The Troubleshooter: The Most Dangerous Dame Read online

  Chapter 4: Murder of Crows

  I’ve spent a few ticks in the holding tank before. One thing that can be said about the experience is it doesn’t get any more agreeable the next time around. At least I wasn’t in there long. After they let me stew for a few hours I was hustled out and into a claustrophobic room with two chairs, a table, and four walls painted in a drab gray color only used for unpleasant places.

  Like interrogation rooms.

  They let me sit for another couple of hours. Supposedly the waiting is designed to unnerve a perp, make him rattled and uneasy. Get his condition just nervous enough so when you tighten the screws you might get an early squeal.

  I used the time to catch up on some sleep. It had been a long night and I didn’t know when I’d get another chance to catch a few ticks. My sweet dreams were quickly disturbed by the loud entrance of a burly copper with a red, splotchy face that closely resembled a slab of raw beef.

  “Nap time’s over, Sleeping Beauty.” A fist the size of a canned ham slammed on the table.

  I blinked away the aftereffects of disturbed sleep, making sure to put on a good show of yawning and stretching until my elbow joints crackled. I squinted at his badge. “Now that’s no way to greet an old friend…O’Hare. You ever heard of mouthwash? I hear it’s good to use every once in a while. Might wanna look into it.”

  O’Hare leaned in close and blasted a potent mixture of coffee, cigarettes, and bananas in my face. “We’re not friends, shamus. You had this coming for a long time. We finally got you right where we want you.”

  I leaned away from the vile aroma. “C’mon, O’Hare. You boys still sore about that little dust-up over the Red-Eyed Killer case?

  His face practically caved in from his scowl. “You mean the officer assault you never got booked for? You could say that, Mick.”

  “Look, the situation forced my hand. Nothing personal. You’d think a few haymakers and a room full of electronic wasps would have been forgotten by now, but you guys apparently hold on to your grudges, don’t you?”

  His mouth twisted. “Know what you’re gonna be holding on to? Murder charges. You killed a lady, Mick. You’re gonna hang for it.”

  “Listen, Mack–you got it all wrong. When you hear the term lady-killer applied to me it’s a reference to my legendary action between the sheets, if you know what I mean. No way I let you damage my rep with some trumped up charges. Now I know you gotta do the whole bruiser act, but why don’t we just skip to the part where you take a powder while someone with authority does the real talking?”

  O’Hare scowled even harder, which didn’t do his looks any favors. He jabbed a meaty finger into my chest, practically cracking my sternum.

  “You want real talk, Trubble? Start by fessing up on where you stashed the stiff.”

  I yawned. “Wake me when you’re done gabbing, O’Hare. Your whole tough guy shtick is boring me to death.”

  He seized me by the collar and hoisted me from the chair. “Fine by me, shamus. Howzabout I stimulate you a knuckle sandwich instead?” His swollen fist drew back threateningly.

  “That’ll be enough, O’Hare.” Flask walked in on cue, still dressed to the nines. He removed his hat and tried to smooth his hair back, but his bristle top stayed pretty much bristly.

  O’Hare growled and flung me back into my seat. I adjusted my suit with a wry grin. “Why go through this whole good cop/bad cop routine, Flask? Can’t we act civilized for a change and gab like adults?”

  Flask settled into the seat in front of me. “Good cop/bad cop is one of this institution's most venerated traditions, Mick. Don’t want to defy convention.” He set a document tablet on the table and flipped open a window that hovered above the transparent keyboard. Scarlett’s beautiful face was clearly visible. So was mine, right next to her. I looked a bit under the influence, but she was a sight to take the breath away.

  “Surveillance photo from the security camera at the Fatale.” Flask gave me a wry glance. “The cheap hotel with the not-so-subtle name you and the victim spent the night at. Thing is, there is no footage of her ever leaving the joint.”

  His eyes locked with mine. “That makes you the last person to have seen her alive.”

  He flipped to another screen, changing the image in the window to crime scene photos of a body pulled from the West River.

  I winced at the close-up of Scarlett’s face. It was pale and bloated, scarcely recognizable. Some sick bastard had given her a Glasgow smile, slashing her face from the corners of her mouth to her ears. Even worse was the exposed gash in her neck where her throat had been slit.

  Flask studied my reaction. “Toxicology tests show Ms. Flacco was rendered unconscious by a mixture of chloroform and other anesthetics. She was awakened at some point, as the raggedness of the facial cuts indicates a struggle. She was fully conscious when her face was being slashed. Probably when her throat was slit as well.”

  I felt something boil inside. A raging beast writhed in my guts, clawing at my insides. I recognized the feeling. The last time I felt that kind of rage was when the Red-Eyed Killer butchered some friends of mine. I’d damn near ignited a citywide gang war with some of New Haven’s finest killers while wiping up that mess, but I had no regrets.

  When you take something from me, you deserve what’s coming to you.

  My eyes burned when I leaned forward, the words raw in my throat. “You know I didn’t kill the girl, Flask.”

  He gazed at me for a long moment before turning to the bruiser. “Hey O’Hare. Why don’t you get a coffee or something?”

  O’Hare had the nerve to look surprised. “You sure you wanna–”

  Flask jerked his thumb toward the door. “Get a doughnut too while you’re at it. Go on, scram.”

  O’Hare gave me one last warning glare before he exited the room, slamming the door shut. Flask turned his attention back to me.

  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure you didn’t kill Ms. Flacco, Trubble. Slitting throats isn’t your style.”

  I glared at him. “So what am I doing cooling my heels here, Flask? What’s all the dog and pony show about?”

  He pulled a cheap gasper from a battered case and lit it. “You’re the only suspect we have right now. Protocol has to be followed. Besides, I had to get you out of your element. You’re on my turf now. Means you play by my rules unless you like your view obscured by prison bars.”

  I leaned back in my chair. “You can only hold me for a few more hours before I walk. You’ve got nothing on me that sticks. No traces of anything but sex in that hotel room, no evidence of foul play on my part. No eyewitnesses, and no motive. So maybe you should just tip your mitts and tell me why I’m here, Flask.”

  He sighed and scrubbed his fingers through his hair. For a long moment he didn’t say anything. When he finally spoke, it was as if reading off his own obituary.

  “We’re going to have to require your services, Mick.”

  I stared at him. “My services? You mean you want me to work for the brass? The boys in black and me on the same team?” I couldn’t help laughing at the thought.

  Flask’s face grew darker with every chuckle. “Don’t think I like this any more than you, Mick. But there’s a dead girl to think about, remember?”

  That sobered me up right quick. “Right. What’s this about, Flask? What is it about this case that you and your boys can’t touch?”

  He stared at me like I missed something very obvious. “You really didn’t know who she was, do you?”

  I shrugged. “Last time I checked, she was a hotel clerk. Don’t know what she’s been doing the last couple of years. Lost track. We crossed paths out of the blue the other night. First time I’d seen her in a while.”

  Flask exhaled a stream of gasper smoke. “Didn’t that last name ring any bells, Mick?”

  I opened my mouth, then hesitated as it hit me. “You’re not saying–”

  “Sophia Flacco is Moe Flacco’s daughter, Mick. Estranged, but still blood. And you know bl
ood runs thick. So you understand the delicacy of the situation, and why police investigation is going to be severely limited.”

  My throat tightened. “Moe Flacco. The head of the most powerful Borgata in New Haven.”

  Flask nodded wearily. “That’s right. He wasn’t close with Sophia. Had some sort of falling out. Headstrong girl, you know how it is. The point is it doesn’t matter what their differences were. She’s dead now, and you can bet house dibs Flacco is already looking into the situation. He’s going to find out who she was with the night she died.”

  Flask’s look of distress was so well acted he should have won an award. “And all trails lead to you. You’re in a lot more trouble than you know, Mick. You might want to consider renting out a room here for a while. Might be the safest place for you right now until we get this worked out.”

  I tried to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach. “Appreciate the concern, Flask. But the killer is out there, and I got no chance of tracking him down if I’m holed up in the meat locker. Plus, Flacco can reach out and snuff me anytime he wants. Prison bars won’t even slow him down.”

  I held up my wrists so he could remove the bracelets.

  “Besides, I got a better idea.”

  Mobster events tend to attract attention. Doesn’t matter if it’s a wedding, some extravagant dinner party, or in this case, a funeral. A kingpin doesn’t get to the top without rubbing elbows with a lotta folks on the way up. Most might hate him, but they know when to pay their respects. Moe Flacco had been around for quite a while without getting buried or caged, a rarity for a man of his profession. So when the funeral services opened for his daughter, the church was packed to bursting with professional mourners. It was a who’s who of anyone with power and influence in New Haven

  There was Moe, of course. The family patriarch was dressed to the nines in a tailored black on black pinstriped suit. Despite his glad rags he still had the look of a hammerhead shark, with his predatory glower and bruiser’s profile. Beside him was Marta Flacco, his stately but stern-looking wife whose grief was only visible by her red-rimmed eyes. The rest of her face was a porcelain mask. The remainder of the front rows were packed with the Flacco family and in-laws, a clan to itself. I watched them closely, checking out whose grief looked sincere and taking note of those with particularly dry eyes. With mob murders the suspects were endless, but I tended to start close to home before widening my net.

  I knew some of them by sight. Ben ‘the Bear’ Mastrogiovanni was Moe’s nephew and one of his premier brunos. His bulky frame hulked over everyone else in the room.

  No-Nose Nate was a close cousin of Moe Flacco and a top Capo in the organization. He lost his schnozzle in a deal gone sour years ago. The mug that shot him lost his brains, so it all evened out. Nate wore a prosthetic nose and even had it plated in gold to commemorate the event.

  Nate’s sister Electra sat beside him. She was a slim, pretty little dish with baby-doll eyes and a razor-trimmed bob dyed the color of fire. The hair color contrasted with her dark fashion scheme. She went by a more notorious handle: the Black Widow–earned from the three dead men who dared to actually marry her. She was one of Flacco’s chief enforcers, with a vicious streak on par with another lady assassin known as the Red-Eyed Killer. Of course the important difference was that Electra was still among the living. The Red-Eyed Killer wasn’t, on account of getting on my bad side.

  I spotted Scars lurking like a shadow in the corner of the church behind the casket. He and I had a bit of history since he was employed with Flacco via a favor bartered between us. Scars ran a tight crew that did pretty much whatever Flacco needed them to, which meant anything from guarding a joint to rubbing out a rival. He was a gaunt, humorless man who looked like he needed a hefty sandwich more than anything, but his skeletal appearance was deceiving. He got the nickname from the scars he left on other people, not the other way around.

  There were plenty of other wise guys in attendance as well. Just about every major family head was present, from somber Madame Goryacheva of the Russians to Kane Jackson, a sharp dressed cat who took up the blacktop district vacated by the recently deceased Tommy Tsunami. The sheer number of crime figures in the wings were enough to cripple the economy if the feds decided to pull a fast one and raid the place.

  Ironically, a lot of the brass was present as well. While the Commissioner wouldn’t deem to attend, the newly appointed Captain Kennedy sat inconspicuously in the rear. Probably to take note of the off-duty officers in attendance, all of whom were on Flacco’s payroll. But not everyone there had ties to the Mob, at least not obvious ones. Mayor Beck was on hand along with several high-ranking politicians, corporate moguls, and New Haven celebrities like Fats the Jazz man.

  I tried to concentrate, but my attention drifted to the one thing that mattered: the gold-trimmed polished mahogany casket. More specifically, the body that lay inside of it. I kept to the rear of the church, not bothering to make a spectacle by approaching the immortalized remains of Sophia ‘Scarlett’ Flacco. I couldn’t stomach the sight, anyway. No matter how well the coroner did his job, it was still just a stiff lying there. Just a husk that used to be someone I held tightly, feeling her breath stir the tiny hairs on my skin.

  I couldn’t pretend I was in love with Scarlett. But I couldn’t deny she was special, either. Every dame I know is special: full of fire and magic that can pull a man into her cosmos and leave the scent of her soul in his skin long after life steps in to push them apart.

  That was something no coroner could duplicate. Scarlett was gone the moment the staccato of her heels faded from my hearing. All I could do was stand in the rear of an oversized church, a shadow in the light of ornamental stained glass windows that streamed kaleidoscopic patterns across the casket of a dame that deserved so much better.

  After the memorial, I accompanied the crowds that gathered to watch Scarlett’s casket lowered into the earth in a plot behind Flacco’s colossal mansion. In predictable New Haven fashion it rained cats and dogs. Flacco’s people were nice enough to supply umbrellas to keep everyone’s glad rags from getting soaked. Flacco lived on one of the highest residential islands in the Heights, with a breathtaking view of the surrounding Haven. The colossal buildings and lanes of flying traffic actually looked picturesque from the top, granting the city a regal appearance that bottom scrapers like me couldn’t appreciate.

  The burial was purely ceremonial, as New Haven sanitary regulations mandated all bodies be cremated. Rich people buy plots for historical significance, a way to memorialize themselves so future generations can stare at their markers and statues and somehow gain a sense of heraldic self worth. The rest of us just get processed. I haven’t bothered to look up what happens to our remains, but I suspect the ashes are used to fertilize houseplants for the fur and feathers crowd.

  Once the casket was buried with all the severity of a military service, the guests lingered in the unrestricted portions of the mansion. Many quickly lost their grieving faces and took to peering and sneering–two occupations rich folk perform in their sleep. Counterfeit smiles were scattered around as well, mostly by rubes on the lower rungs of the social ladder trying their best to connect with others who might aid them in their ascendance.

  The ballroom area was larger than most folk’s houses. Normally used for the soirées Flacco threw now and again, it was lavishly styled and decorated with all the trimmings: scrolling staircases, mahogany floors, soaring ceilings, and dazzling chandeliers. Works of priceless art decorated the walls and original furniture was arranged throughout, polished and gleaming. Just calculating the cost was enough to set my teeth on edge. I figured I could afford to own half the room if I worked real hard for three or four centuries.

  I sat at the bar as far back as I could get so I could watch unnoticed while I gabbed with Fats the Jazz Man. Fats was a staple at pretty much any social gathering that meant anything in New Haven, and performed at a ritzy joint called the Gaiden in his downtime. He saw a lot of st
uff in his line of work but had the good sense to keep his mouth reserved for playing his instruments instead of spouting off about other folk’s business. That confidentiality made him a trusted member of many a circle.

  Fats got his nickname from his girth, which he affectionately called his ‘love cushions’. His skin was dark as unadulterated coffee, his fingers thick and strong as if he spent his spare time punching through brick walls. But they defied reason when they touched the keys of a piano, nimble and light as he orchestrated his unique sound. His heavy jowls would inflate like balloons and blow pure soul through a trumpet or sax–jazzy grit that got into your skin and ignited memories of past times, dames you left behind, and words unspoken you wished you had the guts to say.

  He held his trumpet in hand like a favorite pet as he gestured, laughing rich and loud. Despite the fact he played for snobs, Fats was a true salt. He might wear a tuxedo over his portly keg, but he saw himself as a blue-collar man with a working gig like everyone else.

  “I swear, Mick.” Fats flashed a megawatt grin that showed off both sets of pearly whites. His voice was a gravelly rasp. “When you waltzed in the Gaiden dropping the name Tommy Tsunami…” His shoulders shook with his laugh. “Even I knew it was time to pack it in.”

  The barkeep discreetly approached with my Bulleit Neat and a gin and tonic for Fats. I grinned as we took our drinks. “Had to play it by ear with that one, Fats. I was in a jam and did what I had to do to get out.”

  Fats raised his glass. “Here’s to doing what you got to do.”

  After we sipped, I nodded to where Kane Jackson sat with a long-legged chocolate dame on his arm. “Word is Kane took over Tommy’s op.”

  Fats nodded. “Managed to salvage it, anyway. Tommy took a big gamble and lost a lot with that caper you and him were caught up with. Kane was next up, and managed to recover most of what was left without any real fuss.”

  I studied Kane from the corner of my eye. “How is he? Think he wants payback for what happened to his boss, or should I expect a fruit basket and a thank-you note?”