Ник Сайнт: Purrfect Cut

“If you know who did it, then why are you here?” Odelia asked.

He shrugged. “I just figured you’d like to have the scoop.”

Odelia’s face twisted into a wide smile. “I love you, Uncle Alec.”

“I know you do. Now where the hell is Chase? I’ve been trying to call him all morning.”

Chapter 2

Chase joined his boss and Odelia in the kitchen. Odelia had made the three of them a pot of her trademark strong coffee and they were now sipping from the tasty black brew, accompanied by toasted waffles for Uncle Alec, yogurt for Odelia, and a bowl of cereal for Chase.

“You should watch that stuff,” said Odelia, pointing to the warm waffle her uncle was devouring.

Alec blinked. “Watch the waffle?” he stared at the thing as if expecting some bug to come crawling out.

“It contains a lot of bad stuff. Palm oil, for one thing. And you know what palm oil does for your cholesterol, Uncle Alec.”

He stared at her. “Um, no, I don’t.”

“It’s bad for you, all right? Just… try not to eat too much of it.”

He gave her a sheepish nod, then shoved the rest of his waffle home. He’d sprayed a liberal helping of whipped cream from the can on top of it, and now licked the remnants from his fingers. There were a lot of people in Alec’s life who tried to make him eat the right thing, and who had taken it upon themselves to alter his diet for the better. Only problem was, Uncle Alec was a bachelor, and what he did in the sanctity of his own home was nobody’s business but his own, an opinion he stuck to diligently. Chase had lived with the big guy for a while, and seen firsthand the kind of diet the Chief kept. Many were the nights the two of them had sat on the big couch in Alec’s living room, watching a game on the big TV and shoving down burgers, slices of pepperoni pizza and chips. Washed down with beer, it added to the impressive belly the police chief had managed to construct around his midsection.

Good thing, at least, that he usually ate his dinners at his sister Marge’s place, who made sure her brother got some wholesome nourishment in him.

“So if this fashion designer was killed with a knife,” said Odelia, “and his boyfriend was found standing over him with that same knife clutched in his hand, blood all over him, has he confessed to the crime already?”

“Funny you should ask that,” said Uncle Alec. “No, he hasn’t.”

Odelia cut a glance to her boyfriend, who’d risen from the table and was now engaged in his favorite morning ritual of preparing a protein shake to take into the office. “So… he’s claiming to be innocent or what?” asked Chase.

“Not exactly,” said Alec, digging a knife into the pot of Nutella and applying an ample spread to his next waffle and ignoring Odelia’s look of concern. “He has no recollection of the crime.”

“What do you mean?” asked Odelia.

“He has no idea how he got there, how the knife got into his hand, and how his dead boyfriend got dead in the first place. Complete blackout.”

“Who is this Gabriel Crier anyway?” asked Chase.

Alec took his little notebook from his front shirt pocket and flipped it open. He cleared his throat noisily. “Gabriel Jake Crier. Fifty-four. Worked as a hairstylist to the stars for a while, before meeting Leonidas Flake at an art show in Paris and becoming his personal hairdresser and then something more.”

“How old was Leonidas?” asked Odelia, gratefully accepting the protein shake Chase had just mixed up.

“Um, seventy-eight, and still going strong by all accounts,” said Alec, kindly refusing a similar offer.

“It’s good for you,” Odelia pointed out. “Drink it. You’ll like it. It’s a vitamin bomb and you’ll feel much better.”

“It tastes like horse piss.”

Instead of being insulted, Chase laughed loudly. “And how would you know what horse piss tastes like?”

“I don’t have to taste it to know what it tastes like,” said Alec, with the kind of strange logic the unhealthy use to remain unhealthy. He took a pack of cigarettes from his other front shirt pocket and shook one out.

Odelia watched on in horror. “Don’t tell me you started smoking again!”

“No, I haven’t,” he said. “But I can’t seem to shake the habit of taking one out of the pack from time to time.” And as he said it, he put the cigarette to his lips. He smiled a beatific smile. “Feels so good,” he muttered, then grudgingly put it away again and returned the pack to his shirt pocket. “Where were we?”

“So Gabriel Crier worked for Leonidas Flake as his personal hairstylist and something more?” Chase prompted as he licked the green sludge from his lips.

“Right. He was also rumored to be the designer’s right-hand man.”

“As a fashion designer?” asked Odelia.

“Was he any good?”

“Who knows,” said the chief with a sigh. “I know about as much about fashion as the next chief of police.” He tucked away his little notebook.

“Maybe he felt things weren’t moving along fast enough?” Odelia said. “And so he figured if he killed his boyfriend he’d become the new top guy?”

“Yeah, but that’s just it. I talked to the guy’s attorney early this morning. As far as he knows the most recent will and testament doesn’t exactly hand the keys to the kingdom to the boyfriend. On the contrary. Everything goes to—”

“The kids?” Chase offered.

“Siblings?” Odelia guessed.

“—his cat,” said Uncle Alec with a quick look towards the living room couch, where four cats sat listening to the kitchen counter conversation—Brutus had joined his friends, who had all made themselves comfortable.

“What?” asked Chase with a laugh. “A cat is inheriting the Leonidas Flake empire?”

“Looks like,” said Alec. “Unless Mr. Flake made a last-minute change his attorney isn’t aware of—and this seems very unlikely—the cat gets everything. The millions, the brand, the stores, the global fashion empire.”

Odelia frowned. “I don’t get it. How can a cat inherit a company?”

“Yeah, a cat can’t run a business, can it?” said Chase, directing his question at Odelia, just to be on the safe side. She was, after all, the feline expert.

“I guess a cat could run a company,” she said slowly, “if that cat knew a thing or two about business. But they would still have to relay all of the decisions through a human, who would then have to organize the actual day-to-day running of the business along those instructions. It would require a person who could intuit the cat’s decision-making process, of course.”

“A person like you, you mean,” said Chase, who’d recently been made aware of the fact that his fiancée was one of those rare people who could actually communicate with cats.

She nodded.

Chase turned to Alec. “And did Flake have such a person on the payroll?”

“That was Gabriel’s task,” he said. “He was in charge of Pussy’s routine. Pussy being the name of Flake’s cat. Mr. Crier took Pussy to her weekly visits to the pet salon, kept a close eye on her diet, organized her parties—”

“Sorry, her parties?” asked Chase.

“Yes, apparently this Pussy has a very busy social life, and as a rule Mr. Crier planned a lot of activities for her—she had a full schedule.”

“Who told you all this stuff?” asked Odelia.

Alec dragged a meaty paw through the devastated area that was his scalp. “You’d be surprised how chatty staff members of the recently departed can be.”

“You should have called,” said Chase. “I would have helped set up the interviews.”

“I did call you,” said Uncle Alec. “And Odelia.”

Both Odelia and Chase grabbed for their phones. “Shoot,” Chase muttered. “Must have forgotten to plug the darn thing in last night.”