The Corpse Wore Stilettos Page 9

  I hung up before he could finish. My hands shook. I forced myself to get up, despite wanting to hide under the covers. The man with the eerie grin was crazy. And he knew my phone number. I needed to get moving to take my mind off of it. I had a plan to execute.

  LAST YEAR, THE COUNTY passed a no-smoking ordinance. Now, all the nicotine junkies could be found across the street at Marley’s. In addition to dying of lung cancer and smelling like humidor refugees, hospital employees who smoked would now also come to work half sauced.

  I took a deep breath before entering. Marley’s was not a place people went for the atmosphere. Grime caked the bar top. An aroma of puke and whisky wafted through the place. The food was lousy and the drinks watered down. But at noon on a Tuesday, the place puffed like a chimney. I tried to make my way through the puff cloud to find Marshall Traupe.

  Marshall was an unctuous rat. He had no redeeming characteristics whatsoever. He used people at every opportunity and would take great delight in my owing him a favor. As the hospital gossip, though, he was also the person most likely to know who the morgue rat would be. And he would tell me—for a price.

  “Sugar lips,” he said in a muddle as he watched me approach and tried sucking on his straw. “I hear you had quite the busy evening.”

  “Stuff it, Marshall.”

  “Now, babe, is that any way to talk to Uncle Marshall?”

  Marshall was an overweight thirtysomething know-it-all. In school, he wouldn’t have been the kid anyone felt sorry for because he got picked on all the time but the kid everyone hoped would get beaten up the next time he opened his yap. He had greasy slicked-back hair, and he always smelled like french fries.

  “I need some information.” I looked down at him in the booth, contemplating whether my health could handle my sitting down in the filth.

  “Babe, you’re talking to me that way and you need something from Uncle Marshall? Well, now, you might want to reconsider your approach here.” He stuffed a french fry in his mouth.

  When speaking to women, he referred to himself in the third person, as “Uncle Marshall,” not realizing that women instantly classified him as the creepy uncle. Marshall was the only person I’d ever met who could make the word “babe” sound completely and totally disgusting. But he had a point. I needed his help.

  Putting on my happy face, I tried again. “Okay, Marshall, would you mind terribly giving me some information?” I slid into the booth.

  “See how much better that is when you’re pleasant,” he said and moved to put his arm around me.

  “I am trying to be pleasant, but I swear to God, if you lay one finger on me, I will flatten you. I have three years of self-defense training, and I’m not afraid to use it.” I flashed my best smile, stopping him in his tracks.

  “Since you put it that way, I might be able to help you out. What kind of information are you looking for?”

  “You’re aware of my troubles last night?”

  “Babe, you’d be hard-pressed to find someone here not aware.”

  “Someone at the morgue set me up.” I picked at the basket of french fries. They would be murder on my complexion, but I hadn’t eaten since before the incident.

  Marshall smiled. “Gee, I can’t imagine who would want to do that.” Grease squirted down his chin as he stuffed more fries in his face while talking.

  “Never mind.” I stood up. “I knew this was a mistake.”

  As I turned to go, Marshall grabbed my arm. I glared, and he dropped it.

  “Babe. I was just having some fun. There’s no reason to get all testy.” He motioned me back into the booth. “Why do you think someone from the morgue was involved?”

  “Someone called in a tip to Dr. Hawthorne’s private number, implicating me in the body heist. So it had to be someone who, one, knew Dr. Hawthorne’s private number, and two, who knew I’d be covering for DC last night. Only someone from the morgue would know those things. Plus, as you have so astutely pointed out, I am not exactly well-liked by my coworkers.” I picked up a cold fry and stuffed it in my mouth, letting the salty goodness soothe my ego.

  “I can think of nothing I’d rather do than help out such a lovely lady as yourself.” Marshall took a napkin from a pile in front of him and wiped his chin.

  “Really?” I cocked my head cautiously.

  “For a trade, of course.” He put the napkin over the fries, putting me out of my grease- craving misery.

  “What do you want?”

  “A bowling partner.”

  “What?”

  “This guy I went to high school with bet me that I couldn’t get a chick to be my partner for our mixed doubles league. I need a babe to escort me on Thursday nights,” Marshall said.

  In St. Louis, you knew you were talking to a local if they asked you where you went to high school within the first five minutes of the conversation. “Bowling?”

  “Yeah, the little red-and-blue shoes and the ball that knocks down the pins. A small price to pay for my wealth of information.”

  “For how long?”

  “Six weeks.”

  “Six weeks? Are you nuts? I’ll find the rat myself,” I said and started to get up.

  “All right, all right. You only have to show up for the first two nights so that I win the bet. After that, I’ll find someone else who wants some of this,” he said, lifting his shirt and making me want to vomit.

  “Fine, now how much do you know about our coworkers?”

  The half-drunk man next to me had decided I needed to breathe in as much smoke from his cigar as he did, making my stomach churn.

  “I need to put some feelers out to make sure I’m giving you the best info. But for starters, you should take a look at Dr. Smarty-Pants Jaffe.”

  “You’re just saying that because he always busts your chops.”

  “Babe, I have more integrity than that.” He sucked up the last sip from his glass with a loud, obnoxious slurping sound.

  I stared at him.

  “Well, okay, I don’t really. But I’m telling you, word on the street is that the cranky doctor has a gambling problem. And it’s no secret that the one person in the morgue he likes less than me is...” Folding his hands into guns, he pretend-fired them at me.

  “That’s true, I suppose. What about anyone else?”

  “I’ll have to tap into the power of my extensive network,” he said. “Aren’t you glad you had someone like Uncle Marshall you could come to, babe?” He flexed his fingers then tried to put his arm around me.

  “You won’t be able to bowl with a broken arm,” I said.

  He stopped midflight. I pushed the drunken man off me and turned to go. At least I was leaving with a lead. I knew there was something more going on with Dr. Cranky than just a lack of sleep.

  “So, Thursday at six. I’ll pick you up,” Marshall shouted as I pushed the door open and let my lungs re-expand. “And wear something sexy!”

  I emerged from the smoking chimney a little green and gasping for air. The blooming trees presented a sharp contrast to the death-inducing cancer palace behind me.

  Sitting on a bench, I mulled over Dr. Jaffe’s gambling problem. At first I thought he didn’t like me just because he was an overworked, sleep-deprived intern. Strange things happen to the human body when it is deprived of sleep. But he was always questioning me about things. “What’s the name of this artery? How does this piece of anatomy connect to that?” He didn’t do it with the other attendants, only me. I felt like he was on a mission to perpetually make me feel out of place and incompetent and get me fired.

  I had no idea how I would get him to talk about his gambling problem, or whether he was the one who ratted me out. I needed a plan to prove Dr. Jaffe was the one who’d set me up.

  Lost in thought but feeling like I could breathe again, I headed for the parking lot between Marley’s and the hospital. That was where I saw Henry. Arguing with a woman.

  I ducked down between the cars to see if I could get closer. Th
e parking lot was a maze from that angle. I peered at their feet. The woman wore a pair of ugly brown Mary Janes, which instantly set off warning bells. I’d never known anyone pleasant in brown Mary Janes. Henry nervously drew shapes into the gravel parking lot with his sensible brown loafers.

  After maneuvering through the various vehicles, I perched behind a rusted El Camino. Part car, part truck, it was the equivalent of a car mullet, but luckily it was long bodied while not very high in the air, giving me a good view of the two arguing.

  The woman wore a tight button-down peach cardigan over a tight black pencil skirt. Even though she had a slender physique, she looked as though she might burst out of her outfit in any number of places. She had full, flyaway golden hair, and her accessories included wire-framed librarian glasses and an ugly scarf.

  The woman ripped the scarf from around her neck and draped it over Henry’s arms, trapping him. “We’ve been all through this, Henry. It’s really the only way.” She pulled him into her with the scarf. For a minute, I thought they were going to kiss.

  What? If Henry had a girlfriend, Meg would be crushed.

  “I handled her this time, but I can’t do any more.” Henry ducked under the scarf.

  Handled who? I wondered, and did “this time” refer to me? Remembering the suggestion from the PI for Dummies book, I pulled out my phone and started recording to ensure I caught everything said and to make it easier to go over later.

  “That’s not good enough. Either you take care of business, or I will. You aren’t off the hook here until she’s completely taken care of.”

  “What did she ever do to you?”

  “As I told you before, it’s best for the family.”

  “Family” could have meant the mob.

  Henry stared at the ground and let out a big breath. “I think she’s on to me. She’s starting to ask a lot of questions and has surrounded herself with people.”

  “You’re going to have to find a way to turn the screws, Henry. She has to be stopped. My plan can’t go forward until you’ve taken her out of the picture. Now, do you have my money?”

  “Yes, but this is all I’m going to be able to get for a while. Since yesterday, the morgue has turned into a zoo. Everything is being watched.” He pulled a large stash of cash from his pocket and counted it.

  The woman grabbed the bills, turned on her nasty brown Mary Jane heels, and marched away. She slid into the driver’s seat of a gray sedan.

  Henry stood alone in the parking lot, looking as if he’d lost his best friend. “I made the call. That’s all I’m going to do!” he said to himself, just loud enough for me to hear. He stuffed the remaining bills into his pants and headed across the street to the hospital.

  On the case for only a few hours, I already had more suspects than I knew what to do with. Figuring out which of them was a traitor could prove to be harder than I had anticipated.

  I pulled out the PI for Dummies book and started reading. I needed more skills if I was going to figure this out.

  Chapter 8

  I looked down at the instant swill in the small Styrofoam cup and had a pang of desire for something from a good coffee shop. Usually caffeine helped calm my nerves. Today, I wasn’t sure what to expect on my first day back since the incident, especially now that I was on probation until my hearing. But I couldn’t bring myself to ingest what looked more like murky brown dishwater than coffee. I went to toss it into a trash can on the sidewalk in front of the morgue doors but came to an abrupt stop at the sight of Detective Driscol leaning against the can.

  His unremarkable appearance hadn’t changed since our last encounter, except that he looked a little more disheveled than usual with a partially untucked shirt and wrinkled slacks that looked as though he had slept in them.

  “Nice to see you without your attack pig.” He forced a smile as if to indicate his comment wasn’t serious.

  “A work environment isn’t a good place for her. She has a delicate constitution. Is Detective Lambert with you?”

  “She lets me out on my own on occasion.”

  I blinked at him.

  He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand and sighed. “I had a follow-up meeting with the hospital administration. They mentioned you would be returning to work today. I thought I’d say hello.” He tried another fake smile.

  We both knew his explanation was a bunch of hooey, but he seemed obligated to go through the motions. I, however, had a different agenda for my day and needed him to move along to the real reason he wanted to see me.

  “For a moment, I thought you might be here to accuse me or my family of a new crime we didn’t commit. Thank you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m a bit late already.” I passed by him at a brisk pace and headed for the morgue doors. The click-clack of my heels hitting the concrete echoed under the overhang that ran from the trash can to the morgue door.

  “I heard you went to see McPhee.”

  From the volume of his voice, I could tell he had turned around but hadn’t followed me to the door. I turned to face him but stood my ground. “I don’t suppose I should be surprised that you’re following me.”

  “I make it my business to be informed.” He stood up a little straighter. Better posture didn’t make him look more threatening, but it did relax some of the wrinkles in his trousers.

  “Given that two days ago, you were clinging to the belief that McPhee and I had never even met and that I was, I don’t know, hallucinating his appearance in the morgue, I’m not really inclined to discuss that subject.” I reached for the doorknob.

  “All right. I’m sorry.” He hurried over to me. “Look, Kat, I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot here.”

  “You accused me of being a liar, a thief, and a Billy Idol fan. And you insulted my Maybell. I’m not sure what footing you thought we would be on after that.”

  He looked at the ground before responding, as if searching for what he would say next. Before I could figure out why he would confront me without a better plan for how the conversation would go, he looked up. “I checked in with our organized crime division. They confirmed that there’s been some strange goings-on in the Russian syndicate.”

  I blinked some more. While I felt vindicated that he had at least checked out my hunch, for all I knew, his next move would be to tie my dad and me to the Russians.

  “Did McPhee give you any information about the case?” Driscol asked.

  “So that’s what this is about? You want to know what McPhee knows and, for some strange reason, think I’m the person who will give it to you?”

  “I hoped we could come to an understanding. McPhee might be a pain in the ass, but I don’t believe he’s the loon some on the force have painted him to be,” Driscol said.

  “So you believe him about his best friend’s murder?”

  “I don’t know what I believe right now other than there’s more going on here than the facts suggest. You may be mixed up in more than you realize. You need to be careful with McPhee.”

  “Funny, he said the same thing about you.”

  “I understand that cops probably aren’t high on your list of friends right now. But McPhee is a singularly focused man, and the one thing I’m certain of is that you will be expendable the moment he thinks you may be an impediment to his goal of avenging the reporter’s death. If you ever need anything”—he took a business card from his pocket—“give me a call at that number.”

  I took the card, and without saying anything else, he turned and walked away. I felt much better knowing he had checked into my claims about the Russians. Maybe we could find a way to help each other. I made a mental note to send him a thank-you card.

  After I put the business card in my bag, I turned my attention to the morgue. I had a big agenda for the day and couldn’t get distracted.

  Standing in front of the morgue doors, I rubbed my sweaty palms together. As part of my probation, my badge had been confiscated. I was allowed on the premises only if I had a babys
itter. I knocked on the door.

  Through the long, narrow sliver of glass, I recognized Marshall’s pudgy cheek. He blinked at me several times. I smiled.

  “I’m sorry, but we can’t allow hardened criminals in such a highly sensitive area,” he said loudly through the door. “But if you’re willing to provide certain services...”

  I banged on the door, causing Marshall’s cheek to bump from the reverberation. “Can it, Marshall, and open the door.”

  “Ouch!” The door opened. “You aren’t going to make friends that way, you know.”

  As soon as I entered, the buzz in the morgue hushed. Everyone turned to look at me, making me flush three shades of scarlet.

  As I looked around the room, I couldn’t help wondering which of them had sold me out.

  “All hail the return of our own criminal-chasing heroine,” DC announced with a golf clap.

  “Hello, everyone.” I waved slowly. DC and I had prepared for this the night before, but now that the time had come, my stomach seemed less settled on the idea. Which was strange, because I never got nervous talking in front of people.

  Then again, I thought everyone had always liked me. Since everything had happened with my dad, I’d come to realize that most people liked me only because of my dad’s money. It was a betrayal of the worst kind, like finding out my favorite makeup was viciously tested on poor defenseless animals despite the company’s proclamation of being cruelty-free.

  No one here cared about any of that, though. One of them wanted to hurt me.

  “First, I want to apologize for all of the trouble.”

  “Did you really help steal the body?” asked a meek voice far across the room. I had to search to find the owner. In the back of the room and leaning against the computer table facing the brown wall was a small woman wearing Professional Goth. Her formfitting black silk ruffled shirt had buttons that peeked out from beneath a velvet blazer. Her skirt was a long black-on-black damask. The color blended with her hair, the only other color in the whole outfit being a newly acquired red hair stripe that ran in a ring from one ear to the other. I wondered whether the color was permanent. She carried a vintage black-and-white drawstring bag.