papers back.”
Gallo looked at the gumshoe. She walked to the closet, took the envelope from the box, and handed it to the copper. “This is what he wants. Three large. Planted here by his goon. The papers he’s jawing about are in there too. It’s phone numbers and proof of bribes given to the County Planning Commission. It has something to do with his housing project.”
Bertelli laughed. “Good luck showing that around.”
“If you grill him hard enough, I’d wager the three large that he’s behind those construction accidents. What better way to close a yap than to bump him off?”
Gallo put the envelope in his back pocket and stared at the fat man rubbing his hands together, a greedy look in his eyes.
“Do the right thing, Gallo.” Jennifer had had enough. “You’ve got the proof. Shut this man down before his own faulty ticker does the job for you.”
Gallo shot her a look she couldn’t read, but Jennifer met his steely eyes with her own and after a minute he grunted.
“Hands behind your back, Bertelli,” he ordered. “You’re under arrest for murder, attempted murder, bribery, and whatever else I can find.” He slapped the bracelets on the builder’s fat, sweaty wrists.
“Wait till your mother hears about this,” Bertelli said.
“Yeah? I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to find out her nephew is gonna do time in the pen.”
_______________________
Tammy Barker is a straight-laced government accountant by day and a wildly imaginative writer by night. She is a long-standing participant in NaNoWriMo, and is a member of Sisters In Crime and Mystery Writers of America. She writes contemporary cozy mystery novels and 1940’s pulp fiction short stories, because she can’t decide which genre is more fun. She is currently looking for a publisher for her first novel.
