Bruce DeSilva - A Scourge of Vipers

“You’re really sure?”

“I am.”

“Maybe you’re not really this much of an angel. I’m going to give you another week to think about it. If you haven’t changed your mind by then, I’ll send the check by registered mail.”

“Okay, then.”

So far, this wasn’t the romantic evening I’d envisioned, but by the time the entrees arrived, things took a turn for the better.

“I downloaded Brian McKnight’s old Back at One album yesterday,” she said.

“Love songs?”

“Yes. I love that man’s voice.”

“Does he put you in the mood?”

“Wanna find out?”

“Let’s skip dessert,” I said.

And this time, she let me stay the night.

In the morning, I awoke to an empty bed. Norah Jones’s “Come Away with Me” floated in from the next room. Beneath the music, I heard Yolanda rattling pans in the kitchen. I rose, stepped over the clothes we’d hurriedly shed the night before, and stepped into the shower. I was lathering up when she opened the shower door and stepped inside. I grinned and wrapped my arms around her.

“There’s nothing finer than a wet woman,” I said.

“Any wet woman?”

“Pretty much, but I’ve got a crazy thing for this one.”

“Maybe this will make you crazier,” she said. She smiled mischievously and slid to her knees.

After we toweled off, we slipped into terry-cloth robes, sat at the kitchen table, and devoured the cheese omelets she’d prepared.

“This is wonderful,” I said, “but you know what would be better?”

“What?”

“If we moved in together. Then every morning could be like this one.”

She fell silent. I held my breath.

“You haven’t said the words,” she said.

“I love you, Yolanda.”

“I think maybe I love you, too.”

“What will it take to get you to hit the delete button on maybe?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll wait,” I said.

“How long? They say black women are stubborn.”

“However long it takes.”

I was helping Yolanda clear the dishes when Johnny Rivers’s “Secret Agent Man,” my ringtone for McCracken, started playing on my cell phone.

“Haven’t seen your face for more than a week,” he said.

“I’ve been busy.”

“Think you could drop by the office Monday? We should talk.”

So shortly after noon on Monday, I pushed through the door to McCracken & Associates.

“Good morning, Mr. Mulligan,” Sharise said. “Mr. McCracken is with a client now, but he’ll join you in your office momentarily.”

I opened the door with my name on it and stepped inside. A large butcher block desk, a black leather office chair, two matching visitor’s chairs, and two oak file cabinets were tastefully arranged on a maroon carpet that looked as if it had never been trod on.

I sank into my chair and examined the items on the desk. A new HP desktop computer with a twenty-inch flat screen. A humidor with twenty Ashtons inside and plenty of room for more. An unopened box containing a 9-millimeter Walther PPQ M2, the latest update on the PPK-James Bond’s gun. And two boxes of ammunition. I left the semi-auto in the box. Until I found time to get comfortable with it, I was going to carry the Kel-Tec.

“Like your new digs?” McCracken asked as he stepped into the office.

“A lot nicer than I’m used to.”

We shook hands, and he dropped into one of the visitor’s chairs.

“Been working the Mario Zerilli case?”

“I have,” I lied.

“And?”

“I’m not getting anywhere.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.”

“Any ideas? I’m fresh out.”

“Well,” he said, “you could always confess to shooting Romeo Alfano and stealing the two hundred grand. That would certainly make the client happy.”

I cocked an eyebrow.

“Hey! I was just kidding.”

“Were you?”

He drew in a deep breath and blew it out through his nose.

“I have to confess, Mulligan. The possibility did occur to me.”

“Because I could have returned to the hotel room after we parted ways in front of the Omni,” I said.

“You could have.”

“You could have, too,” I said.

“Fuck you, Mulligan. The cops didn’t find any of Alfano’s cash in my apartment.”

“You heard about that, huh?”

“From a source in the detective division.”

“It was planted.”

“Probably,” he said, “but you’d say that either way.”

“Of course I would.”

“I wonder why the cops haven’t arrested you yet.”

“I’ve been wondering the same thing.”

He leaned back in the chair and laced his big hands behind his head.

“Maybe the homicide twins think we’re in this together,” he said.

“Have they brought you in for questioning?” I asked.

“Not yet.”

“Seems odd.”

“It does.”

“Occam’s razor says the simplest answer is the right one,” I said.

“Meaning Mario is guilty.”

“Yeah.”

“Not what our client wants to hear.”

“He probably doesn’t give a shit,” I said. “Annunzio gets paid either way.”

McCracken nodded.

“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” I said.

“No.”

“Something I should tell you.”

“What?”

“I bought a new Mustang convertible this week.”

“You know I gotta ask.”

“Go ahead.”

“Where’d the money come from?”

“Yolanda got me a fat wrongful termination settlement from The Dispatch. ”

“Really?”

“Go ahead and ask her.”

“Aw, fuck,” he said. “We’re both getting paranoid.”

“No way to start a partnership,” I said.

“No it’s not. We need to trust each other.”

“But we don’t,” I said.

“So what are we going to do?”

“I don’t know about you,” I said, “but I’m gonna take another crack at the hotel staff. Ask if any of them saw somebody go into Romeo Alfano’s room before the cops arrived. Or maybe saw one of the homicide twins sneak out with a briefcase before Parisi showed up.”

“Grab photos of Freitas and Wargart off the Dispatch website and show them around,” McCracken said.

“Good idea.”

“And Mulligan?”

“Yeah?”

“Go ahead and take a snapshot of me with your cell phone. You might as well show that around, too.”

I’d already struck out earlier with the desk clerk, the concierge, and the hotel dick, so this time around I tried my luck with the housekeeping staff. That didn’t get me anywhere either. Most of them were Mexicans who didn’t understand English. Or maybe pretended they didn’t. They probably thought I was from the INS. I couldn’t even get them to look at the photos.

I was striding through the hotel lobby, heading for the exit, when Fergie, the hotel detective, stepped into my path and put a hand on my chest.

“I’d like a word,” he said. “Please step into my office.”

Fergie wedged his rump into his swivel chair and plunked his Buster Browns on his desk. I plucked a stack of manila file folders off the visitor’s chair, dropped them on the floor, and sat. Behind him, a citation for bravery he’d earned when he was a Providence detective was mounted on the wall.

“You’ve been questioning our housekeeping staff,” he said.

“I have.”

“Why?”

“I think you know why.”

“You’re not a reporter anymore, Mulligan. How come you’re still sticking your nose into this?”

I pulled out my wallet and flashed my P.I. credentials.

“Who are you working for?” he asked.