Crime Seen (3 page)

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Dutch glare at his friend. ‘‘I only told Milo, Abs.’’

‘‘I think it’s a great idea,’’ Milo said helpfully. ‘‘After you work on some of his cases, would you mind looking at a few of mine?’’

Dutch cleared his throat and said quickly, ‘‘Abby’s taking it slow and easy, buddy. Let’s just see how comfortable she is looking at my stuff first, okay?’’

Milo shrugged and changed the subject. ‘‘So, you ready for the hearing next Wednesday?’’

‘‘Almost. Did you bring me the file?’’

‘‘It’s in my car. I’ll bring it in after dinner and we can talk about which way to play it.’’

‘‘What hearing?’’ I asked, relieved that the attention was off me.

‘‘There’s a parole hearing next week that Milo and I have to attend.’’

‘‘Who’s coming up for parole?’’

‘‘Bruce Lutz,’’ Dutch said, and I couldn’t help but notice the even tone of his voice when he spoke the name.

‘‘Bad guy?’’ I asked.

‘‘The baddest,’’ Milo said. ‘‘He murdered my partner nine years ago.’’

I sucked in a breath of surprise. I’d never thought of Milo having a partner before Dutch. ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ I said. ‘‘I didn’t know.’’

Milo shrugged again and gave me a smile, but I could tell the memory still bothered him. ‘‘Walter was a great guy,’’ he said quietly. ‘‘I was a rookie detective when I came up here from walking a beat in Detroit. Walter had been on the Royal Oak payroll for almost twenty-five years. He was a real fixture around here. He used to go to the middle schools and high schools and talk to the kids about staying out of trouble. Everybody loved him.’’ Milo shook his head and took a breath before continuing.

‘‘He was one of the best detectives in the biz. When he worked a case, he treated it like it was his only case. He really cared about people. That’s what made him such a great detective—he wanted to give closure to people and he wanted to get the scum off the streets. I only worked with him for about a year, but everything I learned from him, I still use today, almost ten years later.’’

I looked at Dutch, who had been listening quietly while Milo talked. ‘‘Did you know him too?’’

Dutch shook his head no. ‘‘Not really. I met him once at a police conference where he’d given a lecture. But I remember how impressive the guy was. He was smart, he knew his stuff, and his reputation was legendary.’’

Milo chuckled. ‘‘Yeah, he was a legend, all right. Riding patrol with him was like riding around with a superhero. Everybody knew him.’’

‘‘So what happened?’’ I asked quietly.

Dutch looked at Milo, and I noticed how quickly Milo’s eyes went from amused to angry. ‘‘He was shot execution style one night in August, nine years ago.’’

‘‘Did you see it happen?’’ I asked.

‘‘No,’’ Milo said bitterly. ‘‘I was in the hospital passing a kidney stone. Walter and I had been working a case against a guy named Dick Wolfe, a real SOB. We were scheduled to go on a stakeout that night in front of Dick’s girlfriend’s house, but I’d started having really bad abdominal pain around noon. Walter convinced me to go to the hospital, and the next day I walk into the precinct and the captain tells me Walter’s been murdered.’’

‘‘How does this guy who’s up for parole—what’s his name?’’

‘‘Bruce Lutz,’’ Dutch said.

‘‘Yeah, how does he fit into the picture?’’

Dutch said, ‘‘He was working for Wolfe at the time, and word had it that Wolfe wasn’t very impressed with his track record and was about to cut him loose. He knew that Milo and Walter were sticking their nose into his boss’s business, so to impress Wolfe and secure his position in the ranks, he murdered Walter.’’

I noticed Milo had stopped eating. ‘‘Thank God you weren’t with him,’’ I said to him.

‘‘No,’’ Milo said. ‘‘I could have stopped it. Walter didn’t have anyone watching his back, and that’s why he died.’’

My left side felt thick and heavy, my sign for ‘‘nope.’’ ‘‘I doubt that, Milo. It seems to me that if a smart and experienced detective could be ambushed, then his not-very-seasoned sidekick wasn’t exactly going to see it coming. You’d have been the second casualty.’’

Milo pushed his plate to the middle of the table. ‘‘There’s no way to know for sure,’’ he muttered. ‘‘Anyway, let me go out and get that file.’’

After I heard the front door close, I turned to Dutch and said, ‘‘It wasn’t his fault.’’

‘‘I know,’’ Dutch said. ‘‘But that doesn’t mean he won’t feel guilty about it for the rest of his life.’’

I nodded soberly, then asked, ‘‘So how do you figure into this?’’

‘‘When Walter was murdered, it opened up a vacancy. I’d been working undercover vice in Detroit for a couple of years, and needed a change of pace. I applied for the job up here and got it.’’

‘‘And that’s how you and Milo met,’’ I said.

‘‘Yep. The first case we worked together was Walter’s murder.’’

‘‘Must have been a good feeling to put away the guy who did it.’’

‘‘Bittersweet,’’ Dutch said as he put his hand over mine and gave it a squeeze. ‘‘Walter had a wife, three kids, and four grandkids.’’

‘‘How is it that Lutz is up for parole after only a few years?’’ I asked. ‘‘I’d think someone like that would go away for a long, long time.’’

‘‘We never got a chance to go to trial with it. The son of a bitch DA offered Lutz a plea bargain and the coward took it. He got twenty years, eligible for parole after eight.’’

‘‘And you and Milo are going to make sure he serves his full sentence.’’

‘‘That’s the plan,’’ Dutch said, nudging my leg with his.

Just then, we heard the front door open and Milo called from the living room, ‘‘I got the file.’’

I stood up and grabbed a few dishes. ‘‘You two go do your strategizing. I’ll clean up in here.’’

Dutch got up and came around the table, pausing to kiss me on the neck before he went into the living room to join Milo. As I worked in the kitchen, I could hear the two of them talking, their tones low and serious. I thought about the change in Milo that came over him when he talked about his former partner, and worried that he was carrying around so much guilt. It wasn’t his fault he’d had a kidney stone, after all. The poor guy.

Putting the dishes into the dishwasher, I wondered if there was something I could do to help Milo realize that he wasn’t to blame. That was when I got the bright idea to ask Dutch later on if he wanted me to tune in on the case file—maybe I could come up with another bit of evidence that would help them at the parole hearing.

Looking back, I think I would have been better off minding my own beeswax.

Chapter Two

Dutch was off to work early Tuesday morning, with promises to take me out to dinner that night. I had agreed to look into his three FBI cases and give him some feedback over dinner. I’d been too busy getting my office cleaned up and ready for Candice’s arrival to offer my services before now. I also made a mental note to bring the Lutz case up at dinner that evening.

Since Candice was coming into town later in the morning, I decided to get up right after Dutch left and take a gander at the files. I was walking groggily down the stairs with Eggy in tow, trying to shake off sleep, when I felt something furry brush against my legs. In the next instant, I was tumbling down the rest of the stairs. I landed at the bottom with a hard thud and lay there for several long seconds, not daring to move until I could determine if I’d broken something. With a groan, I rolled over to a face full of wet, slobbery kisses as Eggy came to my rescue.

‘‘Owwww,’’ I said to him, reaching up to feel a bump forming on the back of my head.

I heard a meow above me and opened my eyes to see Virgil purring on the staircase in the exact location where I’d lost my footing. ‘‘You son of a feline,’’ I snarled at him.

He purred back, and with a flip of his tail, he sauntered up the rest of the staircase like he was all that and a bag of chips. I remained on the floor a while longer, wondering how guilty I’d feel if I were to take Virgil for a little ride in the country and drop him off in some lovely cornfield upstate.

As I was about to push myself to a sitting position, I heard a knock on the door. ‘‘Hang on,’’ I called, getting to my feet. It appeared nothing was broken, but I knew a few places were definitely bruised.

I opened the door to a welcome sight. Dave, my hippie-looking handyman and business partner, stood on the front porch, wearing a big, fat smile that faded the instant he took notice of me. ‘‘Your lip is bleeding,’’ he said and pushed the door open. ‘‘What happened?’’

‘‘Dutch’s stupid cat is trying to kill me,’’ I said, motioning him into the kitchen.

‘‘He scratched you?’’

‘‘No, he got underfoot as I was coming down the stairs.’’

‘‘Well, you should watch where you’re going,’’ Dave said simply.

‘‘It wouldn’t matter,’’ I groused as I got a baggie and some ice from the freezer. ‘‘He’d find a way.’’

Dave smiled at me and I put the ice to my lip. Just then, Virgil strolled into the kitchen and shimmied up to rub against Dave’s leg. ‘‘Seems like a friendly enough cat to me,’’ he said.

‘‘Oh, he’s quite the charmer,’’ I agreed. ‘‘Until he decides to mark you as his next victim, that is. Then all bets are off.’’

‘‘His
next
victim?’’ Dave asked, thoroughly amused.

‘‘Yeah, yesterday Mr. Chipmunk got the ax. Today it’s me.’’

‘‘You don’t say,’’ Dave said, giving me a quizzical look. ‘‘Say, you’re not still taking those pain meds, are you?’’

I rolled my eyes at him. ‘‘I’m not imagining this, Dave. He’s out to get me.’’

‘‘Sure, sure,’’ he said. He picked up Eggy, who had nudged Virgil out of the way to dance around Dave’s legs. ‘‘Say, you got any coffee?’’

‘‘Yeah, I made it in my sleep,’’ I muttered as I pushed away from the counter I’d been leaning against and walked over to the coffeemaker. ‘‘What brings you by at, oh, seven a.m., anyway?’’

‘‘We got an offer on the Fern Street property,’’ he said.

‘‘No kidding?’’ I said, turning around to face him. ‘‘This morning?’’

‘‘No, the Realtor left me a message last night, and I didn’t get it until I was on my way to work.’’

‘‘Where are you working these days?’’

‘‘Milo’s place,’’ Dave said.

‘‘Really?’’ I asked as I measured out the coffee.

‘‘Yep. Putting in a new bath for the missus. Have you ever met her?’’

‘‘I have. She’s a gorgeous woman, wouldn’t you say?’’ Milo was married to an exotic beauty named Noel.

‘‘Definitely,’’ Dave agreed. ‘‘He’s a lucky guy, if you ask me.’’

‘‘So, is it a good offer?’’ I said, referring back to the Fern Street house that Dave and I co-owned.

‘‘It’s a little under the asking price, so, yeah, it’s a good offer.’’

‘‘We’ll have to run it by Cat,’’ I said. I pressed the button on the coffeemaker and headed over to the table to sit down.

Dave groaned. Cat was my sister and the third partner in our real estate development firm. She was as sharp a businesswoman as ever there was. ‘‘She’ll think it’s too low,’’ he said.

‘‘Let me do the talking,’’ I advised. ‘‘She might be happy to be rid of it.’’ The three of us had invested in a rather dilapidated property in early January, and the place had proven to be a nightmare on many fronts. I knew that Dave had been working to unload the house for several months, and I could only imagine how nervous he was that Cat was going to ruin his chances of getting his name off the title once and for all.

‘‘Just remind her that we’re still making a profit,’’ he said. ‘‘That’s really all that matters in the end.’’

I smiled wryly. ‘‘Unless you’re my sister, in which case it’s not about making a profit as much as it’s about maximizing one.’’

Dave groaned again. ‘‘We’re never going to dump this thing,’’ he complained.

‘‘Leave it to me,’’ I said, getting up to pour our coffee. ‘‘I’ll just tell her that my intuition is saying we should definitely accept the offer.’’

Dave seemed to brighten. ‘‘It is?’’

I walked back to the table with our coffee and cautioned, ‘‘No. I mean, I don’t know. I haven’t checked on it yet.’’

‘‘Well, what are you waiting for?’’ he asked, taking the mug from me. ‘‘Ask your squad what they think.’’

I smiled at his reference. I called the spirit guides who worked so hard to assist me with my readings my ‘‘crew.’’ Dave could never remember the term, so he substituted any and every nickname for them he could think of. ‘‘I will,’’ I said with a wave of my hand, and took a sip of the coffee.

‘‘What’d they say?’’ he asked me after a moment.

‘‘What’d who say?’’

‘‘Your team. Your squad, you know . . .
them
.’’

I gave him a quizzical look. ‘‘Again, I don’t know. I haven’t asked them.’’

‘‘Oh,’’ he said, looking a little dejected. ‘‘I thought that’s what you were doing.’’

I sighed heavily and changed the subject. ‘‘You and your wife got any big plans for Memorial Day?’’

Dave shuffled his feet and looked down at the ground. ‘‘Uh, no,’’ he said uncomfortably. ‘‘No plans.’’

I cocked my head at him, puzzled by his sudden change in demeanor. ‘‘What’s happened?’’ I asked him.

Dave cleared his throat and set his mug down. ‘‘Nothing,’’ he said dismissively. ‘‘Listen, I gotta get to Milo’s and get back to work on that bathroom. Call me after you talk to Cat.’’ And with that he was out of the kitchen and walking quickly toward the door.

‘‘Dave?’’ I called after him, completely thrown by his quick retreat.

‘‘I’m late,’’ he said over his shoulder as he pulled the door open. ‘‘Call me later.’’ And then he was gone.

I stared blinking at the front door for a bit, then shrugged my shoulders and decided to worry about it later. Still holding the ice to my lip, I went into Dutch’s study and scooted his big leather office chair up to the mahogany desk. I loved the energy in Dutch’s study. It was a beautiful blend of rugged masculinity and perfect comfort, reflecting his personality to a T.