Amaretto Amber (Franki Amato Mysteries Book 3) (4 page)

"All is fair in love and war," I corrected. "We say that in the US too."

"You see? The whole-a world-a can't be wrong."

I didn't bother telling her that Italy and the United States were not the "whole-a world-a" because I honestly didn't think that she'd ever heard of any other countries. Instead, I got down to brass tacks. "So, let me get this straight. You want me to steal a lemon from a Catholic altar devoted to Jesus's father that's intended to feed the poor?"

"You got a problem with-a that?" she asked, now sounding more like De Niro than Brando.

Before I could reply, someone picked up another line.

"I found your father, dear," my mother announced. "He's sitting on the toilet."

To my horror, I heard her handing off the receiver.

"Happy birthday, Franki," my dad said in an animated voice. "Did you have a nice time last night?"

I squirmed at the memory of the skin-slougher and at the image of my father talking to me from the john.

"Bradley didn't pop-a the question," Nonna replied from the kitchen phone.

"Sorry to hear that you didn't get that proposal," my dad said as though referring to a lost job offer. "Better luck next time, eh?"

"She'll have-a the luck," Nonna said. "The luck of the lemon."

"What's she talking about, Franki?" he asked.

"I'll let Nonna explain, Dad. I've gotta run." Then I remembered the toilet and instantly regretted my choice of terms. "Love you and talk to you soon."

I pressed
end
before they could object and held the power button down. I had no intention of talking to anyone else today—not even Bradley. And honestly, if I could've foreseen how these calls were going to go, I would have let that witch keep my stupid phone.

I slid off the bed and headed for the kitchen. Suddenly, I was craving lemon. And as the old saying goes, when life gives you lemons and your nonna tells you to steal one from a Catholic altar to snag a husband, make lemonade—or better, limoncello.

And then drink it.

*   *   *

My phone was ringing.

I opened an eye, and sunlight scorched my brain. I was lying face up on Glenda's antique bearskin rug in front of the fireplace. The back of my head was resting on the top of the bear's, and his right paw was wrapped around a half-empty bottle of limoncello. Now I understood why I felt like I was coming out of hibernation.

I rolled onto my hands and knees and pulled my cell from the bear's other paw, desperate to stop the noise. The display was dark, so I pressed the power button. Only then did it occur to me that my phone had been turned off.

The ringing switched to knocking, and I realized that the sound I'd been hearing was my doorbell. I made my way to the door holding my phone in one hand and my head in the other.

Still using the one eye, I peered out the peephole and saw slicked back brown hair.

Bradley
? I opened the door.

But it wasn't Bradley. The man who stood before me looked like a young Nicholas Cage. And even in my semi-drunk state, I could see that his police uniform was made of cheap fabric similar to the kind used for Halloween costumes.

Glenda!

Stripper Cop Cage cocked a low brow and pointed a finger intentionally close to my breast. "According to a call that came over my police radio, ma'am," he began in an Elvis impersonator-like voice, "you've been evading arrest."

"Actually, I haven't," I said clenching my fists at that "ma'am." "I got out of jail just this morning."

He froze for a moment, and then his shoulders relaxed. "Well, now I'm going to have to do a full body search," he announced with his lip curling like that of The King. He pulled out a plastic baton and gave a lascivious smile. "Up against the wall, and spread 'em."

I ripped the baton from his hands and whacked him over the head, exactly like I'd done to my brother Anthony with that light saber.

"Ow," he said, rubbing his head. "Was that really necessary? I'm just trying to do my job."

My phone began to ring. I looked at the display and pressed answer. "Glenda," I ground out, "if you don't call off your cop, you're gonna have a homicide on your hands."

Stripper Cop Cage's low brow lifted to the top of his forehead.

"That's what I'm calling about, sugar," Glenda said. "I already do."

"Wait," I said, massaging my temple. "How do
you
have a homicide?"

She exhaled what was probably a puff of smoke. "There's been a murder at Madame Moiselle's, Miss Franki. An ex-house stripper named Amber Brown."

I thought of the blonde I'd seen leaving the club. "Did you know Amber?"

"Not well, but I'm friends with her ex-landlord, Carnie. I called her a few minutes ago, and I think she's going to need your services."

"I'll be right there." I ended the call and checked the time. It was three p.m., which meant that I hadn't burned off the near half bottle of booze I'd drunk two hours before. I grabbed my bag and headed for the door, but Stripper Cop Cage blocked my way and leered at my rack.

"Show's over," I said, referring both to my boobs and his striptease.

"Don't you want me to dance?" He did a sample Saturday Night Fever-style spin and finished with a mimed hair-smoothing move.

"No, I want you to drive," I replied, pushing past him. "And if you even think about copping a feel in the car, stripper copper, the next place you do any spinning will be your grave."

As I tramped toward his tricked-out Trans Am, I had a bad feeling in my gut (related in part to the limoncello). I don't know why, but something was telling me to turn around—to go back inside my apartment and lock the door. But I didn't listen.

Because I was probably cursed, right?

My stripper chauffer skidded the Trans Am to a stop in front of Madame Moiselle's, and then
he
skidded to a stop and stared slack-jawed through the windshield at some skimpily dressed strippers gathered on the second-floor balcony. "Uh…you need an escort inside?"

"Nah," I said as I climbed from the car. Maybe it was the lingering effects of the limoncello, but just for kicks I bent down and added, "I'm really only here to see a dead body."

His slack jaw became even slacker, and then he peeled out with the passenger door still wide open.

I smirked and approached a blond police officer who looked like he was barely old enough to drink, standing guard at Madame Moiselle's red double-door entrance.

"The club is closed for the day, ma'am," he announced.

I processed that "ma'am" in disbelief.
Did a citywide press release go out about my birthday or something?

Glenda leaned over the rail, her hair and breasts hanging down. "She's one of us, Officer, baby."

He looked me up and down and then narrowed his ice blue eyes like a poker player reading his opponent.

I matched his half-lidded gaze and gave him a how-dare-you glare. Not that I wanted to be taken for a stripper, but I sure as heck didn't want some cop who was practically a kid acting like I couldn't be one. After all, us thirty-year-olds could strip too.

"Wait on the second floor with the others," he said, stepping aside.

I mentally thanked Glenda for intervening on my behalf because the police were notorious for not wanting PIs puttering around their crime scenes. Before the officer could change his mind, I hurried inside.

And I experienced an immediate assault on my semi-drunk senses. Madame Moiselle's deep red décor and pink neon signage scorched my eyes, and the stench singed my nostrils. As a rookie cop I'd responded to calls at more than a few strip clubs, and they'd always looked and smelled the same—like sleazy cabarets that stunk of baby powder, stale sweat, spilled drinks, dirty money, and something male, possibly testosterone. This time, however, there was also a sweet, acrid odor that I couldn't put my finger on.

After my eyes adjusted to the redness, I scanned the rectangular room for the scene of the crime. To my left, five officers were gathered around a command post that had been set up at one of two small stages, which, except for the poles running through the center, looked oddly like dining room suites for twenty. Behind the stages, along the far-left wall, there were two men in suits, probably plainclothes detectives, who were conversing on a red, quilted, plush velvet couch that I wouldn't have touched with a ten-foot stripper pole.

I looked to my right and saw several crime scene investigators in white coveralls and Latex gloves standing on a much larger stage next to a full bar. I figured that's where I'd find the victim.

As I took a step forward, a hand gripped my shoulder and pulled me back. I turned expecting to see the boy cop, but instead I came face-to-face with the bastard cop who'd kicked me to the cooler, to use Ruth's term. But this time he wasn't wearing an ill-fitting uniform—he was wearing a form-fitting suit. "What are
you
doing here?"

He crossed his arms. "I believe that's my line, Ms. Amato."

Sadly, the cop had a good memory. And as much as it pained me, I needed to get on his good side to have a shot at viewing the crime scene. So, I opted for the cooperative route. "I'm a private investigator, and I'm here on behalf of a prospective client."

He snorted and bowed his head. "A buddy of mine down at the station told me that your attorney friend said you were a PI." He grinned and shook his head. "He said you were an ex-cop too. But he was just pulling my leg, right?"

Well, I certainly didn't want to answer that question
now
. So, I turned the tables on him. "What's with the suit?" I forced a half-smile. "Don't tell me you just came from church."

The mocking grin disappeared from his face as he flashed his badge. "Detective Wesley Sullivan. Homicide."

"You're a homicide detective?" Okay, the compliant act was off. "Then what were you doing in uniform in the French Quarter yesterday arresting innocent people?"

"The only person I arrested was guilty," he said with a sardonic stare. "And we like to build up our police presence in the Quarter when the Irish and Italians have simultaneous street parties." His gaze bored into my eyes like a drill. "Because the Italians have been known to pick fights with the Irish."

I bristled at his comment. That was no stereotype—that was a veiled accusation. Now the gloves were off. "Spoken like a true Irishman, Detective." I grasped my chin in a pretend pensive pose. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't the Irish the ones who are typically stereotyped as the fighters?"

He feigned a posture of his own, putting his finger on the cleft in his chin. "Oh, that's right. The Italians are the drinkers. And while we're on the subject, is that alcohol I smell on your breath?"

Crap
. I guess I should've taken an extra two minutes to brush my teeth before leaving the house. "That's my lemon mint breath spray?"

He pointed toward the door. "Out."

I blinked. "But I need to see the scene of the murder."

His pointed finger moved from the door to my face. "Do you really think I'm going to let a half-drunk PI with a flagrant disrespect for the law around my crime scene?"

The detective had a point. "Would it help if I told you that I was leaning more toward hungover than half-drunk?"

He put his hands on his hips, pulling back his suit coat in the process and revealing a set of handcuffs. "Would it help if I told you that I was leaning toward arresting you for disobeying an officer?"

"Given your track record? You bet." I spun on my heels and headed for the door. And to add insult to injury, my tooth started to hurt again.

Now
the alcohol decides to wear off
.

I exited the club and saw the officer on guard talking to a couple of scantily clad young women.

"You need to go straight to the second floor and wait with the other dancers," he said, gesturing toward the balcony. "An officer will question you shortly."

Seizing the opportunity, I waited for the dancers to enter Madame Moiselle's. Then I fell into step behind their six-inch heels and followed them to the pink neon "VIP Champagne Rooms" sign in the far-left corner of the club. They powered up the stairs in their platforms while I plodded along in my two-inch-heeled boots. Of course, I could've kept up with them if I exercised for a living like they did. Possibly.

"Is that you, Miss Franki?" Glenda called.

"In the flesh," I quipped, smiling to myself since I was the only fully clothed female in the joint. The smile faded when I caught sight of Glenda at the top of the stairs in an outfit that made me want to turn around and go back down. She was wearing red, cross-shaped pasties, a white ruffle that was failing miserably at passing for a skirt, a tiny red thong, and red fishnet thigh-high stockings with white go-go boots—naughty stripper-style, not Nancy Sinatra-style. All she needed was a nursing cap, and she'd look like a slutty go-go dancer for the Red Cross.

I reached the landing and shifted my gaze from Glenda to the décor. Everything was red—the walls, the ceiling, the woodwork, the couches, even the bar.

"Let's go into a VIP Room so we can talk in private." Glenda opened the nearest door, and I was instantly taken aback.

"Are they all glowing pink like this?" I asked, shielding my eyes from the neon
Veni, vidi, veni
sign.

"Sure are," she said, flopping onto a love seat. "The idea is that you go from the deep red outside to the vibrant pink inside to evoke lips opening into a mouth or labia opening into a vagina. That's why I decorated your living room in red and your bedroom in pink."

Great
. Now in addition to thinking of my apartment as a whorehouse and a funeral parlor, I would forever envision it as a giant orifice.

"But forget the design scheme." She patted the seat next to her. "Come sit beside Miss Glenda so we can discuss the murder."

It didn't take an epidemiologist to know that there wasn't a sanitary surface in the place. "I'd rather stand, thanks."

"Suit yourself, sugar," she said with a shrug. "Now, did you notice anything unusual about the crime scene?"

"Oddly enough," I began, putting my hand on my hip, "I didn't get to see it because the detective who arrested me last night—the one I mistook for the stripper cop you sent me?—he just kicked me out of the club."

She crossed her arms above her red-crossed breasts and looked at me like I was some kind of reprobate. "I can't imagine why."

I wanted to clench my jaw, but I had to protect my tooth.

"But never you mind, Miss Franki, because Miss Ronnie will be here any minute, and she'll charm the pants off that ornery detective. Then you'll be at that crime scene faster than you can say 'strip.'"

"Miss Ronnie" was what Glenda called Veronica. And she was right about her being able to charm Detective Sullivan, including the part about his pants. Veronica had a man-melting move that I'd named "the bat and twirl." All she had to do was bat her eyelashes over her cornflower baby blues while twisting a golden lock around her finger, and men's resistance dissolved. No matter how many times I'd tried to master it, I just looked like I had a nervous eye tic and a hair-pulling compulsion.

"Hey, so what time did you get here this morning to practice for your show?" I asked.

Glenda kicked her skinny legs across the back of the love seat. "What makes you think I came here to practice?"

I eyed her go-go nurse getup. "Well, it looks like you're going for some sort of saintly look."

"I told you, sugar. I'm a slut," she said, staring at me like I was one thong shy of a stripper costume. "And I came to the club because my manager, Eugene, called and said that the police wanted to question the employees about Amber."

I pulled a pen and paper from my bag. "Who found her body?"

"Eugene did when he came in early to let the cleaning crew in."

I made a note to question the manager. "What time was that?"

"Two o'clock," she said, stretching out a leg to pull up her stocking.

I glanced up from my pad. "Early? I thought you once told me that the club opens at noon for lunch."

"It does, but on Sundays we open at five since it's the Sabbath," she replied as though strip clubs routinely based their operations around religious practices.

I rolled my eyes and noticed a camera hanging from the ceiling, and a thought occurred to me. "Has anyone checked the security system video for evidence?"

"You'd have to ask Eugene about that, sugar."

"Glenda?" Veronica called. "Where are you?"

Without thinking, I opened the door and then stared at my hand in horror. "We're in here."

Veronica entered dressed in a red sweater and a pink skirt, and I wondered whether she was aware of the sex-laden symbolism of her outfit.

"Love the color of the room," she said. "It's so fresh and feminine."

If you only knew
, I thought as I reached into my bag for hand sanitizer.

Veronica pulled her pink Miss Sicily bag into the crook of her arm. "Glenda, I heard from Carnie a little while ago. She made an appointment to meet with Franki and me tomorrow morning."

"Did she tell you why she wants to contract a PI?" I asked, rubbing the sanitizing gel into my hands. "It seems kind of odd when the police haven't even begun their investigation, much less questioned her about it."

"She was fairly vague on the phone." Veronica turned to Glenda. "I was hoping that you could tell us more."

Glenda fluffed her ruffle. "All I know is that when I called Carnie to tell her about Amber, she asked me if she had a necklace on. When I told her that she was wearing a chain with a flower on it, she said that she was going to need a private investigator."

"That's bizarre," I said, patting some sanitizer on my neck.

"I guess we'll have to wait until tomorrow for an explanation." Veronica began rummaging through her bag. "In the meantime, Franki, Detective Sullivan has granted us fifteen minutes to view the crime scene."

"Yes," I said with a fist pump. "What did it? The old bat and twirl?"

"A polite request," she replied, opening the door with a tissue.

I definitely dislike that detective
.

"I'll call you later, Glenda," Veronica said. "I've got a business proposition for you."

"Ooh, Miss Ronnie," she exclaimed, squeezing her breasts together with her biceps and giving them a little shake. "That sent shivers down my spine."

Funny. It sent chills down mine
.

On the way downstairs, Veronica handed me a bottle of Binaca. "Before we talk to the detective, spray this on that booze breath of yours."

"Jeez. All I had was a little limoncello."

"Well, I'm surprised at you, Franki," she said, crossing the club at a clip. "That stuff is loaded with sugar, and you gave up sweets for Lent."