The Morning Show Murders (1) (6 page)

BOOK: The Morning Show Murders (1)
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"That's when all hell broke loose. I'm sorry--can I say 'hell' on television?"

"It's your story," Gin said.

"Well, anyway, the crowd started stoning my guys, and two of them fell. Their weapons were yanked from their hands and used on the arriving troops. It was a terrible tragedy, but I'm not sure what else my guys could have done once that rock was thrown."

At that point Lance would probably have closed down the interview and wished Kelstoe well. Gin may have done that, too, a few weeks ago. But no longer. Not since she'd become the Fifteen-Million-Dollar Woman.

"It's been reported that your mercenary soldier fired the shot before the rock was thrown, that it was thrown because he'd used his gun on a man who was doing nothing more incendiary than brushing against him on a narrow walkway."

"I've had over a year to investigate this," Kelstoe replied, "to study exactly what transpired every single second of that deadly event. If I had discovered one thing to make me believe any of my men were responsible for that tragedy, I would say so."

"The congressional committee may see things differently," Gin said. "Am I right in assuming that whichever way the decision goes, you could wind up losing the lucrative contract Touchstone has with our State Department?"

"I don't see that happening." Kelstoe's smile started to harden, and his whispery voice showed a hint of anger.

"But you have lost important contracts since the incident, right?" Gin asked.

"I'm not sure exactly what you're referencing. ..."

"I'm thinking of Markham Books," Gin said. "Until recently, the publisher has used Touchstone to ensure the safety of its more controversial authors on their book tours. But when ex-Mossad agent Goyal Aharon arrives later this week to promote his debut spy thriller, your main competitor, InterTec, will be guarding him. Isn't this a result of the investigation into Touchstone?"

That wiped the smile from Kelstoe's face. "It's just business," he replied tersely. "You win some and you lose some. With our operations in Afghanistan and Iraq, and an unmatched success rate, we've got quite a lot on our plate right now."

"But you can't deny that a negative report from the committee would clean that plate a little?"

Kelstoe glared at her and, just for an instant, dropped his protective shield and exposed a naked ruthlessness. Then the shield snapped back in place and he said, "More likely, when Congress hears the full story, Touchstone will be needing a nice, big platter."

I'd had enough of the dishware metaphor, and of him. As I turned away, I saw that the commander had made one of his rare visits to the control booth. He was staring at Kelstoe with such intensity that I asked if he was all right.

It took him a few seconds to break loose from his thoughts. "I'm fine," he said with uncharacteristic annoyance. "Why shouldn't I be? And where the hell is Rudy?"

Ah, if we'd only known.

Chapter
NINE

"I'm sorry, Billy, sorry I hurt Bridget, sorry I let you down," Juan Lorinda said with what appeared to be sincerity. We were in my office at the restaurant several hours shy of the time Juan was hoping to be shaking and stirring his first cocktails of the evening at the bar downstairs. He'd certainly prepped for the job. His cheeks were clean of stubble, his brown eyes bright and imploring. His hair was freshly cut close to the scalp. His shirt was starched and a brilliant white; the pleats of his black trousers were razor-sharp. I caught the scent of bay rum in the air.

It had been two weeks since he'd slapped my waitress and his former girlfriend, Bridget Innes. He'd said he wanted to "spend some time getting my head back on straight" before returning to work. The two weeks had been his annual paid vacation. If he took a third, he'd be on his own.

"You sure you're ready?" I asked. "As much as our customers might enjoy a little violence with their pear martinis, I don't want any more of it."

"I ... I know. It was ... It won't happen again."

"Bridget gave me her version of the situation. I never did hear yours."

He cleared his throat and sat straighter in the chair. "No big story. I jus' had feelings for her. I
have
feelings for her. But she don't have the same feelings for me anymore. She's makin' it with some other dude. And I know I got to get past that."

"Identifying the problem is a good first step," I said. "But I want you to be straight with me. And yourself. Getting past a busted romance can take a while."

"I'm ready, Billy. I really wanna work, to keep busy. That way, I don't think about ... you know."

Like most recovering romantics, I was familiar with what he was going through. But unlike most of us, he wanted to do it in my bar. "What happens tonight when Bridget comes in with her first drink order?"

He took a deep breath. "I suck it up and fill the order," he said. "The next time, and the next, and the next, it'll get easier."

"And when you start feeling sorry for yourself, or you see her being nice to a customer? You call her a
puta
again?"

"No, sir," he said. "I got control now. I can do this, Billy. I'll be strong. I've handled worse things."

Indeed he had.

"Okay, Juan, let's see how it goes," I said, and watched him make his exit with the awkward lurch of a man whose right leg was metal from the thigh down.

A few minutes later, with nothing on my mind except the profit-and-loss numbers dancing across my computer monitor and the haunting melody of Billy Strayhorn's "Waters of March" on my iPod, I looked up in surprise to see Cassandra standing a few feet from my desk with two burly strangers.

I blacked out the monitor screen and popped out the ear buds in time to hear her say, "... detectives Joshua Solomon and Norman Butker."

Solomon was in his late forties, a few inches shorter than his partner, with a gray bulldog face and full lips that looked incomplete without a chewed cigar. Near his right eye was a scar containing black specks that might have been the result of gunpowder burns. He was wearing a dark-brown leather driving jacket over his shirt and tie.

Butker, a decade or more younger, was a black man with an un-pruned mustache, matching eyebrows, and a scalp full of shiny, curly hair. He was wearing a dark suit that fit him well. He stayed a half-step back from Solomon, clearly identifying Solomon as the alpha dog of the partnership.

The alpha dog flashed his badge but showed no interest in any pleasantry like shaking hands, so I remained seated. I assumed that their visit had been prompted by the Juan-Bridget spat, but I couldn't imagine who'd made the complaint. I put a curious look on my face and asked, "Detectives, what can I do for you?"

"We've got some questions about you and your restaurant here," Solomon said matter-of-factly.

I felt a twinge of annoyance but kept my face blank. "Don't tell me they've passed a law against serving gourmet meals?" I asked.

"Interesting you should bring up your meals," Solomon said. "We're not the Food Police, Mr. Blessing. We're from Homicide West."

"Who's dead?" I asked, Juan and Bridget still on my mind.

Solomon looked at Cassandra and said, "Thanks for your help, honey. We can take it from here."

"Ms. Shaw is my trusted assistant, detective," I said quickly, before Cassandra had a chance to respond. "I'd like her to hear whatever you have to say." One of the life lessons I've learned is that when conversing with homicide detectives, it's always a good idea to have a witness who's not on their team.

Solomon shrugged and said, "We understand you were an associate of one Rudyard M. Gallagher?"

"Were?"

"Yeah. That association went past tense last night when somebody murdered Mr. Gallagher."

No matter how hard you try to remain cool, there are times when you just can't keep your jaw from dropping.

"When did you see him last?" Solomon asked.

"He wasn't at work this morning." I paused to think. "Yesterday, I guess. Around ten or so."

"Ten at night?" Butker asked.

"No. In the morning, just after our show went off the air. When did it hap--?"

"You didn't see him last night?" Solomon interrupted me to ask.

"No."

"He wasn't in this restaurant last night?" Butker asked.

"That I don't know," I said. "If he was, I didn't see him. Cassandra?"

She shook her head no. "He comes in ... came in from time to time," she said. "But not last night."

"Where were you last night, Mr. Blessing?" Butker asked. "Between six and, let's say, midnight?"

"Here. I was in the building from about four p.m., when I got back from various errands. I was downstairs or in this office until about ten-thirty, when I went to bed. I'm on television very early in the morning."

Solomon turned to Cassandra. "That about right?"

She nodded. I could tell by her frown that she was still simmering from his referring to her as "honey."

"You testify to that?" Solomon asked her.

"Hang on for a minute," I said. "I'm a suspect?"

"Like they say in every crappy cop show on the TV, we're just trying to eliminate everybody we can," Solomon said. "So, ma'am, was Mr. Blessing in this building between six and midnight?"

"Yes. I did not actually see him go to sleep, but I can and will testify that I did not see him leave the building during the hours you mentioned."

"How'd Rudy die?" I asked.

"He was ..." Butker began, but stopped when the alpha dog nearly bit him.

"How would you have killed him, Mr. Blessing?" Solomon asked.

"I don't kill people," I said. "Murder's a crime and a sin."

"Good answer," Solomon said. "Oh, I almost forgot to mention: We're closing your restaurant down, as of now."

"What are you talking about?"

He pulled a folded sheet of paper from an inside breast pocket of his jacket and dropped it on my desk. "This is a warrant for us to search the building, stem to stern," Solomon said.

"Why, in God's name?"

"Because, according to Mr. Gallagher's fiancee, you and he weren't exactly the best of friends. And according to the plastic carryout containers at his condo, which is where a cleaning lady found his body this afternoon, he was probably poisoned by food from this joint."

Chapter
TEN

I spent the next couple of hours in a sort of nightmarish stupor, watching uniform and plainclothes cops and a cadre of technicians, geeky and coolly impersonal, trooping through my restaurant. Some probed the nooks and crannies, while others eagle-eyed members of the staff who were doing what they could to refrigerate the unprepared ingredients and foods that would have been used for the night's servings--servings that were now officially canceled.

Once the salvage operation was complete, the interrogations began. First the kitchen staff, and then, as they arrived, the waiters, bartenders, and busboys.

Solomon and Butker focused on me.

They took me through an hour-by-hour chronology of how I'd spent the previous night, which they would later compare to similar chronologies taken from Cassandra and the others. Then the detectives moved on to more specific questions.

Could I have left the building for just a few minutes? Long enough to hand-deliver Gallagher's dinner?

"Neither I nor anybody working here hand-delivers dinners to anybody," I informed them.

Did I have any idea how the food could have been transported from the restaurant to Gallagher's apartment?

"We do offer a takeout service," I said. "I suppose Rudy might have come in without Cassandra noticing. Or maybe he had a friend pick it up for him. Did it look like he had a friend for dinner?"

"Naw, looks like he ate by himself," Butker said. "But somebody made a mess of the condo. Place was seriously trash--"

"We ask the questions, Mr. Blessing," Solomon said, scowling at his partner.

"Okay, ask away," I said.

"You ever been in the victim's apartment?" Solomon wanted to know.

"No."

"Weren't there last night, throwing books around, cutting up the furniture, looking for something?"

"I've never been in his apartment," I said. "'Never' would include last night."

"Think of any reason why your fingerprints might have been found there?"

"They could have been on some object I touched at the studio that Mr. Gallagher took home. Did you find my prints on something?"

"You kill him, Mr. Blessing?" Butker asked, ignoring my question.

"No."

"That's it for now, then," Solomon said.

"Great," I said. "No apologies?"

"For what?" Solomon asked.

"You have any idea how many thousands of dollars you're gonna cost me in food and customers?"

"I'd be worrying about other things, I was you."

"Like what?"

"Like the rat poison we found in your kitchen," Solomon said.

"We use traps," I said. "Not poison."

"Yeah, well, this stuff was taken off the market a while ago, so maybe you haven't been using it lately. Least not on rats. The fact that it's so old should help the lab figure out if it's the same Squill that spiced up Gallagher's last meal. That'll be when you got real worries."

"What was his last meal?" I asked.

Solomon hesitated, then said, "No harm in tellin' you, I guess. Looked like chicken in some kinda gravy, what was left of it."

"Coq au vin," I said, remembering it was one of last night's specials.

"If that's what you call it," Solomon said.

"What was he drinking?"

Another pause. "Red wine."

"Couldn't the poison have been in the wine?"

Solomon frowned. "Hell, I don't know. Won't, until the lab tells me."

"But you're assuming it was in the food from my restaurant," I said.

"Who's to say the wine didn't come from here, too?"

"How long before you're finished in my kitchen?"

"We won't be able to free it up for another ... I don't know, twenty-four hours."

"In other words, no lunch or dinner tomorrow, either," I said.

"Could be worse," Solomon told me. "Oh, by the way, not that it's any big shocker, but there's no record of Gallagher's takeout. No credit card receipt at his place. You didn't happen to see it when you tore up his apartment?"

BOOK: The Morning Show Murders (1)
3.78Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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