Suppressing a shiver, Dash left the club with the name of a possible murderer in his pocket—and a possible murderess watching him leave.
Thursday morning found Dash watching the light slowly illuminate the cramped bedroom. He hadn’t been able to sleep at all. Two men, former lovers, murdered at almost the exact same time. Perhaps even the same night.
Who could’ve killed them? Walter?
It wasn’t outside the range of possibility, given his rage at the queer sex. Dash could easily picture Walter pushing his way into Tyler’s apartment and seeing Karl there. Enraged, he strikes Tyler on the head with the ashtray, chases his brother into another room, and strangles him to death.
But why move the bodies to two different places? An alleyway for one, Central Park for another seemed such an odd choice for a murderer to make. Not to mention the Park was a trek from the Shelton. Even in the dead of night, Walter would’ve been seen by someone.
Maybe they were killed in separate places?
That seemed more likely.
But if Walter had killed Tyler Smith, then why send Dash and Joe to visit him? That part didn’t add up. Unless Walter had struck him down in not only a moral rage but a drunken one. Monday night, when Tyler’s body was found, he was a slurring and cursing mess in front of Hartford & Sons before he blackmailed Dash and his friends. Perhaps he killed Tyler Smith and quite simply didn’t remember it. An ashtray as a weapon seemed to Dash to be a spontaneous choice, something selected during an alcohol-induced argument.
Dash could figure Walter for Tyler. But what about Karl? If Walter was responsible for his brother’s death, why the obsession with Miss Avery? Walter had said it was Karl who had something Miss Avery needed, but what if he lied? What if it was the other way around, that Miss Avery had something that Karl or, closer to the truth, Walter needed?
And what, if at all, did the murders of Tyler Smith and Karl Müller have to do with Prudence Meyers and her case?
Dash sighed. Zora Mae inspired more questions instead of providing more answers. And tonight, he had to go back to Walter’s apartment and give that horrible man information he frankly didn’t have.
Joe was still snoring on the cot, having lost the coin toss and having drunk too much whiskey to fight over the bed.
How unfortunate, Dash thought. When Joe was conscious again, he’d tell him about Paul Avery and what happened to the real Tyler Smith.
Frustrated, he got himself ready for the day, dressing in a three-button dark navy pinstripe suit with white shirt and turquoise tie. Starving, he briskly walked to West Fourth and opened the door to the Greenwich Village Inn, immediately regretting it.
The bloated globe of Cullen McElroy stood at the bar, waiting for Emmett to pay him his “donation.”
Dash cursed under his breath. Monday was his bribery day; Thursday was Emmett’s. Usually McElroy stopped by earlier, but he was apparently running late today.
The odious man turned and smiled, his teeth a nauseating quilt of gray and yellow. “Ah, Mr. Parker. Fancy seeing you here.”
Other than Emmett and McElroy, the only other witnesses to police corruption were the three Ex-Pat Wall Street traders. They sat in the back corners, trying to blend in with the shadows.
Dash took a deep breath. “Mr. McElroy—excuse me—Officer McElroy.”
McElroy chuckled. “You’re learning. That’s good, Mr. Parker.”
He flashed a look towards Emmett, who had his back turned and was counting out money from the cash register. Even from the back, he looked pouty and sullen. Not that Dash could blame him.
“Perhaps you can teach grandpa here how to show the proper respect.”
Emmett replied, “I was taught respect was earned.”
He turned around and re-counted the bills on the wood bar.
McElroy’s eyes shifted from Dash to Emmett. “I haven’t shut you down, have I? For your politically radical clientele. I think that’s earning not just respect but gratitude.”
He held out his fat hand.
Emmett left the bills on the bar.
The two stared at one another, both not willing to budge. A queasiness sickened Dash’s stomach. While Emmett’s insubordination was admirable, it could lead to violence or arrest or both. Whether they liked it or not, the police had the upper hand.
McElroy considered his response and opted for the easy way out. He smirked as he slid the money from the bar into his meaty hand. He pointed a stubby finger at the white-haired man.
“One of these days, grandpa, I’m gonna lose my temper. And I won’t be responsible for my actions.”
Emmett’s snowy brow remained fixed in a frown. “I’ve lived through worse than you.”
Another chuckle. “So you say, grandpa, so you say.” He glanced at Dash. “See you next week, Mr. Parker.” He nodded to The Ex-Pats sitting in the back corners. “Good afternoon, mutes.”
All eyes were on the officer until he strolled out of the Inn.
“Jesus,” hissed Emmett.
Dash looked at him. “You can’t antagonize him like that, Emmett. He could really hurt you. At the very least, he can put you out of business.”
Emmett waved him off, irritated. “I can’t stand having to suck up to him. Who does he think he is?”
“The law, unfortunately.”
“About time we changed that. The usual?”
Dash nodded as he pulled out a barstool and settled himself at the bar.
While Emmett set about making his sandwich, he said, “Emmett? You read the news every day, right?”
A raspy voice from behind Dash replied, “Multiple times a day.”
A higher tenor voice added, “Multiple papers a day.”
A granite bass voice finished the triad chord with, “Got a memory like a steel trap about every story too.”
Dash turned around to see The Ex-Pats staring at him. “They speak,” he said.
Emmett asked, “Why do you ask?”
Dash swung back around to face the bar. “Do you remember a few days ago, let’s say Monday or Tuesday, reading a story about a body found behind the Shelton Hotel?”
Dash wanted
