“I’ve gotta checkin with Emily. Thanks for the drinks.”
Pernell was scribbling furiously on a steno pad. He didn’t seem to hear me.
Chapter Eight
The Fuchsia Flamingo hadn’t opened yet, and the doors were locked. I pounded a few times and waited. A minute later, the door swung open, revealing Gus Leach’s massive frame. He looked beat.
“Come on in.” I’d never imagined the mutant could sound so friendly.
The room was dark, except for a soft white light emanating from behind the bar on the far side. I followed Leach to the light and pulled up beside him on a sparkling purple bar-stool. The drink in front of him was at least a triple. He raised the glass to his mouth and reduced it to a shot. He shivered slightly and turned to face me.
“I’m glad you came by. I hope you didn’t have any problems with the police.”
“Nothing serious.”
Leach nodded and got up from his seat. He walked wearily around to the back of the bar. “Want a drink?”
“Sure.”
“Bourbon, right?”
“How’d you guess?”
“Physiognomy. It’s a hobby of mine.”
He filled a glass, neat. Just the way I like it. “You can tell almost anything about a person from their facial features.”
“Really? So I have a bourbon face?”
“Something like that.” Leach poured himself a quadruple Bacardi, straight. I tried not to stare. “I really want to thank you for what you did last night. You saved Emily’s life.”
“How’s she doing?”
“It shook her up pretty good, but she isn’t hurt. If you’d shown up any later…” he shook his head. “She’s upstairs, trying to get some rest.”
I took a deep drink. Leech had given me the good stuff. I swirled it around and took a delicate sip. I raised my glass, but he was looking away.
Then I turned to see Emily coming down the stairway. Leach set his string down and walked over to meet her.
“I’m fine, Gus. I just couldn’t sleep anymore.” She walked toward me and settled onto a bar stool. She was wearing a green, crushed velvet robe. Despite the dark circles under her eyes, she was still stunning.
“Gus told me what you did. I don’t know how to thank you.”
I could think of a few ways, but it probably wasn’t the right time to go into detail. “It was a close shave. I’m just glad you’re OK.”
Leach was behind the bar, mixing a Bloody Mary. He tossed a celery stalk into the concoction and placed it in front of Emily.
“Thanks.” She took a sip. She didn’t look like she was in the mood to answer questions, but I didn’t have the luxury of delaying my investigation.
“Listen, Emily. I need to ask you about a few things, if you don’t mind.”
Leach leaned on to the bar. “C’mon, Murphy. She’s been through enough. The cops already grilled her last night. Give it a rest for a while.”
“It’s OK, Gus. I owe him. Answering a few questions isn’t any big deal.”
She turned to me and took a deep breath. “Go ahead.”
“The man who attacked you took something from your apartment. A box of some kind. What was it?
“I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know what was in it. It was a weird box… it didn’t open. At least I couldn’t figure out how to open it.”
“Where did it come from? Do have any idea why someone would want to steal it?”
Emily glanced up at Gus.
“You don’t need to tell him anything. It’s none of his business.”
Emily looked pensively into the tomato juice and stirred it with the celery stalk. After a long pause, she turned and looked straight into my eyes. “The box was sent to me by Thomas. Thomas Malloy. My husband.”
I picked up my bourbon and took a long drink. This was just a fine how-do-you-do. Everything I’d seen and heard over the past few days had suddenly shifted around 90 degrees.
“Pardon me for being stupid, but let me get this straight. You’re Thomas Malloy’s wife?”
“We were married about a year ago. I used to work at another club here in the city. Gus was the manager. That’s where I met Thomas. He used to come in and watch me sing. He was so sweet and lonely.”
“So where is your husband?”
“I don’t know,” She said quietly.
“But he sent a box you.”
“That’s right. It came yesterday.”
“And there was no indication where he’d sent it from?”
Emily shook her head. “The box was wrapped in plain brown paper. There was no return address, no letter or anything inside. Just the box.”
“How do you know it was from your husband?”
“I recognised his writing on the outside.”
I wanted to take a look at the paper the box had been wrapped in. Even without a return address, something about the wrapping might help me track down Malloy. “What did you do with the paper?”
Emily shrugged. “I threw it out, I guess. I don’t know where it is.”
I’d look for it later. For now, I needed to keep Emily talking.
“Why did Malloy leave? Did he give you any reason for not telling you where he’d be?” the muscles around Emily’s mouth tensed, and Leach half rose from his chair. Immediately, I knew I’d crossed into sensitive territory. I quickly rephrased the question.
“Do you think your husband left because he was in danger?”
Emily didn’t respond, but the look on her face said enough.
Everything fell into place. I turned to Leach. “You’re a friend of Malloy’s, right? He left Emily here and asked you to take care of her until he came back.”
Leach glanced nervously Emily. When he looked back at me, he nodded. Suddenly, I was the only one talking. “Listen, all I want to do is find Malloy. I’m not one of the bad guys.”
Both of them were still looking at me.
“Okay. One more question, and I’ll get out of here. Do either of you know why Malloy’s on the run?”
Emily cleared her throat and took a sip of her drink. “Thomas never talked about his work. He said it was better that way, safer for me. I honestly don’t know why he left,” She said wistfully.
A dumpster sat in the alley by the side door to the Flamingo. With any luck, the wrapping paper would be inside. Dumpster searching hadn’t been a part of my PI training curriculum. The movies that inspired me to become a detective never showed that part of the job. Oh, well. I rolled up my sleeves and dug in.
It was stinking, rotten work. Damp tissues, gum, coffee grounds, little hairy slabs of food. It reminded me of the buffet restaurants by fat Uncle Monty always took me to. I was glad I hadn’t eaten anything.
Eventually it paid off. I’d gotten lucky. The brown-paper wrapper had been stuffed into a garbage bag with a stack of newspapers and was stain (and smell) free.
I stepped inside my office. Laying the wrapper on the desk, I went to my file cabinet to retrieve my investigative props. Kneeling down, I opened the bottom drawer.
They’d been moved.
I looked through the other jurors in the cabinet and the desk. Nothing seemed to missing, but someone had certainly searched my office. The inspector the locks and a daughter the fire escape, as well as the windows. There was no sign of forced entry. Whoever had broken in had even gotten Hold Of My access code, or was a consummate professional. Me the possibility was very appealing.
I sat down and lit a Lucky Strike, trying to relax and come up with a rational explanation. Maybe Nilo had gotten bored and decided to snoop around some of the rooms. Unlikely. Nilo would have stolen something. Maybe I’d forgotten to lock the door… no, I was certain I’d locked it.