One
O.J.
The call comes, oddly enough, in the middle of the day. “Sorry to interrupt your day off, detective, but we have two bodies.”
“Where?” She gives me the address. I hit End. Not the same feeling as slamming down a desk phone, but those days are gone.
Great. Another day off ruined. New Orleans all over again.
Russell’s A/C refreshes. Also, the best bacon cheeseburger and fries in Thompson. That and a Fat Tire was a good plan for lunch on a Saturday. The high bench booths hold a few young couples in flip flops, shorts and tee shirts. At the bar, two Mexicans in working jeans and white tee shirts wrap up their breakfast burritos before heading out. Late start for fracking.
Lighting is mood, semi-dark, not much lighter than it will be tonight. A playbill on the menu advertises Jason and the Lady, a good western duo. Maybe I could bring Dana back and two-step around the wood parkette dance floor, shoulder-to-shoulder with real and wannabe cowboys decked out in pearl-snapped western shirts, creased jeans, holding onto blonds and brunettes with tight jeans and shirts unbuttoned to cleavage.
But there are the two dead people.
I sign the bill with a healthy tip, scoot out of the booth and walk to the door. The previously great meal now feels leaden at the job ahead. I grab the twisted, wrought-iron handle and open the heavy oak door. The sauna outside jars, a wave of heat. July and two weeks of no rain and ninety-five plus. Green grasses are curling brown. Tree leaves hang longingly limp. An arrow-shaped, red sign points to the corral out back. Bull riding 8pm. Cover $8. Dana would like that.
In the distance, snow lingers atop the Rocky Mountains. The Poudre River, cold and clear, meanders yards away. A week ago in the canyon, inner tubing with Dana in her pink bikini: heaven. Now she’s gone. I want to walk back inside for another achy-breaky song, cool air and another ice-cold beer. But I walk to my car.
It’s been two years after New Orleans where too many 2 a.m. calls began in a polite, lilting, bayou accent, “Sorry to wake you . . . ” After two years with me, the last case ended it for Jeannette. I was surprised she lasted that long. After that, I welcomed any interruption as I lay awake, thinking of that case . . .
Tramping through bayou marsh, the forlorn cry of a blood hound, sweat soaking my clothes, mosquitos and Kudzu eating my face, children’s bloated faces smiling up at the Devil’s sun, their feet cool and dead in the dark water.
I should have suspected that slip of a woman. But she’d seemed so innocent. Innocent until proven guilty. Yeah.
The hot breeze parches my lips. Yet this crispy dry heat of the northern Front Range doesn’t hold a sweaty ant’s candle to the Delta. This call at this hour doesn’t fool me. People prefer killing people at night. Forget the full moon bullshit. Dark is as dark does. A little Forest Gumpish, but it works. Night and heat are music for murder. Probably happened a night or three ago.
I hop into my vintage, gray Honda Civic, buzz the windows down, and punch the CD player on. Yeah, it’s a crappy little Honda, rusted, dented, strains to get over sixty, but the speakers work. The Stones boom out. I turn it up and sing along. Straining vocal cords to rock and roll is better than any shrink. If it only had A/C.
The cul-de-sac’s not far. I park next to the white panel van labeled Poudre Valley Crime Bureau., PVCB, our meager equivalent of CSI. Yellow crime-scene tape stretches between temporary aluminum poles stuck in the brown grass outside the apartment. One thin uniform is outside the tape, arms folded to a few gawkers, the other is at the door eyeing me. The apartments are young, new beige with olive trim, scattered juvenile trees. One ancient cottonwood offers the only shade. Under it, sitting on lawn chairs, are a plump blue-haired woman and a skinny, dark, middle-aged guy, probably Pakistani—they own half the apartments around here. Blue Hair and Paki are frowning sullen fixtures on a bright day.
I plan to remain happy.
On my jaunty walk to the condo, Blue Hair and Paki eye me like bird dogs. They must like my bouncing ponytail and big-tongue Stones tee shirt.
At the door on the concrete stoop, the uniform stands tall. He’s young, rail-thin, creased khaki uniform and spit-shined black shoes. He has eyes of Dana’s Chihuahua—large, nervous, and emotionally transparent. They peruse my hair, the badge on my belt, my hair, all with joie de disgust. He twitches his nose sideways. “Detective.”
“Hey. I’m Jude Cromwell. Nice to meet you.” I smile and shake his hand. He smiles back, big eyes genuine, lips flat. His cramped face might be from the lovely odor. I pull out a piece of minty gum and pop it in, Carmex on my nostrils.
“Luke Howard.” He jerks a thumb at the door. “If you go straight to the back bedroom, he’s waiting.”
“Can’t have that.” I raise my eyebrows and roll my eyes.
Howard’s eyes smile big. His lips finally join in.
From the bag at the door, I grab blue paper shoe covers and clear plastic gloves and put them on. A dribble of sweat tickles the small of my back. I open the door, looking forward to A/C.
Yeah. Probably a hundred twenty degrees. The smell is like jabbing a hot pencil covered in rotting flesh up your nose. Phlegm wells in my throat. My tee shirt sticks to my back and chest.
The Delta . . . It wants in. I grit my teeth. No. Not now. I shut it out.
I finger wave at Howard and shut the door. He’s pinching his nose.
Lights are on in every room. I walk straight ahead. Kitchen on the right opens to living room on the left with medium-sized flat screen and sparse leather furniture. There’s a short hallway, bathroom on the left, bedroom straight ahead. Big window on the left, blinds open, sunlight spotlighting the bed—stage center. Warm sunlight in a sauna.
The bed butts up to the far wall, right bedside light on. The coroner’s assistant, a guy I wish I didn’t know, squats by the left wall, back to me, fiddling with an evidence bag. Floor-length mirrors cover every wall—I look up—and the ceiling.
I step to the right side of the bed where John and Jill Doe, happy couple that they must have been, are dead on the bed. Brass head frame glints in the sun.
John’s supine in a rather vulnerable position, poor baby. Duct-taped mouth, hands over head, handcuffed to the shiny head-rail, wearing creased tan Chinos, unwrinkled pinstriped long-sleeved shirt, tucked in. His butt hangs over this side of the bed, feet almost touching the floor. Trying to escape? Surely not from Jill slumped beside him. Fabulous body. John, you poor baby.
Jill’s sitting on the floor, her exceptional body turned, left side against the bed, left arm languidly stretched onto the bed, head resting on his thigh, wisps of brown, shoulder-length hair across her face—peaceful. Her legs are bent and tucked under, knees together—prim. Reminds me of Dana watching TV on the couch.
The other side of the quilted bedspread is smooth. The pillow lies against the head rail, plump and un-mussed.
A drop of sweat stings my eye and my vision grays.
A sauna inside a gray house on a yellow day, flies buzzing around the black hole in his throat, him sitting and facing the children, what was left of them. She must have made him watch.
I lean forward and put my hands on my knees, close my eyes and take a few breaths. God damn Delta.
I open my eyes, refocus on the job. Jill’s right hand is relaxed, empty, resting in her lap. The skin-tight, strawberry-red dress is scooched up. She has nice thighs and right butt cheek. No hose. No visible underwear. On her right foot, a black high-heeled shoe dangles from her toes. Light glints on a charm necklace of tiny glass horses and stars. There’s an eight-inch whitish-pink scar running diagonally down the right side of her neck.
John’s zipper is up. His leather belt bejeweled with oval turquoise pieces, not one notch undone. Post-mortem swelling folds over the top of brown penny loafers. White cotton gloves adorn his hands.
A butler game? Guess regular sex bored him. Poor baby.
Is that a mocking smile on her face? Handcuffed guys make some women hot. Some guys like it, I hear.
John might be smiling. Seems more like a scowl. Did the spider become the fly?
“Hello, Detective,” says the coroner’s assistant, Blue. He walks around the foot of the bed. Blue got his nickname from a victim’s kid. Said he looked like the dog in Blue’s Clues. Puppy dog eyes, big ears, and cheeky, curious face. He wears the usual: a crisp white shirt, tightly knotted black tie, black microfiber pants, and black and white Adidas. Another victim’s relative once mistook him for the undertaker. Blue, however, thinks it’s handsome.
He steps up to me. I step back a pace. “Did you take a bath in garlic or mainline the stuff?” His breath rivals the decomposing corpses.
He puckers his mouth and frowns. “It’s my secretory status. One piece of garlic bread and I secrete the stuff from my pores.”
“You must have damn big pores in your tongue.” I hold out a stick of spearmint.
He raises one eyebrow, but no smile. Thankfully, he takes the gum. “PMI is less than seventy-two hours.”
Blue likes post mortem interval. I’m old school and prefer time of death. He keeps me up to date.
“Not very precise for such a smart guy.” I say.
Blue scowls. Takes away that tiny bit of handsome the tie gave him.
“Liver temp is worthless, same as ambient: 103. Been too hot, too long. Luke . . . ” He looks at the front door. “Sorry . . . Officer Howard said a neighbor saw Jillian Jones, the lady in the red dress, about three days ago walking to the mail box. As soon as Dr. Luther gets the body he’ll measure vitreous potassium. With this heat, it’ll give us the best PMI.”
I don’t care what you say; a guy who cuts dead people open and sticks needles in eyeballs is out there. But I respect Dr. Luther. He helps. Blue, on the other hand . . . .
His tone becomes expository. “There’s no chafing on his wrists. They don’t appear to have had sex. No signs of trauma. No gun. No knife.”
“Nothing to indicate a homicide, so why’d y’all call me?” I add extra Southern bayou to the “y’all.”
Blue’s scowl becomes pensive. Looks good on him. Probably because he’s so intelligent.
“Well, let’s see,” there’s a touch of you son of a bitch coating his words, “two relatively young people. Probably didn’t die of natural causes. Could be a double suicide the way they’re laid out, nicely dressed. Maybe poison. Maybe they were getting kinky. Maybe they OD’d. You tell me, detective. And, release the bodies. Decomposition is getting worse each minute.”
“When does the A/C repairman get here?”
“Sorry?” The corners of his mouth twitch up a shade. He likes to test me. New apartments all have A/C.
I sigh loudly and stare at him.
He nods, conciliatory. “He’s on the way,” then adds, “the bodies?”
Poudre County has seen five homicides in the last five years. Despite that, we have a forensic pathologist. Maybe due to the hundred suicides a year. Thompson: population one-hundred sixty thousand, rated best retirement small town in the U.S., safe from almost everyone, except yourself. Anyway, Dr. Basil Luther, or Cutter, his Vietnam nickname, usually gets answers.
Today, I wonder.
“Stay here a minute.” He can turn the body over to Cutter when he gets back and go have a brewski. As the detective, I must gather more facts.
Or, as the case may be, go through the motions, for the record. I already know John and Jill and their . . . propensities. Yet . . . Yet. My heart taps hard and fast, and I’m glad for the heat. No one will think my sweating unusual.
I walk back to the front, open the door half-way, my body filling the gap. Can’t have the locals seeing murder. A horn honks outside. Outside air feels cool and smells like springtime compared to the rotting jungle in the bedroom. I wave Howard over. “I hear you talked to the owner about the lady victim.”
His twitchy bug-eyes look toward the gawkers then at me. “Yeah, the next-door neighbor, an elderly lady,” His words are so quiet you’d think CNN reporters stood behind us with microphones. “She smelled . . . You know.” He wrinkles his hawk nose. “Anyway, she called the owner. She also told me, twice, and I quote: ‘That’s what that damn Indian gets for renting to a slut on a month-to-month basis.’”
He looks towards Paki and Blue Hair under the cottonwood. “The, uh,” he pauses, “Pakistani owner said he knocked, unlocked the deadbolt, opened the door, saw the bodies, locked it again and called nine-one-one.”
He winces and puts his hand to his nose. “Do you really need this door open?”
“Yeah.” I put another dab of Carmex on my nose and hold out the tube.
He wipes some on his finger then his nose and gives me a weak smile. “Thanks.”
“Deadbolt was locked?”
He nods.
“So you and your partner arrived?”
“We did a walk through. The back door and windows were locked. Nobody else inside. Owner and neighbor are over there.” He moves his head toward Paki and Blue Hair. Paki glares at us. I smile back.
Blue’s shout comes from the back room, “Tell him about the glass.”
The looky-loos must have heard that remark. Next poker game, Blue gets no mercy.
“Oh yeah,” Howard says. “There are pieces of glass on the kitchen floor.”
I can hear Blue giggling. His guffaw will soon arrive.
I knew the glass would be here. Unmistakable M.O. for Johnny Doe, aka Angelo Andropolous. Like his uncle’s case, two years ago. Blue wasn’t with PVCB then, but he knows I never figured out the glass there. And now we have more glass in another locked room. A laugh riot. Even though I knew Angelo killed his uncle, the DA refused to arrest him. Not enough evidence.
I walk to the kitchen. On the floor, prismatic pieces glint in the afternoon sunlight filtering through the half-shaded kitchen window. Maybe I should care.
Three kids and a nice guy rotted in the Delta swamp, their killer free because I cared and thought that New Orleans bitch was innocent. In my recurrent dreams, I still see her smirk at me in the courtroom.
Yeah, she fooled me. It won’t happen here. Jill: Jillian Jones, Aka Karin Jones, recently of Biloxi, Mississippi, was guilty and now . . . ? She got hers.
I notice strands of wire poking up from the kitchen counter, like several damn big cockroach antennae. I take a step closer, careful of the glass. Five brass wires are attached to a wooden, six-inch square pedestal. Glass pieces litter the floor below it. A small chip of glass decorates the end of one wire. Nothing like this in the Federico Andropolous case, Angelo’s dead uncle.
Poor baby, Angelo. Cooked and cuffed to a brass bedrail. Angelo’s dead and Jillian’s dead. Justice has been served. I should leave it alone.
But that glass eats at my gut.
I look back at Howard. “When did the A/C go out?”
He shrugs.
“We should check with the neighbors and see if their A/C died, and what time. See if they heard or saw anything. Maybe nail down when they started smelling it.”
He starts to go.
“Not now.”
His huge eyes look hurt. Ah, man.
“For now, stay at the door. Did you get their cellphones?”
“Inside in a baggie.”
“Thanks. You and your partner did good. Real good.” He shrugs.
I pat him on the back. “Keep the door cracked and your body between us and the crowd.”
A big sigh, but he keeps the door cracked.
Maybe this double murder went down another way. Paki has a key. Would that be racial profiling?
In the bedroom, Blue is nose-sniffing a laugh. What a goofy grin.
I force myself not to smile. “You think this is funny? Two dead people stinkin up half the block?”
The grin flattens. “No, Jude . . . I mean, O.J. . . . Uh, Detective Cromwell.”
At least he didn’t call me Oliver. My parents loved me so much they named me after my granddad, Oliver Jude Cromwell. Half of Louisiana loved him. The other half hated him for his politically biased judgements. I became a cop wanting the opposite: Get justice the right way. Innocent until proven guilty.
Until that bitch and her dead kids and husband. She strolled out of the courtroom, free, Satan’s grin aimed at me. Justice had slipped away, a wisp of Spanish moss floating off a cypress and down a muddy bayou.
Never again.
I smile at Blue. “Anything in their pockets?”
Blue’s grin returns, but tentative—testing. Then, like a two-faced jack-in-the-box, he’s confident, eyes haughty. The professor.
“First,” he begins, “she has no pockets.”
“Point. What about Mr. Doe?”
“Mr. Angelo Andropolous.” He grins and hands over the guy’s wallet inside a clear evidence bag. A laugh riot.
I pretend interest in the ID. Blue’s floppy cheeks stretch tight in a big shit-eater, and he holds up another clear bag with a red and white capsule in it. “Found this in his pocket.”
I study it. “So he takes Benadryl. Maybe he’s allergic to latex.” I touch my finger to my tooth. “You’ve got something in your teeth.”
He squints at me, suspicious I’m pulling his chain. Rightly so. He smiles without showing his teeth and shakes his head. “No condoms here and that’s not a Benadryl capsule. There’s no pharmaceutical number. It’s homemade.”
“This is your answer? A pill in his pocket?”
“Won’t know ‘til we get the body back to the lab.”
“OK. They’re yours. Go. And take your damn secretory status with you.”
“I’ll call you on the time of the autopsy. The tox screen on the capsule will take longer.”
He’s beaming as confident as a coon dog hunting a lame rabbit. Medical forensics will find the answers. Yeah.
He zips the body bag over her. Post-mortem marbling of veins, swollen green-black face, orange ooze from her mouth. Poor baby. She was a looker, before, and undoubtedly the one from Biloxi. My buddy in New Orleans gave me the low down before I left that cesspool. She was the perp who killed Menotti at the casino. Nitroglycerin mixed with Viagra. Done deal. Only problem: She was never convicted.
Different name, but I remembered her photo and the scar. And she took the bait at the party. Same M.O. Another rich Italian with a heart problem. I didn’t get fooled this time.
Yet there’s something else here. What exactly happened with Jillian and Angelo after I started my cupid trap two weeks ago?
Two
Jillian
Hiya, doll! That’s what I say to all the Johns. I grew up in the Lower East Side. Grandma was Jewish, Daddy a hippie. I was born to be an artiste. Yeah, I talk funny. But I don’t think funny. Mostly I think about the next score.
So when Dana, my sweet hair dresser, invites me to her friend’s ritzy party, I say, “Sure, why not?”
Gotta go where the money is.
The party’s in a huge stone and beamed mansion overlooking the twinkling lights of Thompson. I walk in feeling smooth and sexy in a black, spaghetti-strap cami and white miniskirt—tight. The finishing touches are the stiletto black heels, gold braid necklace and charm bracelet. The unicorn is my fave.
Tiny glass horses are in the foyer curio cabinet. Just gorgeous. A guy walks over, calls himself O.J. He’s cute with devious, amber eyes. Despite skin scarred from acne, the ponytail and his Southern accent intrigue me.
“Gorgeous little glass pieces, doncha think?” I say.
He points out a tall dark guy across the living room smoking a cigar. He’s wearing a pink polo shirt with large horizontal blue stripes and white pants. “Angelo over there got rich blowing these glass pieces.”
I don’t really want to leave O.J. and his interesting eyes. But a rich Italian? I excuse myself and wander over.
“Hiya, doll. I’m Jillian.” My brown hair hangs over one eye. I use the gravel in my voice, a shy smile and soft look.
Angelo smiles. He isn’t looking at my brown eyes, but my other assets. He’s not half-bad, either: dark eyes, black hair, wide shoulders and narrow waist with not a dribble of fat over his belt. Can’t wait to see the backside. Says his ancestors come from an island called Murano, in the real Italy no less. His name is smooth off the tongue, especially the way he says it—Angelo Andropolous.
“What were you and the police detective discussing?” His voice is deep, and he speaks a bit formally. But that’s probably because he was raised better, and he’s so European.
“Detective?”
“That guy with the ponytail. O.J.” He meets my gaze now. His smile flattens. Cool. Serious.
“O.J. Oh, yeah. Nice guy. I didn’t know he was no cop. He told me you made those cute glass horses in the cabinet. They’re just gorgeous. I had to come over and meet such an amazing artist.” I look through my lock of hair at him.
That gets a raised eyebrow. He drops his gaze a foot or so, lingering.
I glance back at O.J., wondering.
Angelo turns out to be an OK guy—quiet and brooding, but easy to tease, easy to please. Doesn’t seem violent. Oozes money. And healthy, thank God. But still, that cop has seen me. Might not be as easy as Menotti.
A few days later, Angelo invites me for dinner at his place up the road. I dress for the heat: white halter top, black short shorts, and tan, lace-up sandals. He sports tan chinos, a sky-blue short-sleeve cotton shirt and sandals. And smells of Old Spice, not my fave. He takes my black silk wrap and we walk out onto the first-floor patio. You can see half way to Pike’s Peak. Carter Lake is a dark mirror for the moon. Saw-toothed backbone of foothills on one side and the snow-tipped Rockies rising to the sky on the other. The nearest neighbor is a quarter mile away. You don’t have to hear them talking through the walls or beating their wives.
He shows me around. Ritzy paintings on the walls, black stone floor, and an assortment of glass figures displayed in lighted shelves: butterflies and whales and horses and a clown with balloons.
We walk downstairs to his workshop in the walkout basement. Feels like money and a safe, I’ll bet. On the left we pass a small bathroom, then three big ovens, I assume for his glass blowing, with overhead fans humming. We come to a large room with a desk and ceiling-to-floor windows, a sliding glass door open to the screen. No curtains or blinds. Cool air comes in and feels good on my chest and legs. Almost as good as the feeling of a nearby safe.
I touch the single diamond dangling on my delicate gold necklace. It goes well with the tiny diamond ear studs. They yearn for big sisters.
He closes the sliding glass door, we walk upstairs to the patio and have a little wine, enjoy the sunset. He barbecues steaks. The smell is fabulous.
He’s more secretive than the others. But he never had to hide things from my father. Daddy was incensed with other’s business, especially mine. And he was good. I learned how to hide stuff from the master, which makes me great at finding secret places. Like a safe. The trick is finding without getting caught.
We eat the steaks, medium rare, seasoned perfect. Delicious. Angelo pours himself more wine.
“None for me, thanks, hon.” I say. “Have to look out for my figure.”
He peruses me. A coyote yips and howls in the foothills. I take the wine bottle and his glass, and we meander inside to the boudoir and the main course. He enjoys some of this, parts of that. More red wine and soon . . . Whammo! He’s out. Like a match in a toilet. Men. Two in ten years liked to talk instead of snore, after.
I quietly scoot out of bed, slip on his undershirt, easy to get without waking him. Reeks of Old Spice, but what’s a girl to do? I pad to the kitchen, open the fridge and pour a glass of milk.
Jesus Christ! Can you believe somebody still drinks whole milk? But it’s all he has and I gotta have milk.
He’s snoring loud and regular, so I tiptoe quickly downstairs, being careful not to spill my milk.
My heart races and my chest tingles. Oh, yeah. I love the search. And the money. I look while I sip. If he wakes and finds me? I’ll think of something.
I walk into the bathroom on the left and quietly click open the medicine cabinet. A small dark bottle I know too well. Nitroglycerin. Shit. He looked so healthy. And on the lower shelf are the blue pills. Viagra. In the basement. Maybe I should give this up.
There’s a long mirror hanging from the bathroom door. I’ve got it: smooth skin, nice legs, tight ass. And those dimples and eyes. Give us a wink and a smile and move right along.
I freeze. In the mirror’s reflection, something in the twilit workshop catches my eye. I missed it this afternoon. A drawer in the desk by the sliding glass window isn’t closed. A white corner of paper peeks out.
Maybe it’s the combination to the safe. I walk over and pull the chain on the cute little green poker lamp on the desk. The soft glow adds ambience, not bright enough for the distant neighbors to see me rummaging through papers, half-naked in a tee shirt. Don’t want to flash just anybody. A paying customer is one thing, but not some creepy peeper.
I open the drawer a tad, pull out and spread the paper on the desk. There are symbols, like chemical formulas next to foreign, Spanish-looking words. A roach killer client on Canal Street paid me well and showed me stuff, like this formula. There’s a C connected to an O and an N and all kinds of squiggly weird lines and numbers.
Then I see written in plain English on the margin: BETTER THAN ARSENIC.
Arsenic . . . Like Arsenic and Old Lace with Cary Grant. I love those old movies.
Why would Angelo want something better than Arsenic? A little chill crawls up my back.
I ease the paper back into the drawer. And just in case—some people are really persnickety—push the drawer back in, exactly where it was, and leave the same little corner of paper peeping out. Perfect.
There’s a teensy, cute glass seahorse sitting on the top of the desk. I pick it up and turn around to get a better look under the light—
He’s standing right there.
“Shit!” I haven’t screamed like that since Menotti dropped dead. The cute seahorse jumps from my hand and shatters on the floor, stinging my feet. It was real pretty—pink and lavender and maybe chartreuse. Barely got a glimpse.
But now I’m too busy looking at those eyes. He’s pissed.
How long had he been there?
For a second he glares at me. His dark eyes remind me of that brat in the movie, The Omen. His gaze drifts down again, his face softens, and his words have no bite, “What are you doing in here?”
“Hiya, Doll. I was just lookin around. Couldn’t sleep. Got some milk. Glassblowing intrigues me. Sorry about your seahorse, but you scared shit outta me.”
Glass pieces cover my feet. Might get cut if I move. Who am I kidding? I want to sprint out as fast as my bare ass can carry me. Who gives a diddly about a few cuts?
He glances down. “Ah, cara mia, don’t worry yourself about that. Those little pieces I create out of waste material. Allow me.”
He clicks on an overhead light, grabs a dustpan and sweeps. Cara mia sounded romantic, and the soft brush feels sexy on my toes.
All he’s got on is boxers, and when he bends over the muscles in his lean back ripple, and he’s sweeping my toes and I feel good in all the right places.
While he’s leaning over brushing around my feet, I pour some milk on my chest.
I feel him touch my foot with a wet finger. He stands and shows me the blood on his finger. He looks at my wet tee shirt and licks the blood off his finger, slowly, not moving his gaze. Desire tents his boxers. The wine has worn off.
“Would you like to see me blow a few pieces?” His words are breathy.
Forget the little cut on my foot. Time to go for the heart. “Sure.” I say with a chesty giggle. “Me in my tee shirt, you in your boxers.”
He looks away, bends and empties the dustpan in the brass trash can under the desk. What a fabulous back.
He stands, facing the window. “Yes, I often do it that way.” Now his words have a quiet calm, like 4 a.m. in a cemetery.
“You mean you blow glass in your boxers?”
He puts the dustpan on the desk and stares right through the back of my head. Creepy. “Yes. Sometimes without. I feel my art should be like me—Raw, bold, simple.”
That look and the tone of his voice touch the small of my back and snake all the way to my scalp. It reminds of that night with an ugly John and a knife. The long scar on my neck itches. I want to grab a robe, cover up, and leave. Artists are different, though. And he is definitely Different with a capital D.
I gotta find the safe, soon.
He puckers his lips and frowns as if deciding. “You should lie on the fluffy sofa by the marver,” he points a finger, “that large flat piece of steel over there. You’ll be able to see better while I blow the glass. You will enjoy that, no?”
Fluffy sofa. Viagra in the basement. Yep.
He turns around and . . . Oh no. Oh please! He walks over to that drawer I was just in and takes out the paper. He strolls over to the oven and twists valves and flicks a switch and the donut-hole oven glows orange. The fan hums louder. Reminds me of a crematorium in a funeral home.
He walks back and takes my hand and leads me to the sofa that faces a long, flat metal slab, like one Daddy lay on in the morgue. Angelo doesn’t say a word. What’s he gonna do to me? God, I’m shaking like a leaf inside, but I stroll with him like we’re two lovers in Central Park.
I ease down onto the edge of the sofa, feet on the ground, ready to bolt. He goes back to the desk and reads that paper about Better than Arsenic.
As calm as telling a lie to Daddy, I say, “What are you reading about? I thought you knew how to do this stuff.”
He glances up and there’s this little look in his eye. It’s my Daddy’s look, like he discovered this little secret and it twinkles right in the corner of his eye. Like he knows what I been up to and he is gonna . . . definitely, definitely make me suffer. Twinges start in my belly: Daddy’s favorite punch.
The twinkle in his eye vanishes. Maybe it was never there.
“Oh,” he says, “I have just received new materials from Brazil and it is . . . ah . . . complicato. I want to make sure I get the mixture correct.”
He reads more.
Time to haul my milk-sticky ta-tas outta here. I guarantee I can be through that sliding door before he ever reaches this sofa. I lean forward, like I’m concentrating on his words. My legs tense. How far is the next house? Running on that dirt road barefooted is gonna hurt.
He looks up at me like a John who got a peep under a skirt. “It is extremely unusual the way arsenic changes glass into all the colors of the rainbow. Really quite beautiful.”
My legs quiver. “Arsenic? Huh. That’s poison, ain’t it?”
“Mixed in the glass there is no danger. However, the colors it creates are truly lovely. And this new formulation from Brazil is,” he kisses his fingertips, “magnifico.”
My legs relax a bit. “Huh. You do know a lot about this stuff.”
“Yes. I have many years of practice and everyone wants my pieces.”
He stands quickly and strides over to a glass oven. I freeze like a rabbit seeing a fox.
Now he takes a long hollow metal pole and opens the oven door. The heat whooshes at me, fluttering the tee shirt over my stomach and warming the milk on my chest. Nice.
He catches a slotch of orange molten glass on the end of the pole and takes it out, closes the oven and moves towards me, sitting on a stool. He lays the pole on a rail between us, the molten glob two feet from my right eye. My neck scar warms and I lean back. He rolls and twists the pole over the rail left and right while he puffs and blows into the end. The glob expands and loses it orange glow.
His muscles flex and flow as he twirls and puffs and smiles. God this is sexy. The pulse in my temples vibrates like Grandma’s viola hitting low G.
He concentrates on his work between glances. I ease the tee shirt down over one shoulder and cross a leg. The secret to a good tease is just to the edge. Skin, but nothing illegal.
For a minute, he puffs and turns the pole faster. Then he frowns and looks away and slows down—serious. Is he pissed I teased him?
He lifts the rod and turns and lays it on two kissing metal balls in front of the shimmering orange donut hole. He slides the rod over the balls, in and out of the oven, twisting it, heating the glass back to orange, bending over and showing me his nice ass. My chest and head throb and I squeeze my crossed legs tight. Should I run away or grab his buns?
He pulls the glass out of the oven, leaving the rod on the two balls, twirling it with one hand while the other grabs ten-inch long, needle-sharp tongs. Jesus, he could stick those suckers right through me. Pin me to the sofa like a cockroach.
He flips the rod back to the rail between us. I almost jump off the sofa. He glances at my flinch and calmly rolls the rod left and right and pinches and shapes the neck of glass with those ice-pick tongs, two feet from my eyes. My chest tightens. He turns the tongs over, and squeezes the U handle around the neck, thinning it out. He catches my eye and carefully sets the tongs down. One very taught string in my chest relaxes. He lifts the rod and moves it back to the red-hot donut hole repeating the in and out heating.
The sofa feels less like a pin cushion, and my legs less like a nervous grasshopper. But I’m ready to quit this game and go upstairs and heat up the bed.
He lifts the rod back to my rail, and I catch his eyes and blow on my fingers and shake them to give him a hint. Either he doesn’t get it, or he’s a bigger tease than me, but he doesn’t hurry at all. He rolls the glass and puffs in the tube, cool as a pool shark. His gaze bounces between glass and me, studious mixed with . . . doubt?
My stomach drops a foot. Does he suspect me?
Sweat oils his arms, outlining each muscle. His athletic body and chiseled face are not the fat, ugliness of Menotti. And now the dark eyes and full lips no longer doubt, but are resigned, a slight smile.
He lifts the rod to a bench on my right and shapes it inside a wooden bowl on a handle until it is a perfect sphere. Then he holds the glass in front of me, his face softer. He wants my approval. It looks like a beautiful glass balloon, a larger version of the clown’s on his shelf. His gaze speaks now of kindness and love. What a nice man. Maybe I should forget my plans. But, the money . . . .
Under the stool he takes out a hose and fits it into the end of the pole. “This is the new Brazilian method. The compressor pumps in a gas mixture that changes the color of the glass from the inside out.”
He squeezes the valve on the hose while rotating the pole on the rail in front of me and the glass balloon gradually grows larger and changes from a sort of gray-black to orange and red and yellow and all the colors of the rainbow.
I can’t help myself squeaking like a little girl. “Oh my Gawd! That is so beautiful.”
He turns off the hose and quickly covers the end of the pole with a rubber cap, like he doesn’t want the gas to escape. He sets the glass balloon onto a thick pad, then deftly taps and breaks the glass balloon from the end of the pole, simultaneously placing a dollop of hot orange glass onto the puckered end. That precious Brazilian gas will not leak out of the balloon.
He shapes the cooling orange dollop to look exactly like the lip and neck of a balloon. What a wonderful creation. Quite an artist. Using padded tongs, he cradles the pretty rainbow balloon and sets it gently inside a padded, thick-walled cabinet and closes the door.
“OK,” he says, “It will cool.” He holds out his hand, and though his smile and eyes seem loving, I sense a deep tension. We walk upstairs.
I will be back. Gotta find the safe.
Three
Angelo
Blue rolls the gurney with Jillian’s body out the door to the van. I stare at the closed body bag beside the bed—Angelo’s body. Why was he handcuffed and still fully clothed? He should have been naked once she’d finished with him.
Blue rolls the empty gurney back in the front door, one wheel diddling. “You OK, Detective? You look a bit confused.”
I’m touched. Blue is concerned.
“Nothing unusual, right?”
A Cheshire grin covers Blue’s face. We lift Angelo and plop him on the gurney: dead weight of a dead murderer. Fitting end. Blue rolls the wobbling gurney out the front door.
If Cutter finds out I withheld, he won’t trust me anymore. I stride after Blue to tell him my suspicions.
Those tiny pieces of glass on the floor blink in the sunlight like on the floor where I found Angelo’s Uncle Rico. Angelo took over the family business as a glassblower. Exceptional, too. Young, rich, and famous, at least around here.
How the hell did he kill her?
***
My beautiful casa in the foothills is a perfect place for glassblowing. A late afternoon storm thunders close outside, reminding me of Jillian. She seemed like she cared so much. Not like the others. She loved my glass pieces and thought I was . . . an amazing artist.
What a liar.
Out the open kitchen window I see the dirt road that disappears around the distant hill. We buried Uncle Rico out there, the bastard. Heat shimmers off the rolling hills north of Carter Lake, tan dirt pocked with green sage and pines. Most people turn on air conditioners in August. But I like it hot—dry heat, like my glass furnaces.
The black-bellied thunderstorm flashes and booms, closer. The wind sings through the screen, wafting the smell of wet dust. Curtains of rain are coming to clean and cool the air. What a shame I cannot share this with her.
Closing the window, I walk downstairs. It’s cooler except close to the furnaces.
I learned glassblowing from Uncle Rico half a lifetime ago when we first came to Colorado. His pieces were beautiful, direct descendants of our Venetian masters. Lovely individuality that attracted many buyers out here where blown glass was a novelty. Beauty and novelty extracts money from the wealthy, or from tourists: fools all, and many.
Uncle showed me how to judge the heat of molten glass by color and flexibility, and to blow small mouth-puffs; to twirl the hot glass just so on the end of the blow pipe; to gently touch the hot glass to the thick metal slab, the marver. It absorbs the heat and cools the glass into the preferred shape.
He taught me well. My pieces surpassed his and brought in more money.
He should not have tried to get rid of me.
On the work table, children’s trinkets sparkle: frogs, horses, pigs, stars, moons—not blown art, merely burnt ends, all from waste pieces—what children deserve.
Such a waste that I must . . . The heat from the furnace shimmers like Jillian that night, naked under my tee shirt, smiling and teasing. So beautiful. She could have been the one.
Should have known at the party when she was with that damn cop. O.J. There’s a pinching in my brain, like a swarm of hungry ants. O.J. kept poking around after Uncle’s death. Damn cop and a nosy bitch.
Breathe in. Breath out.
There are many more beautiful women. Breathe in. Out.
Look at all my creations. Beautiful. The pinching stops. A part of me is inside each glass piece. My breath of life applied gently into molten earth—sand—one grain can scratch an eye, but I mold it and create a piece of art.
Just by breathing.
Add gas and it all melds with the glass, weaving a beautiful web.
Jillian’s balloons carry a bubble more dangerous than any black widow.
Her finished gift shimmers on the table. Thin strands of metal attached to the wooden pedestal, stick up and connect to the balloons, like they are floating in air. The sun streams in from the window and refracts each balloon differently. The colors. Cristo!
She could have been the one.
I have found it is truly amazing the people you meet in this world who will help you achieve your goals. All you need do is be open to opportunities at all times.
I met a man once, down and out, a crack addict, a genius tossed out of Rocky Mountain Arsenal. He needed crack; I needed help with thermodynamics of gas and chemistry of glass and organophosphates. I learned quickly. He didn’t. Poor man was too stoned to avoid that train.
A clap of thunder shakes the house and rain pelts the sliding door upstairs in a rapidly accelerating and crescendo staccato. With a small file, I make a precise 3mm long groove on the underside of one balloon. Very gentle. Don’t break through. I grab the pedestal and gingerly carry the gift upstairs.
If only she had stayed asleep instead of wandering around the first night. God I had hoped, yet even then sensed her untrue heart.
I gingerly set the balloons on the kitchen table and with a clean damp dishtowel wipe the top, sides, and bottom—every centimeter of balloon and base. Pristine.
The storm flows outside, the leading curtain still visible, big drops puffing dust between the sages. The pine trees bend in the wind, a watery sheen on their trunks. A moment later all is lost. The torrent clouds any view.
That night my view of Jillian had been clouded by too much wine and her exquisite body. I grip a fist and want to pound the counter, but it might break the balloons. I have been waiting so long for a woman like her. Mother pawned me off on Uncle. Uncle hated me.
Jillian’s second visit revealed the truth. The hidden camera took the video of her angelic face erupting in joy at finding the safe under the stairs. She never cared about me or my art. All lies.
Tonight, pleasure with pleasure. Enjoy her exquisite body then look into her eyes while she dies. I swallow the blue Viagra with a sip of water, dress quickly and drop the red and white capsule in my pocket.
I don white gloves and put the binocular loupe on my head. Using an insulin syringe I bend down and apply a razor thin bead of the clear acrylic glue to the 3mm groove. Thirty seconds to dry and it will begin a slow and precise etching through the glass.
I check my watch: 4:44 p.m. At 5:22 I will crush the antidote capsule in my teeth. At 5:24 the glue will break through and touch the gas. The balloon will explode. The other balloons will shatter releasing their gas. By 5:30 she will be dead, and I will drive home.
I quickly pull the silvery wrapping paper over the top of the balloons and tie a gold bow at the base. Very carefully, I carry it out the garage door and place it on the front passenger seat of my black Volvo sedan. My chest pounds. I will watch her die for her lies. Fantastico. The air is cool, clean and new as the night. It is 4:48. Twelve minutes to drive to her apartment.
While I drive, I hold onto the base of the balloons with one hand. An art delivery truck from a local gallery completely blocks the road. I gradually slow and stop.
My watch reads 4:54. A minute ticks by. The truck does not move. A car is behind me. I can’t back up. My face becomes hot, my arms tense.
Still holding the base of the balloons, I gently ease right, bump slowly up the curb, around the front of the truck, onto a lawn, then bump back down off the curb. It is 4:57. Sweat seeps down my back.
I park in the cul-de-sac in front of her apartment and rush the present to her front door. 5:02: Two minutes late.
She opens the door wearing a tight red dress and stiletto heels. Her eyebrows go up at my gift delivered with white gloves.
“For me?”
I nod.
She takes it to the kitchen counter, pulls the bow and yanks off the bag. My heart jumps, but no balloons break. She squeaks in delight, and then sighs. “Oh, that’s so gorgeous. All those pretty balloons. You made those for me?” Her New York accent and false sincerity—what a bitch.
I try to be calm. “I am your servant, cara mia. You liked the one I made that first night, so I made more.”
I glance at my watch. Everything depends upon the glass. Precise, ticking, time bombs.
Each balloon shines a different color in sunlight through the kitchen window. The vision fills me to the brim. So exquisite.
The red digital clock on the kitchen wall matches my watch, 5:04.
I excuse myself and walk to the bathroom across the hall, close the door and look in the mirror. Did she notice the sweat on my upper lip? The hair on my neck tingles. I take off the gloves, wash my face, towel dry and look at my reflection. All will be right in twenty minutes.
I put the gloves back on and flush the toilet for effect. Breathe in. Out.
I open the door. “We should have a little fun before we leave. A tribute to the balloons.”
She gets that sexy look in her eye—adds to the hot red dress, high and tight on her ass.
“Oh yeah.” She points to the bedroom. “Why don’t you go in there? I’ll be right back.”
I walk quickly down the hall and sit on the bed. Her stilettos tap-tap to the front, the deadbolt clacks, and she tap-taps into the bedroom, hips swaying. She flicks on the stereo. The music is low and she starts dancing. I am so hard it aches. She dances and I watch . . .
No! The clock on her bedside table reads 5:08. Fourteen minutes.
Mirrors everywhere show her gyrating, the red dress barely covering every curve.
My finger touches the antidote capsule in my pocket. Too early.
The clock reads 5:12.
Enough! I get up and walk to the bed and grab her by the shoulders.
Four
Justice
Oh my Gawd, are those balloons beautiful. And when he wants to make love . . . Reminds me of the end of Pretty Women. Though the white gloves are weird.
I found the combo to his safe in another drawer, and boy is he loaded. Even more than Menotti. I also brought his nitro. But now . . . I don’t want to use it.
Angelo is creepy but what a beautiful gift. That cop O.J. probably knows about Menotti with the nitro and Viagra. They’ll never prove I gave him Viagra. But Menotti deserved to die. Angelo doesn’t.
The thing about an artiste is you have to study your audience. You can tell when they’re ready for the main event. And boy is he ready.
I time it perfectly. He grabs me, and I twist and pull him onto the bed and snap both cuffs onto his wrists, chain around the head rail. Antique brass beds are so pretty. Good for cuffs, too.
He’s wide eyed, pulling at the cuffs and breathing fast.
“Don’t worry, Doll,” I say. “I’m not gonna hurt ya. This is gonna blow your mind.”
***
When she handcuffs me to the head rail I cannot speak. She was too quick. There is no way I can get to the antidote capsule. My heart pounds so fast I feel it might burst. I can hardly catch my breath.
The clock on the nightstand reads: 5:16. Six minutes.
She straightens out her dress, smooths her hair, and says, “So, Doll, did you take the Viagra?”
“What?”
“You know, Viagra. Did you take one tonight?”
She knows I need a little extra. So what? I must get out of these cuffs. “Yes.” It’s a frog’s croak.
“Of course you did. Wait a sec.” She grabs her small red purse. “I’ll be right back.”
The clock seems a foot tall: 5:19. How can that be? Three minutes!
Then I look at my watch: 5:22. Her nightstand clock is three minutes slow. I yank at the cuffs, try to force them down the rail to get a hand in my pocket. I must take the antidote.
I can’t reach it.
She walks to the bathroom door and opens it.
“Wait! Release me. Please!” I don’t yell loudly. That would draw attention from neighbors.
“I’ll be right back, Doll.”
That gravelly voice and her look—it is so sexy. “Jillian!”
She disappears into the bathroom. I feel dizzy.
***
Jillian closes the door to the bathroom and looks in the mirror, dabs her little finger on the corner of her mouth, thinking, Why does he keep looking at the clock?
Doesn’t matter. Get to his safe and head for Mexico. Girlfriend, we are going to have so much fun.
I flush the nitroglycerin pills down the toilet. I flush it again and put the empty bottle in my purse. Angelo doesn’t deserve to die. He’s nothing like Menotti. I unroll a big wad of TP and pull the duct tape from my purse.
There is a sound in the next room—almost like a gunshot through a window.
“Please, Jillian.”
I run in the room. He looks dead, head lolling down. No! Not again.
His head pops up, eyes bulging, and he yanks on the cuffs, shaking the bed. “The key!”
“Sorry, Doll. Gotta run.” I strip off a slotch of duct tape, cram the wad of TP in his mouth and wrap the tape over it.
He frowns.
I wink at him. “We had fun.”
I’m gettin dizzy and my eyes are watering . . .
Need a drink of water . . .
Can’t move my legs . . .
I collapse on the floor next to him and look in the kitchen. There are strings, but no more beautiful balloons. I want to cry.
***
Blue is about to get into the van when I whisper, “Look for nitroglycerin and Viagra in the blood.”
He smiles. “Oh yeah. Didn’t I mention. Empty bottle of nitro pills in her purse.”
“She had a purse?”
He shrugs.
I want to kick his ass, but I’m so happy I’m right. Cutter will find out Angelo has a heart condition. Younger than Menotti in Biloxi, but still a rich Italian with a bad heart ready to croak with kinky sex. Viagra and nitro would do it.
***
Two weeks later, and I’m feeling pretty good. Paki has an airtight alibi. No other keys found. No prints in the place but Paki’s, Jillian’s and Angelo’s. Jillian’s and Angelo’s cars and their phones revealed nothing.
Then I get Cutter’s report: Viagra, yes. Nitro, no. Heart attack, yes. On top of a valve heart defect.
But no nitro.
Blue was right. The capsule was homemade, had a pinhole weak spot so biting would squirt the contents under your tongue. Inside was an herbal solution CBI in Denver had never seen, though similar, they said, to atropine. Maybe something for his heart. Gas chromatograph from CBI on Jillian’s blood: negative, nada, not even alcohol.
Cutter said the wry grin on Jillian’s face reminded him of neurotoxins they studied in the war. My ass. She was laughing at killing Angelo. Just like the Menotti MO. Viagra—Nitro—heart attack—DOA. No nitro—minor detail. She did it.
Maybe my dream of that smiling bitch and her rotting kids would finally fade.
The station girls swooned over Angelo, a kind, rich guy saving the poor stripper. Kinda like that Pretty Women movie.
Oh, hell no.
First, nobody saved nobody.
Second, Angelo was no good guy. He hated competition, and despised nosy people. He made that crystal clear in my investigation of Uncle Rico’s murder.
And third, she wasn’t no What’s Her Name, though she did have great legs. She killed rich guys after luring them in.
I knew it was her when Dana told me—hair dressers get all the info—that her new client Jillian had a Brooklyn accent and an ugly scar on her neck and gave great tips. Just moved up from Mississippi, too.
I saw Jillian at the party and bingo: knew just the guy to hook her up with. They had the same . . . moral propensities. She was just like that murdering bitch in the Delta. A perfect match for Angelo.
Doesn’t really matter how they did it. She did him. He did her. Game over. My plan worked, and they did my job for me. I was hoping one might kill the other. But both? Now that’s real justice.
It’s truly amazing how different types of people can help you achieve your goals. A man must be open to opportunities at all times.
Yet, my chest feels hollow.
That night I’m sitting in Russell’s having my fourth cold Fat Tire. My lips are starting to buzz. The band plays a quiet love song and couples do a slow dance around the wood floor. Maybe I should call Dana. She might take me back and we could go to the bull ride.
My phone rings. Caller ID is my detective buddy from New Orleans. “Hey, Jude,” he says. “How’s it hangin?” I want to hit End and call Dana.
We shoot the shit for a minute. There’s a long pause and he says, “I called to give you a little follow-up on Jillian Jones, AKA Karin Jones, you asked about last month.”
“Yeah.” I start to tell him not to worry, but I don’t.
“We were wrong. Turns out she was just trying to help Menotti. She thought he was having a heart attack and gave him a nitro. She had no way of knowing he’d taken Viagra. Menotti got it from a friend. Young guy like Menotti . . . who would’ve thought he needed Viagra?”
“Who would’ve thought?” My words are soft. A couple on the dance floor stares at me. They start to look like wavy lines.
“Guess we hammered her a little hard. She did us a favor. Menotti was a mob hit man and beat some women to a pulp. Real jerk. Lucky as hell she got out alive. You know, she was a cute kid. Probably got away with a ton of money, but only a thief, no murderer. And it was Menotti’s money, so who cares.”
“Who cares? Yeah.”
“You OK, Jude?”
“Sure. Never better. Listen, I’ll talk to you later.” I kill the connection before he can say another damn word.
Innocent until proven guilty. Didn’t fool me, did she?
The room gets real small and I can’t breathe.
I close my eyes and force slow breaths. I think of the glass at the scene, and justice. Both beautiful but broken so easily.
I motion the waiter over. “Two doubles of Jack.”
Bio: Milt Mays was winner of the Paul Gillette Writers Award in 2011 for suspense genre. He grew up in Colorado, graduated from the Naval Academy and traveled the world as a Navy doctor. He’s published suspense novels, literary short stories, and an irreverent illustrated poem. His website is www.miltmays.com.
