Me, Myself and Why? Read online

  It was a necktie.

  Chapter Seventy-two

  “Michaela, you’ve got to lock down George!” I was outside Scherzo’s house; the paramedics were there; local officers (including Lynn and Jim) were taking my direction; and Patrick was suitably impressed at the moving parts I was controlling on the scene. All in all, pretty sexy.

  You know, besides the guy bleeding from his head, and the dead U-dogs on the lawn.

  And, um, the escaped serial killer.

  But not for long. George’s days were numbered.

  “This is impossible,” Michaela was trying to tell me, but I heard the doubt in her voice. “George has been through background checks and therapy—”

  “You mean, the same background checks and therapy that tell us he’s a sociopath capable of extreme violence to satisfy his God complex?”

  “He attacks only skinheads and bigots.”

  “Well shucks, boss, maybe all the victims are bigots!” How could she be so obtuse? Wasn’t George a man? Didn’t he have a penis? She should be on board with this.

  “Next to you, he’s our most consistently performing agent. . . . Cadence, this could shut BOFFO down. We need to be careful. And preferably quiet.”

  I almost drop-kicked the cell phone. “Fine—be careful. Be quiet. But LOCK HIM DOWN, BITTY-BIPSTER!”

  Then I hung up.

  Chapter Seventy-three

  After asking Lynn to drive my car home, putting Jim and the other agents onto George (well, phooey on Michaela and her careful and her quiet!), and sending Patrick on his way, I rode in the ambulance with Jeremy.

  I could tell after a quick check with the EMTs that his wounds were minor and he’d likely be released later that day. More than anything, he was upset about the dogs.

  “She’s k-k-gonna be pissed,” was the sobbing reply when I asked about them.

  “She?”

  “They’re ln-ln-not mine. My sister’s. She’s in the area, but she’s been moving. I offered t-t-to watch them. They like me. Liked me, I mean.”

  I almost cried. “I’ll bet they did. I’m so sorry about that. Did you see who killed them—was it the same man?”

  He stared at me, and for a chilling moment I was sure he had seen the whole thing and was going to accuse my sister Adrienne. But then, he let loose with a ferocious sneeze, and then a coughing fit, and the EMT applied an oxygen mask.

  “We should probably let him calm down,” she told me.

  I agreed. Jeremy Scherzo had been through enough.

  Chapter Seventy-four

  Part of what got Patrick to leave the scene in North Minneapolis so quickly was a whispered promise to go out with him later. Being the stand-up kind of girl I am, I decided to follow through—this time, without the canceling and the honking and the slapping and the lecturing but maybe the kissing but definitely NOT the slugging.

  That said, I almost did cancel when I got the call at home from Michaela.

  “We can’t find George.”

  “Sugar on a shingle!”

  “You should be careful. I’d like to send a couple of agents out to—”

  “No!” Not Frick and Frack! “I’ll be fine. George probably knows I know, now. He’s not going to come after me. He’s running. If you have agent resources, put them there.” I bit my lip. Don’t assign me tonight don’t assign me tonight don’t assign

  “All right. You’ve had quite a day, Cadence. Why don’t you rest. Call in every couple of hours and let us know you’re okay.”

  I paused. “You’re going to put a tail on me, aren’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Can I make a suggestion?”

  Chapter Seventy-five

  By the time Patrick showed up, our chaperones were ready.

  “Patrick, I don’t believe I had time earlier today to introduce two of my colleagues from the Minneapolis Police Department. This is Jimmy Clapp, and Lynn Rivers.”

  They were both off duty now and in dress casual clothes—the first time I’d ever seen either of them in dark jeans—and they both looked great. Lynn’s black pumps really made a statement: her gun was not the most dangerous thing about her.

  “Condition of the date,” I hurriedly explained before Patrick could protest. “George Pinkman is still at large. My agency is worried about me, since I appear to be an . . . how do you say it, Jim?”

  “Object of interest,” he reminded me. I could tell he wasn’t sure whether to sulk at the fact that I was going to have a date right in front of him, or take seriously the option of his fellow officer standing next to him, or shoot the only other male in the room and try to claim both women for himself. Ah, to be a testosterone-driven, hairy man. Decisions, decisions.

  “Right. An object of interest to our suspect. Which I don’t get. I mean, Patrick, do you see anything here that could represent any object of interest to a guy?” It was an outrageous flirt, but I was wearing my favorite red blouse and black jeans with red pumps, and I knew I was working it. These clothes were perfect for me—the jeans would have been too tall for Shiro’s compact stature and the blouse too diaphanous for Adrienne’s muscular frame—but despite what I knew would be their protests, I decided that since I was the one doing all the work of showering and dressing and makeup for this date, I was the one that was going to choose the outfit.

  See, I realized, the black dress from the first date was too universal! My sisters could look fat or ridiculous this time, if they wanted to pop up. And good luck to them.

  “Anyway, Cadence called Jimmy and me, and we’re happy to help,” Lynn finished explaining. “So where to?”

  “I’ve reserved a table at the Mahogany Stallion,” Patrick answered. “Er, the table was for two.”

  “Don’t sweat it. If we have to, we’ll flash our badges. That’s good for a couple of extra chairs at most joints.”

  My date’s nose wrinkled. “I don’t know if they’d consider themselves a joint.”

  “Oh, stop being snooty. Jim and Lynn will be great company!” I truly believed this. I had been dying to spend time out of work with Lynn, and heck, I’d almost dated Jim! So how could this be bad?

  Chapter Seventy-six

  It was bad. Okay, it didn’t involve physical violence like the last time, but it was still bad.

  First, the maître d’ at the Cherry Horse or Oak Duck or whatever the fig this restaurant called itself—well he did not take kindly to the doubling in size of our party. Apparently, the wineglasses and napkins and other bits of settings had already been “placed” for two, don’t you know. He wasn’t even impressed by the officers’ badges (or my hints at federal authority). Those settings—they’d been PLACED. So that cost Patrick fifty bucks to fix.

  Second, the chief of the Minneapolis police was there, and he recognized Lynn and Jim. Fraternizing among police officers, even in those police departments that allowed it, was not encouraged at all. So they had a great morning to look forward to the next day.

  Third, Patrick was a bit of an ass.

  “This bread is hard,” he announced to the table shortly after we received our basket.

  At first, I saw this as an opportunity to brag about him. “I don’t know if you two knew, but Patrick is a baker. More than a baker—he runs the—”

  “That’s not my point. My point is, they’re serving us stale bread! The maître d’ must have talked to the kitchen.”

  Lynn frowned. “Why would he bother talking to the kitchen about us?”

  “Because he’s ticked that I showed up with twice as many people as I made the reservation for.”

  I reached for his hand. “I’m sure that’s not it at—”

  “Places like this get off on screwing with high-maintenance customers!” He moved his hand away. “Cadence, I know these things. I run in these circles. I don’t expect you or your friends to understand.”

  That lowered the Curtain of Uncomfortable Silence upon us all for a good ten seconds.

  Then, chewing my tongue
, I offered: “Well, golly, Patrick. I’m sorry I don’t understand your circle. Would you like me to try to find you a date who does?”

  Jim cast a nervous glance over his shoulder at the chief’s table. “I think he’s with a woman who’s not his wife.”

  Lynn shrugged. “Does that help us or hurt us?”

  “I think it fucks us royally. Do you think they have any openings over in SPPD?”

  “I don’t know if I could do St. Paul. I hear the mayor there—”

  “Guys, please don’t worry.” I gave them my best puppy eyes. “I’ll talk to Michaela. She’ll call your chief. She’ll make sure he understands. I—”

  “Where is our waiter?”

  “I don’t know, Patrick, but I’m sure he wasn’t going to show up before the end of my sentence.”

  “I gave that maître d’ fifty bucks, and he fucked me.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s the only one who’s going to.”

  Finally, I’d got his attention. Unfortunately, I was met with a sneer. “Be serious. You were never going to, anyway. I’d have to get one of your sisters—”

  “Waiter!” I called out desperately. Chiclets and Toblerone, I realized Patrick didn’t know that Lynn and Jim didn’t know my secret! How was I going to get him to shut up?

  “I mean honestly, if you can just put yourself in one of those trances, you—”

  “Jim and Lynn could you please go see if you can hunt down that super waiter I think I saw him at that table in the far corner thank you very much that’s an awesome thing you’re doin’ there thanks.”

  Once they had gone, I grabbed his chin and looked deep into his eyes for mercy. “Okay. They don’t know. You can’t tell them.”

  He was momentarily confused, but caught on after a few seconds. “All right. What’s it in for me?”

  “I won’t think you’re a dirty skunk.”

  “Too late! You already think that. I want action.”

  “I’m not going to give myself up—”

  “Nothing that serious.” He considered. “Go down on me tonight.”

  I almost slapped him, but then remembered my promise to myself. “What, here?”

  “No! Back at your apartment.”

  I shook my head. “I’ll give you a really good kiss.”

  “You’ve already given me—”

  “Without knocking you unconscious afterward.”

  “Hand job.”

  This wasn’t happening to me. “I’ll let you put your hand up my blouse.”

  He squinted.

  I sighed. “And then I’ll let you see me naked.” Apparently I had been wrong; it was definitely happening to me.

  “For a full minute.”

  “Ten seconds.”

  “Thirty.”

  “Twenty, and I’ll lick a mirror.” Where had I come up with that? Not to worry; it was too silly to be sexy. Patrick would never—

  “Done.”

  “You are one twisted onion,” I hissed at him as Jim and Lynn warily approached us with a waiter in tow.

  Patrick kissed my wrist and winked. “You’re the one that’s going to strip and French yourself after I pinch your nipple.”

  “Good gravy, I can’t believe I’m letting you touch me.”

  “Find a happy place. Pretend you’re someone else.”

  “Hilarious.”

  Chapter Seventy-seven

  It honestly wasn’t that awful or embarrassing. Well okay, it was frightfully embarrassing. But he’s the only one who saw it, and I think he’ll keep his mouth shut.

  I put honey on the mirror so it tasted nice, and Patrick was obviously turned on, and yet he was still gentleman enough to pick up his things to go when I ordered him out. So I gave him one more kiss on his way out the door. He grabbed my naked butt and threatened to pull me out into the apartment hallway, but I squealed and pulled away.

  Giggling at his look of lust, I slammed the door in his face.

  Still a virgin! Woo-hoo!

  Chapter Seventy-eight

  George was still at large the following morning when I got to work. I quickly briefed Michaela on the need to call the Minneapolis police chief (and perhaps congratulate him on his fine taste in streetwalkers), and then got down to business.

  “Hey!” I shouted out to my electronic appointment book, where Pam had made some thoughtful additions. “I’ve got interviews with Jeremy and Tracy today!”

  This felt good, starting a day without a whirlwind of sugar cubes. No new ThreeFer murders since George had almost been caught at Jeremy’s, no new batches of paperwork to fill out because Adrienne had done something ridiculous the night before, no scheduled talks with Dr. Nessman . . . and no George at the office! Sure, seeing no George meant that he could still kill again; but on the other hand . . . no George at the office!

  By the time the appointments with our two witnesses came up, I was humming a tune. Something classical—perhaps I had heard it in the elevator. I wasn’t even sure at first . . .

  “Hey, I know that one!” Tina was walking by with a copy of EW. “ ‘Nessun Dorma.’ ”

  “Come again?”

  “ ‘Nessun Dorma’? From Puccini’s Turandot? Famous stuff. I didn’t know you were an opera buff.”

  “I’ve never been to the opera.” Maybe Shiro has?

  She shrugged. “I guess you wouldn’t have to. You’d just need one of the best-selling classical recordings of all time: The Three Tenors in Concert. Remember them? Pavarotti, and Domingo, and . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah, the other one.” Huh. That is one of my favorite albums. . . . Did George know that? Is that why he stapled the poster to that victim’s face?

  I was still ruminating on the possibilities when I entered the interview room. Conveniently enough, Jeremy and Tracy were in adjacent rooms. Each had a book of lay-downs, within which we had placed various photos of George with different configurations of facial hair and other disguising factors.

  The tie and his flight from the law were probably enough to get and hold him; but we would need either a witness or DNA evidence to be sure we’d nail him. So far, Jeremy and Tracy looked like a far better bet than us finding a slipup by George. Good goat cheese, the guy’s lawyer could argue that anything we found at a crime scene was there because . . . George was investigating every crime scene! Ugh, he’d had this all figured out long ago. We needed these witnesses to come through!

  I tried not to let impatience and exasperation get the best of me. What would Shiro say?

  Stop talking to yourself and get to work.

  Hmmm. Not exactly the inspiration I was looking for.

  Only you like these people enough to do this.

  Better, but . . .

  Your sister and I believe in you. Please help us.

  Awright, sis! You bet I will! And I believe in you, too!

  Two hours later, I left the interviewing area with absolutely nothing useful. Jeremy couldn’t stop stuttering through nothing new, and Tracy was polite, distracted, and tapped out.

  We were done. It was DNA or nothing.

  Chapter Seventy-nine

  I’d no sooner gotten back to my desk and picked my cell phone off my belt to call Lynn (did she still have a job?) when it buzzed in my hand like a big metal bee. I saw it was Cathie. “Hey. What’s up?”

  “What did you do to him?”

  “Who?”

  “Who do you think? My brother, jerk!”

  I clutched the phone. “What? Is he hurt? What’s wrong?”

  “No, he’s not hurt; he’s moving here!”

  “He’s what?”

  “Cadence, will you please clean the shit out of your ears so I don’t have to keep repeating myself? My brother, the Emperor of Meringue, is house hunting in the Twin Cities. Never mind the location; the man’s never lived in a house; he’s a rental/hotel suite kind of guy.”

  “Maybe he’s tired of all the traveling.” I flipped through my e-mail as nonchalantly as I could. Maybe he had written me an e-mai
l looking for real-estate advice. Hmm. No. I was excited and pleased to hear Cathie’s news, but cautioned myself that it likely had nothing to do with me.

  “Patrick’s just tired of being a nomad,” I guessed.

  “Did you give it up to him?”

  I nearly dropped the cell. “Jeepers creepers’ peepers, Cathie!”

  “Don’t fake swear at me. It was all I could think of. Either that, or you showed off the goods but wouldn’t give it up. So he’s buying a house to keep working you.” There was a malignant pause. “Did you—one of you—strip for him?”

  This was hitting way too close to home. “Cathie, why are you so interested in your brother’s love life? Don’t tell me the Irish Catholics don’t frown on—”

  “Yeah, okay, stop right there. My interest is one of sisterly love, for each of you. I’m not sure if you two dating is brilliant or ridiculous.”

  “Can it be both?”

  “No. Only in a novel could it be both. This is real life. You have to choose one.”

  “Then it’s brilliant.”

  “Damn it, Cadence, I was right. You let him see you naked. Did you strip? Did you put on ‘You Can Leave Your Hat On’? Did you leave your hat on when you played it? And maybe his necktie?”

  The mention of the word “necktie” jerked me back to reality. “Ugh, Cathie, there’s a killer on the loose.”

  She sighed. “There always is.”

  “My former partner.”

  “George, right? I’ve met him. Awful guy.”

  “You’re not kidding.”

  “He’d never bake and frost cupcakes and have them delivered to your office. Or send you three dozen purple irises.”

  “Correct, but irrelevant.”

  “Patrick kicked me out of my own kitchen,” Cathie mused, “and obsessed over cupcakes. And buttercream frosting! He made six batches of buttercream frosting, one for each color.”