Deadly Beloved

NINE

In the conference area in my office, next morning, I sat in the leather chair, every bit the boss in a burgundy Ann Taylor pantsuit, while Dan Green, perched on the edge of the couch, reported. He wore a taupe corduroy sportcoat with a lavender shirt and gray/cream striped tie with blue jeans—typical Dan, casual but professional.

“The condo above Addwatter’s,” he said, demonstrating with open palms, “is empty. Has been for months. Tenants away in Europe.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Really empty?”

“Officially empty.”

“So there are signs of life up there?”

He nodded. “Looked very much lived in—food in the fridge, wastebaskets with trash, recent magazines, newspapers....”

“Not a sublet?”

Dan shook his head. “Squatters.”

“Any sign of surveillance?”

“No electronic trail, not that I could find, anyway.” He made a face. “Might wanna bring a tech in.”

“No, I’m sold. Good job.”

“Thanks.”

“Anyway, I’m going to whisper in Rafe Valer’s ear about this.”

Dan’s eyes narrowed. “He may already know about it.”

“I don’t think so, or he’d have shared it. On this case, where we’re concerned, this is one time he’s not playing ’em close to his vest. Not now, anyway.”

“Okay.”

“And he can put his people on that condo building. That’s not the type of place where just anybody can roll into an empty apartment and make themselves at home.”

“Yeah. Palms got greased. Hey, it’s Chicago.”

“Right. And we’ll let Rafe work on which Chicago palms got greased. Speaking of Rafe, have you had a chance to look at his Event Planner files?”

He rolled his eyes. “Till my head swims. That guy is thorough. Look up ‘anal retentive’ in Webster’s and you’ll see Lt. Valer’s picture. Ms. Tree, are we really gonna re-open eight cold cases?”

“They’re worse than cold—they’re solved. Written off.”

He just sat there giving me a look.

“What?” I asked.

“What is it with you and lost causes? This agency is supposed to be a going concern.”

I locked eyes with him. “This lost cause is our lost cause, Dan—if Rafe is right, his Event Planner set up both Mike’s murder and the murders our client looks responsible for.”

He held up a hand. “You’re right. I’m wrong. I apologize.”

Now I gave him a look. A suspicious one.

“And?” I prompted.

He sat forward, urgency tightening that handsome baby face of his, wispy mustache bristling. “Will you please listen and bring Roger back into the fold? With his contacts, and knowledge about Mike’s old cases, we can really use him.”

I shifted in my chair. “Oh, did I mention I’ve got Bea out working on Holly Jackson’s background? There’s a temp coming in, a little blonde named Effie Something, to handle reception and secretarial. Make her feel at home, would you?...but not too at home.”

“Holly Jackson?”

“She’s the other murder victim, remember? The hooker in the motel room.”

Dan grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, well, don’t I feel right on top of this case about now.”

I waved it off. “It’s all right. We each need to focus on a specific area, and Bea’s been begging to get out into the field.”

“Great. She’s smart and has solid police credentials. But, Ms. Tree, she’s no Roger.”

“What I want you to do,” I said, getting up, “is hit your computer, see how many of these murders and accidents can be directly, or even indirectly, linked to Muerta Enterprises.”

Exasperated, Dan rose as well, saying, “Ms. Tree, Roger’s forgotten more about the Muertas than anybody else on this planet ever knew, us included, and—”

“I’ll talk to him.”

Dan seemed about to press on with his argument when my words finally registered and he smiled in pleasant surprise.

I gave him a schoolmarm’s pointing finger. “Get right on top of how many unfortunate ‘events’ benefited the Muertas...capeesh?”

“Capeesh!”

Chipper, Dan headed past me.

“That’s what I like about bein’ a 21st Century P.I.,” he was saying. “Ten years ago, shoe leather. Today— Google.”

“Refresh my memory, Ms. Tree,” the psychiatrist said. “This Roger—that’s Roger Freemont, your husband’s other partner?”

“That’s right,” I said. “He was Mike’s partner on the PD for a while, and one of the original partners in the Tree Agency.”

“And he’s the one who...”

“Who left the business when I took over. Yes.”

The pen scratched on paper. “I see.”

“Roger was Mike’s sarge back in Desert Storm days.”

“Yes. I recall.”

I glanced over at him. “...It hit the fan that very first Monday, after Mike’s murder....”

That was my first time seated behind Mike’s desk.

In retrospect, I wondered if that hadn’t added fuel to the fire. The day outside the window at my back was overcast, and Roger’s mood was surly.

He and Dan were seated in the clients’ chairs opposite. Bald, bespectacled Roger was in a black suit with a white shirt and a dark blue tie; he might have been a funeral director. Dan was in shades of tan from sportcoat to shirt-and-tie to shoes, as if he wanted to blend into the woodwork in this overtly masculine office.

Roger was saying, “All due respect, Mrs. Tree—”

“I prefer ‘Ms.,’ ” I said.

His eyes widened. “You choose some silly feminist, what? Affectation? Over honoring your husband?”

“No. I like the pun. Ms. Tree—mystery. Get it?”

“Cute,” Roger said, with a tiny sneer. “Almost as cute as your way of mourning. Body isn’t even cold and you’re already in Mike’s chair.”

“Well, the chair’s still warm.” My stare was pointed. “Roger, what is your problem? Besides your not liking me, and me being a dickless dick, that is.”

He shook his head. “Not a matter of liking. And I couldn’t care less what you pack between your legs. Point is, I’m a full partner in this business—one third Mike, one third Dan, one third you....”

But Dan surprised me and popped out of the woodwork to say, “Your math sucks, Roge. Ms. Tree here is also a full partner—twenty-five, twenty-five, twenty-five, twenty-five. Which with the old boss dead and his wife inheriting? Adds up to fifty percent new boss.”

I wasn’t sure I was reading Dan right. I got his eyes and asked, “Any problem with how that totals up?”

Dan shifted in his chair and sat forward. He wasn’t quite smiling. “No. You’re smart and attractive—you’ll put