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.
********
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?"
"Not according to the property list but there was a bank account number and a safety deposit key."
"And nobody's looked yet?"
"We're the friggin' detectives on the case, Jer. That's our job."
"Well then let's get our job done and we can all go home."
"Rita Cornell, remember?"
"Fine, then let's get the place tossed and we can all go and do our job and then go home." The big detective stormed around the room, kicking rubbish, looking behind pictures and on shelves, finding nothing, then headed for the door leaving his partner scowling at his broad back.
The bank was in a corner of a single story store with a manager and two tellers in a ten-business strip mall. A convenience store with so many posters on the windows it looked closed stood on one side and a pitifully drab hairdressing salon on the other. Inside, full bore advertising posters hung from the front of the counter advertising the absolute lowest rates for a long list of bank promotions.
Some kid, or a very short person, had applied a red marker moustache to the pretty young woman touting their benefits. Bettmeir crossed to the first teller and was pleased to see a security camera following his progress across the lobby; most of these small banks relied on fixed image, intermittent exposure on the entrance and maybe the back as well. Jerry helped himself to a handful of candies from a stand by the door.
"How are we today and how can I help you, sir?" Huge white teeth glared from a frame of ruby lipstick on an umber background.
"We are well, thankyou and you can help me by opening the safety deposit box for this account." Bettmeir slid a sheaf of papers across the counter, weighted down by his badge.
Bright teeth studied the badge and papers and pursed her huge lips. 'I'll have to get Mister Wattner to approve, if you'll just wait one minute."
Bettmeir smiled and took back his badge, watching the large bottom jiggle toward the tiny office in the corner.
"Is that a covetous look I see there, Ward?" Jerry offered him a candy, popping it in his own mouth when he refused.
"If I simply wanted comfort."
"Right." Jerry moved the candy to the side of his mouth and prepared a smile of his own as the teller returned with a pencil of a man wearing massive, black framed glasses.
Bettmeir flashed his badge again and introduced Jerry who beamed his own row of gleaming dentures on cue at the teller. She started to smile back but his intensity moved her back and to the side of the nerdy Wattner.
"Your papers seem to be in order, detective, if you'll follow Miss Shawzeen she'll be happy to open the designated box."
Jerry emitted a lewd groan, jockeying for position behind Miss Shawzeen.
The box slid out into Bettmeir's hands and he nodded toward a cubicle with a half door. "In there?"
Miss Shawzeen blinked lawn rake eyelashes and waddled ahead to open the door, stepping back as both men tried to squeeze in at the same time.
"Why don't you go first, Detective Asper?" Bettmeir ground out the invitation between clenched teeth.
"Just call for me when you're finished." Miss Shawzeen said, happily leaving the company of the two men.
"I think I'd be callin' for you before I finished," Jerry said quietly to her retreating back.
"How about wetting yourself down and concentrating on business." Bettmeir opened the box and looked inside—disappointed. "Nothing that takes a key." He picked through the contents, keeping a couple of slips of paper and tossing the rest on the table.
"What are the papers?" Jerry picked up a folded sheet, opened it and read aloud. "This is just personal insurance stuff. What else is there?"
"An address. 2317 Montrose Avenue."
"What's there?"
"Gee, Detective, I thought you'd never ask. How the hell should I know!"
"It was rhetorical, smartass. What's that other slip?"
"Well what we have here, Detective Asper is a list of names—men's names and numbers. What do you make of that?"
Jerry took the sheet and humphed. "Not a hell of a lot. Clients? Classmates? Relatives?"
"Clients I might accept but classmates? Relatives? Jeez, Asper, no wonder you're on the recruiting poster."
"You think?"
"I do."
"So it's clients then?"
"It's where I'd put my money."
"Oh Miss Shawzeen!" Jerry stepped out of the cubicle and held the door.