sup with the devil

Chapter 6

Cresta Ettinger hung up the phone and stood looking at the instrument for a long time before wandering back to her den where she kept her personal home office. The wooden maple file drawer stood open at the side of the matching desk and she sat slowly in the leather chair, swiveling back and forth idly, pondering the contents.

Roger had advised her that since she was included in some of the photos he'd sent her she should consider compensating him to keep them from circulation, particularly since they depicted activities that were definitely beyond the law. But Roger had died and now Hatti was apparently taking up Roger's threats. The call from Hatti Ambrose confirmed the need for action and contacting Chester Hargrave was her initial step in damage control.

Cresta was well aware of Chester's involvement with Roger and she knew that any publicity would ruin him. To insure a strong defense she also advised William Partiger another of Roger's involved friends; Hatti needed to be neutralized and if these strategies didn't work she might have to track Hatti down and confront her herself.

Cresta pushed the drawer shut with her knee and relaxed; manipulating men was her stock in trade and nobody did it better—nobody. Hatti was about to experience the results of her influence. Cresta held out a long bare leg and turned the ankle admiring the effect and smiling. The gentlemen of Bootheel's needed her hand on the tiller... so to speak.

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The crime scene tape hung down like remnants of a celebration, the sticker on the door was slit and the police guard had been recalled. Bettmeir opened the door and flipped on the wall switch. Dirty finger smudges and residue from fingerprint powder stuck to the coarse wallpaper around the switch plate. A harsh glow lit the disorganized room and highlighted the remains of the chalk outline of Roger Cullen's corpse.

"Sloppy bunch of buggers," he muttered, kicking search debris out of the way as he crossed to the only piece of furniture with drawers. "I'm surprised nobody's been in to clean up."

"Can't expect forensic experts to be Molly Maids too." Jerry directed his attention to the kitchen and the bank of cupboards over the counter.

"I don't get it. This guy had bucks up the wahoo and he's livin' in this piddley-assed apartment furnished by the Sally Ann. Even his closet was barely used, couple of suits, a few shirts and shoes; was this just a drop in center?"

Bettmeir closed the last drawer and looked around. "It's odd, that's for sure. He must have entertained somewhere besides hotels and board rooms."

"Bootheel?" Jerry sneered.

"Not unless they were all male members."

"Nice talk, Ward."

"You know what I mean, don't be such an asshole. Have you found anything?"

"I have a lovely pair of bunny salt and peppers." He took them down and walked them on the counter top.

"Something useful, Jerry?"

"How about an open package of Woo Fu's Rice Noodles?"

"Quite fartin' around! Did you find anything or not?"

"As a matter of fact." Jerry emptied the noodle package on the counter and held up a small key. "A key piece of evidence."

"Clever. What kind of key? Let me see it."

Bettmeir took it from Jerry's fingers and turned it over in his hand, making curious humming sounds as he did.

"Does flat music help?"

"This, Mister Wise-ass, is a luggage key, probably a briefcase or a small satchel."

"Did we find any luggage here?"