A.W. Hartoin - Mercy Watts 04 - Drop Dead Red (19 page)

I checked the walk-in closet and found it empty, except for the clothes and shoes that were hurled to the floor in a fit of rage. If I had to guess, they didn’t find what they were looking for and, boy, did it piss them off.
 

I stood with the Mauser hanging limp by my side. What the hell? I thought I’d get nothing but an expensive cab ride. This was crazy. What did Christopher have to do with anything? He was never supposed to go to St. Louis. If Blankenship was targeting him, someone screwed up royally. He didn’t get the listeriosis either.
 

There was a creak from somewhere in the house and my arms snapped up into firing position, exactly the way Dad drilled into my unwilling head.
 

A shrill woman’s voice came up the stairs. “I told you. I saw her go in.”
 

“Stay outside, Mrs. Palladino,” said a husky male voice.
 

“I’m not staying out here alone.”
 

“Stay here.”
 

I heard a gun slide out of a holster. Cop. That was a good news/bad news kind of thing. I really didn’t want to have to explain my presence or be slowed down now that something had turned up. On the other hand, at least it wasn’t the crazed Christopher-hater.
 

“Hello,” I called out, sticking the Mauser back in my purse. With any luck, I wouldn’t be searched.
 

“Come out where I can see you,” ordered the male voice.
 

“I’m coming out.” I walked slowly out onto the second floor landing with my hands up.
 

It was a cop in uniform with his gun trained on me. Standing next to him was a gaunt woman of about forty-five, wearing skin-tight spandex.
 

“That’s her. I told you. Breaking and entering. That’s a crime. I want her arrested,” she said.
 

“I’m not breaking and entering. I have permission to be here from the owner.”
 

“No, you don’t.”
 

My hands went to my hips involuntarily. “How would you know?”
 

“Hands up,” said the cop.
 

I put my hands back up, but now I was irritated. That woman needed to be quiet. She didn’t want to mess with me. I had a job to do and I had to do it while smelling like bad sausage and having giant blisters. I did not want a delay of her kind.
 

“I’m Mercy Watts, friend of Donatella Berry.”
 

“No, she’s not. I know Donatella’s friends,” said Mrs. Palladino.
 

I groaned. “I live in St. Louis. You wouldn’t know me. Can I come down and show you my ID?”
 

The cop dropped his weapon. “Come on down and we’ll get this settled.”
 

“Put your gun up,” said Mrs. Palladino. “She could be dangerous.”
 

“I think I can handle it,” he said with a sigh.
 

“Are you sure? Don’t you want some backup?”
 

I walked down the stairs slowly for the cop’s benefit, not Mrs. Palladino’s. He looked like he’d had a long day without her freaking out more. I stopped at the foot of the stairs next to the newel post. “Can I get out my ID?”
 

“Go ahead,” he said.
 

I held out my driver’s license and he gave it a cursory glance.
 

“Good,” said Mrs. Palladino. “Now arrest her. This private property.”
 

He rolled his eyes and took his radio off his belt. “Unit 33. All clear.”
 

Mrs. Palladino stomped her foot. “It’s not all clear. Arrest her.”
 

“I’m not arresting her. That’s Mercy Watts,” he said, smiling for the first time.
 

“So what?”
 

“Haven’t you seen her on CNN?”
 

“I watch Fox News.”
 

The cop holstered his gun. “She’s been on there, too.”
 

“As a burglar?” she asked.
 

“As a detective,” he said. “What brings you here, Miss Watts?”
 

I was tempted to lie. Sometimes it was a reflex, coming from years of fatherly interrogation, but it occurred to me that Christopher’s room wasn’t something to be kept quiet. It would be needed as evidence. I didn’t want to taint that.
 

“Donatella asked me to come down and look into the source of her children’s listeriosis.” I gave him a brief outline of my activities and then said, “You probably are going to need backup.”
 

Officer Czuchry went stiff. “What did you find?”
 

“Christopher Berry’s room is trashed and someone has been searching the house,” I said.
 

“Yeah,” said Mrs. Palladino, “you.”
 

Czuchry pointed out the door. “Outside. Both of you.”
 

I sauntered by Mrs. Palladino, noting that she wasn’t forty-five. She was so thin her face looked older than it was. Up close, I’d put her at thirty. It was depressing.
 

Czuchry ordered us to stay there and he went upstairs. I leaned on a stately pillar while Mrs. Palladino eyed me with obvious conceit. She thought I was fat. Not just fat, morbidly obese. I’d had that reaction before. Some people saw curves as a disease that must be cured.
 

“Are you really a detective?” she asked with a hint of interest.
 

“No.”
 

“What? Why did you say you were?”
 

“I didn’t. I’m a nurse.”
 

She crossed and recrossed her arms. “In a real hospital?”
 

“No. In porn,” I said sarcastically, but she totally bought it.
 

Officer Czuchry came out, looking freaked. “I called it in. You found it that way?”
 

“Yep,” I said.
 

“She’s in porn,” said Mrs. Palladino.

He looked at her for a split second like she’d been speaking Russian, and then went back to me. “Who do you think did it?”
 

Mrs. Palladino stepped in front of him. “Why are you asking her? She’s in porn.”
 

He took her by the arm and put her in his cruiser, calling her a vital witness. She couldn’t stop smiling after that. He returned to me and said, “Did you tell her you were in porn?”
 

“Yes,” I said, finishing a text to Uncle Morty who so far hadn’t responded.
 

“Why?”
 

“I really don’t know.”
 

“Well, you can’t leave. We’ll need a statement and we have to verify your connection to Mrs. Berry.” Then he started to fiddle with his radio. “Miss Watts, can I ask you a personal question?”
 

I wish you wouldn’t.
 

“How personal?”
 

“What’s Nina Symoan like?”
 

“Oh,” I said, crossing my arms. “So you’re a Nina fan.”
 

He blushed under his hat brim. Nina Symoan was the wife of Mickey Stix and former cover girl for the band Double Black Diamond. Nina fans were a bit obsessive, but usually sweet.
 

“Go ahead,” I said.
 

Officer Czuchry went on to pepper me with questions for the next ten minutes until a pair of detectives showed up. They looked at Mrs. Palladino in the squad car and then strolled up to the porch. They were in plain clothes, blue suits and nearly identical striped ties. They may as well have been in uniform.
 

The taller of the two looked me over. “Well, I never thought I’d see the day.”
 

“What day is that?” I asked.
 

“Having another Watts in my jurisdiction,” he said, sticking out his hand.
 

I shook it and his partner’s hand. “I take it you’ve met my dad.”

“John Truesdale. This is my partner, Robert Sweenie. I met your dad about five years ago on the Gator Bait case.”
 

I nodded sagely, like I knew what case he was talking about. “Do you want me to make a statement? I really need lunch and a nap.” I didn’t say the truth, which was that I wanted to keep my head start before they had a chance to muck it all up.
 

“Sure,” said Sweenie.
 

I told them what I told Czuchry. Then I walked them through the house, reiterating that I’d touched absolutely nothing.
 

“What did you hope to find?” asked Truesdale when we landed back in the foyer.
 

“I was going to get some samples and have them tested,” I said.
 

“Samples of what?”
 

“The milk and cereal the kids ate.”
 

“But you don’t think that’s how they got it.”
 

“No, but it pays to be thorough.”
 

Truesdale tapped his foot and tilted his head. His soft brown hair was greying at the temples and he was rather distinguished. Sweenie wasn’t. He was round and sweaty with black-framed glasses that kept slipping down his shiny nose.
 

“What were you going to do with the samples?” asked Sweenie.
 

“Have them tested at RDT Analytical Laboratory. My dad arranged it,” I said.
 

“We can’t let you do that now. It’s a crime scene,” said Truesdale.
 

“No problem. You’ll want to run it though, considering the connection to Tulio and the listeriosis.”
 

The detectives glanced at each other. I wasn’t going to argue and they weren’t sure why.
 

“Can I come in later to make my statement?” I asked.
 

Truesdale said I could and gave me his card with the address written on the back.
 

“Tomorrow at the latest,” he said.
 

“Absolutely.” I gave him one of Dad’s cards with my address in the Quarter and then called a cab. Surprisingly, one showed up five minutes later and Czuchry walked me to it under the watchful eye of Mrs. Palladino.
 

I opened the back door and he put his hand on it. “So why didn’t you try to get your own samples? A private lab would probably be faster.”
 

“There’s no need now.” I slid in and closed the door.
 

Czuchry watched me drive away with a puzzled expression. He seemed like a bright guy and Truesdale certainly was if he worked with dad. They didn’t put just anyone with Dad. They’d figure out why I didn’t want those samples before the prints were run. This case was about Christopher Berry. He was the target, not his siblings. Next stop, Tulane University.
 

Chapter Fourteen

BUT I DIDN’T go to Tulane. It was four o’clock by the time we drove back into the city and I knew from experience that weaseling information out of Student Services was going to take longer than the half hour I had before the office closed. Uncle Morty still wasn’t answering his phone and neither was Pete. I broke down and called Donatella from the cab, but she was in the middle of a crying jag. I didn’t have the heart to tell her about her house, much less my suspicions about Christopher. The last thing she needed was another kid in peril. Then I called Truesdale and asked him to hold off on calling her. I gave him Clem’s number at Children’s, in case he wanted to confirm my story with the nursing staff. He didn’t need to call. As soon as I said crying, he was more than happy to wait.
 

There was no point in wandering around Tulane without knowing where Christopher lived or what his classes were, so I went home. The Quarter was still quiet. The party would start for real in a couple of hours. Maybe I’d take a ghost tour to take my mind off the sound of Donatella’s voice. I could still hear it in my head and it wouldn’t go away. From what I could understand, the kids were doing okay. The rest of what she said was lost in sobs. I just told her it was going well and that I would be home soon. I don’t know why I said that. It sounded soothing at the time, but I had no idea what I was going to find at Tulane, if anything. I was sure Christopher was the key, but that didn’t make it simple.
 

Then the cab turned onto my street and I saw him. Instant recognition. If I could’ve told the cab to back up and go the other way, I would’ve. But he saw the cab and me in it. Chuck was leaning on the wall next to Nana’s gate. He was unmistakable, even at a distance, with his snug t-shirt and his long legs clad in boot cut jeans. They ended in the new cowboy boots he adored, probably because they added another two inches to his already considerable height. He wore a baseball cap that emphasized his strong features and his smile when he saw me.
 

Groan. Stevie better be gone. Getting rid of Chuck was almost as hard as getting rid of Aunt Miriam. Which is to say, nearly impossible. I might have to sink so low as to plead women’s troubles to lose him. Women’s troubles worked great on Dad. He was always afraid that I’d tell him something he didn’t want to know, which was anything about anything below the neck. I once said the word mammogram and he ran out of the room.