“They can’t do that!” Odelia cried. “He doesn’t have that authority. Dan would never fire me just because the NYPD commissioner says so.”
“No, but they could make your life very difficult,” I said. “These two are up there with the happy few, honey. They’ve got powerful friends who might put the squeeze on Dan and his advertisers until he’s forced to choose between you or the survival of his paper. No, if you’re going after those two you’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way: by launching a smear campaign.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re a reporter. You write the story and credit an anonymous source.” I pointed at myself and Dooley. “We’re your anonymous sources, honey.”
“But how can I go after him? I don’t have a single shred of proof.”
“Leave that to us,” I said. “First we’ll find ourselves a witness of the commissioner’s indiscretions, and then we’ll get you your proof. Like I said, someone somewhere saw those two, and, like with cats, nowadays smartphones are pretty much ubiquitous, so someone’s bound to have snapped a picture, even if they don’t know its importance. And once those pictures surface, they’ll corroborate the story you’re about to write.”
She smiled down at me. “You guys are really special, do you know that?”
“I do know that,” I acknowledged. “Of course we’re special.”
“Just like Babe,” Dooley muttered.
“Just like Babe,” I said. Dooley had been right all along. We were special, and we didn’t even have to speak sheep to prove it. Or dance like penguins.
Chapter 16
Odelia pulled the car up in front of the police station, and let the cats out. Dooley seemed reluctant to be shifted, so Max gave him a poke and he finally relented, muttering something about never being allowed to get any sleep.
“We have a job to do, Dooley,” said Max solemnly. “Sleep can wait.”
She watched the two cats stalk off, launching their all-important mission, and smiled to herself. If it hadn’t been for her special talent of being able to talk to cats, her life would have looked quite different. She walked into the police station and waltzed straight past Dolores, who announced that this time the chief was in, and would be more than happy to see her.
Happy or not, he was going to see her anyway. She needed to know what the medical examiner had discovered.
“Hey, Odelia,” said her uncle when she breezed into his office. “I was just going to call you.” And he held up his phone as proof of these words.
She plunked down in a chair and gave him a tense look. All this business with Chase had only served to take her mind off the murder case, which was probably a whole lot more important than whether the detective was innocent of the crime he’d been accused of or not.
“Shoot,” she finally said. “How did Paulo Frey die?”
“Well,” said her uncle, leaning back in his chair, “looks like bludgeoning.”
“Bludgeoning?”
“The guy had his head smashed in. And since we found a poker next to the body, that just might be our murder weapon. Especially since it was a little bent out of shape, exactly the shape of a person’s head, actually.”
She whistled through her teeth. “That must have been some hit.”
“Yeah, whoever killed him hit him so hard they fractured his skull, which, according to the ME, is what caused his death. And a good thing, too.”
“That’s a little harsh. You didn’t even know the guy.”
Her uncle emitted a chuckle. “I mean that if he’d been stabbed or had his throat slit we might never have found out, as the body was too decomposed.”
“Anything else? Chase told me you pinpointed time of death?”
“Yeah, the techies discovered that Frey used to sync his smartphone to his laptop, which was an automated process, apparently. The last time he did was September sixteen, which is also the last time the laptop was accessed.”
“Because it ended up in the cesspit along with the body.”
“Exactly.”
“Did you get anything off his phone?”
“Nope. We’re checking his laptop, but so far it hasn’t yielded any clues.”
“No webcam picture of the killer bending over the victim while he was busy working on his next masterpiece?”
He laughed. “Now wouldn’t that be something? But no. No picture of the killer.”
“Too bad.”
“Yeah.” He gave her a quick look. “Chase tells me you keep popping up wherever he goes?”
“I could say the same thing about him.”
“It’s driving him nuts,” said her uncle with a grin. “I guess NYPD cops aren’t used to reporters interviewing suspects and going over the crime scene.”
“I guess not,” she said with a smile.
“You talked to Aissa Spring and Gabby Cleret, so there’s not much you don’t already know, I guess,” he said, checking a file on his desk.
“Apart from the fact that Paulo Frey was not a nice person? I guess not.”
“Yeah, he was a piece of work, all right,” her uncle admitted. “I talked to Hetta Fried, by the way.”
“The owner of the Writer’s Lodge? What did she have to say?”
“Well, apparently Frey never paid his bills. He had this thing where he simply ignored any reminder she’d send him until she threatened with a lawsuit. Then he’d pay up, but only a fraction of the total amount.”
“But why? I thought he was rich.”
Her uncle shrugged. “Maybe that’s how he got rich? He hadn’t paid his bills for the last two years.”
“And she still allowed him to come back?”
“Sure. Having a big-name author like him was good for business. Just the mention of his name on the website attracted a lot of lesser writers, who wanted to write in the same place as the master, hoping to catch some of the magic.” The last word he said making air quotes.
“I can’t imagine Hetta would kill him over unpaid bills, though.”
“Me neither. She wasn’t going to kill the goose with the golden eggs, even if he didn’t pay his bills. Besides, this murder is murder on her business. She told me she’s received a dozen cancellations already and might have to close down the lodge if this keeps up.”
“I guess lesser writers don’t want to write where the master got killed.”
“I guess not,” he said with a grin. “Oh, and I also talked to the production company that went belly up after that Indiana Jones fracas.”
She sat up. Now that was a valuable lead. “And? Any suspects?”
He studied his notes. “I talked to one of the principals, and he didn’t have a lot of good things to say about Frey. In fact I don’t think I’ve ever heard so many four-letter words in such a short space of time. But he also assured me he didn’t kill Frey. And yes, I checked his alibi,” he said before she could ask. “You’re talking to an old dog here, honey. I know how to do my job. The guy was at a party in Beverly Hills, and so was his partner. So no dice.”
“Too bad,” she said, disappointed. That was such a good lead. Then she brightened. “Maybe they hired a professional to get rid of Frey?”
He stared at her. “Odelia, honey, movie producers don’t go around having people killed. It’s Hollywood, not the Mob.”
She shrugged. “Just saying. It’s a possibility.”
“A very implausible one.”
“So, um…” She stared at the desk. “Have you heard from Chase?”
He eyed her with a humorous expression on his face. “Yeah, he told me he saw you snooping around the lodge. He also told me you almost broke your neck.”
“I didn’t break my neck,” she protested. “I would have been perfectly fine if he hadn’t started badgering me, causing me to lose my footing.”
“So he caused you to lose your footing, huh? How did that happen?”
She noticed he was grinning from ear to ear, and glared at him. He was just as bad as Max and Dooley. Did everyone think she had the hots for Chase Kingsley? “He caught me just as I was trying to get into the place.”