Crazy for You (13 page)

He went to the window, flipped open the blind, looked out onto the street. It was completely dark now. Oakland Avenue was bumper-to-bumper with homebound commuters. A silence grew. Frederick was closing down, lost in his private memories, probably regretting what he’d told me.

He couldn’t button down now! Not when things were starting to get juicy. I had to keep him talking.

Ve haf vays to make you talk!
Yeah, but what were my ways? Oh, right—sweet-talk and soft soap.

I snatched a photo off the wall. It showed a bikini-clad Rhonda posing on the deck of a sailboat. I babbled the first thing that came to my tongue. “She sure was pretty! And such a gorgeous figure! She looks amazing!”

Frederick took the photo and studied it, his expression one of mingled scorn and sadness. “Rhonda didn’t always look like this. She had a lot of work done, I mean
a lot
. Once we were married she started whining about how she needed a tummy tuck and boob implants. So she’d look good for me, she said. None of it was cheap, but hell, if it made her feel sexy, I was the one who benefited, right? She went to this clinic down in Chicago for a—what do they call it when they suck the fat out of your stomach?”

“Liposuction?”

“Yeah. Then it was some Belgian hotshot here in Milwaukee for her saddlebag thighs, and another doctor who gave her pouty lips. That pretty boy Kennison did some damn procedure or other, and then she found some quack who injected body fat into her facial lines. There were a lot of others—I forget what all she had done.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “Once she had her new twenty-year-old body I was too old and ugly for her.”

I poured us both more Chivas. Frederick looked at me, raising an eyebrow. “You’re not trying to get me drunk, are you, young lady?”

“Of course not.” I gave him the wide, innocent eyes. “But I’m Irish and we drink at our wakes. It helps folks cope with the pain. Then we stand around the coffin telling stories about the deceased—”

Frederick gave a bark of laughter. “Stories? You want stories about my ex-wife? How about the story of how she
became
my ex-wife?” He downed the drink I’d poured him.

He wasn’t slurring, but his cheeks were flushed, and his eyes had a glassy sheen. He began to pace, leaving footprints on Rhonda’s pride-and-joy white carpet. “When I found out Rhonda was sleeping around, I filed for divorce. I was up front about it. I told Rhonda exactly what I was going to do. Second stupidest thing I ever did.”

“Honesty is overrated, huh?”

“Damn right. So Rhonda came in to the office while I was off at a conference. She keyed into the server, drained my whole database, client list—everything—and sent it to her own computer, encoded. Then she wiped out my hard drive and had a locksmith come in and reset every lock in the building. When I got here and discovered I’d been locked out of my own office, I completely lost it—I busted down the door, threatened
Rhonda in front of all the employees. Man, did she work that to her advantage! She got a restraining order, she got a shark lawyer, and she got my company, too.”

The conference phone on Rhonda’s desk rang and we both jumped. The answering machine picked up and Rhonda’s Persian cat voice purred a greeting.
This is Rhonda. Leave a message and I’ll call you back
.

It was beyond creepy. It was as though Rhonda had just stepped out of the room for a moment. Her fragrance still hung in the air; a silver earring lay next to her phone; a pair of her Manolo Blahnik heels was jammed under her desk.

Frederick, now on his third Chivas since I’d arrived, said softly, “I still can’t believe she’s dead. I hated her, but …” His eyes welled and he blinked. “I guess I never quite got over her, either.”

“How did you find out she’d been killed?”

“Someone from the Shorewood police department came by Wednesday morning. I was still listed as Rhonda’s next of kin. So first they were all sympathy and concern, and then before I knew what was happening, the cops were looking at me all squintyeyed and asking ‘Where were you on the night your ex-wife was murdered?’ ”

“Umm, where
were
you?” I dared ask.

He gave me a sly smile. “I’ve got an
e
-libi.”

“Excuse me?”

“The night she was killed, I was sending emails between nine o’clock and midnight. So I couldn’t have been anywhere near Rhonda. The times on my emails prove I had to have been on my computer.”

“Right.” I smiled back. “Where
is
home, by the way?”

“A condo on East Capitol.”

Hmm. Only about five or ten minutes from Rhonda’s house.

He gestured toward the file drawers. “I’ve been going through her records. CRS is hemorrhaging. I don’t know where Rhonda got the money for her cars, her vacations, her parties. She’s been living like a billionaire.”

Should I tell Frederick what I suspected about Rhonda extorting money in exchange for ratings? Probably not necessary—if he was as sharp as he seemed, he’d soon discover that for himself.

Frederick began pacing again, absentmindedly straightening the paper in the copy machine, clicking a ballpoint, running a finger along the top of the computer monitor, as though reclaiming these things for himself, “Did I mention that Rhonda got the house, too?
My
house, the one my great-grandfather had built, that beautiful old Victorian on Cumberland. It burned me up to drive past there and see how Rhonda was letting the place go to hell. Too lazy to clean the gutters or paint the trim. All she ever did was lie out in the sun, displaying herself like a piece of meat on a grill. I’d just get this urge to strangle her.”

Realizing what he’d said, he shot me a look. “Figure of speech.”

When he turned his back, I poured my drink into a wastebasket. “I should go,” I said, starting to feel nervous about being alone in a deserted building with a guy who was: a) plotzed; b) yo-yoing between rage and self-pity; and c) possibly a strangler.

Frederick tried to park a haunch on the edge of Rhonda’s desk, but he missed and lurched sideways. “Whoops! Who moved the desk?” He nudged one of the office chairs with his foot, sending it spinning across the room. “Know the first thing I’m going to do, Mazie? Get rid of this damn white furniture. And you know what the next thing is?”

He looked at me expectantly.

“What?” I said.

“Get my name back. When Rhonda was awarded the company, she had a clause put in that I couldn’t use the name Cromwell in a competing business. Do you believe the nerve?”

Actually, I did.

Frederick Cromwell raised his glass in a salute and winked at me. “Here’s to getting your own back.”

Chapter Sixteen

A kiss is still a kiss—unless it’s under duress.

—Maguire’s Maxims

The bronze Fonz stands above the Milwaukee River near the Wells Street bridge. The Fonz, of course, is Arthur Fonzarelli of
Happy Days
, the sitcom that made Milwaukee famous. The statue has become a tourist attraction so popular that no visitor is allowed to leave the city without having at least one thumbs-up photo taken with the Fonz.

Labeck and I had agreed to meet near the Fonz at seven. It was half past seven now. If he didn’t show up in five more minutes, I’d assume he’d bailed because it was too risky. Maybe I ought to call him. I powered up my phone and was about to dial Labeck’s number when someone called my name.

Labeck stepped out of the shadows. Then he was in front of me, pulling up my collar, taking my bare hands in his and chafing them. “You’re freezing. I should have thought of a place to meet indoors.”

“No—you can’t be seen indoors. You shouldn’t even be outdoors.” Labeck’s photo had been all over the evening news. “Where did you stay last night?”

“At Bob’s.”

Bob was Bob Schultz, a cameraman on Labeck’s news crew and one of his best buddies. I knew Bob would endure torture—say, watching the Packers bomb in the playoffs—rather than turn Labeck over to the police.

Labeck sniffed my breath. “Have you been drinking?”

“Holding an Irish wake with Rhonda’s ex, Frederick Cromwell.”

Heads ducked against the wind, we set off south along the Riverwalk. The old warehouses and factories that had once lined the banks of the Milwaukee River had been converted into shops and outdoor restaurants along a wide boardwalk, with mooring places for yachts and boats below. We had the walk to ourselves tonight, the blustery weather keeping everyone indoors, except for a few hardy souls drinking on restaurant
terraces.

I filled Labeck in on what I’d learned from Frederick—about the way he felt Rhonda had screwed him out of his own company, how her death meant he would probably get his company back, and how he’d let slip the remark about wanting to strangle Rhonda.

“The guy sounds unbalanced,” Labeck said. “You shouldn’t have been hanging around a deserted office with him.”

“You have to admit, he had a reason to kill Rhonda.”

“Yeah. And the thing about the emails. He couldn’t have murdered Rhonda because he was
emailing
that night? Give me a break. Do you know if he has a laptop or iPad?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“The guy probably still had a key to Rhonda’s house, too,” Labeck said. “So he lets himself in while she’s out, sits there in the dark sending out emails on his tablet, waits until she comes home, then kills her. Seconds later he goes back online, taps out some more emails, then drives back to his own place.”

“The ex-hubby in the living room with the shoestring.”

“The what?”

“Clue. Didn’t you play that board game when you were a kid? Frederick even looks a lot like Professor Plum.”

“Mazie, I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re babbling about.”

We stopped and hung over a railing to watch a water taxi chug past on the river, its running lights reflected in the dark, choppy water. Snow flitted through the air, schizophrenic flakes that blitzed up, down, and sideways. The thirty-foot-tall glass flame atop the gas company building on Michigan Avenue was flickering.

When there is a flickering flame, watch out for the snow or rain
.

Everybody in Milwaukee knows the color codes for the gas flame: red means warm weather ahead; blue means no change; gold means cold. The flame had been erected atop the gas company skyscraper back in the days before televised weather reports. It was visible from nearly every point in the city, and even served as a navigation aid to Great Lakes freighters. Not exactly the eighth wonder of the world, but still, it
added a bit of color to the cityscape. No worries, Milwaukee—the gas company’s got your back.

“If Frederick brought his laptop over to Rhonda’s, he would have had to use her wireless network, wouldn’t he?” I asked. “That ought to show up somewhere.”

Labeck didn’t answer. Abruptly he pulled me closer, bent his face toward me, and brushed his lips against mine. His lips were warm. His nose was cold. The light touch of his lips deepened into a hot, demanding kiss. I forgot that I was freezing, forgot the snow, forgot the back demons. All I was aware of was the delicious sensation of Labeck’s body pressed against mine, his hands cupping my face, his heart thumping against my own galloping heart.

“You folks have a good night now,” called a cheery female voice from nearby. “I’d tell you to stay warm, but it looks like you’re already doing that.”

Wrenching myself away from Labeck, I looked up. A police officer winked at us before turning back to her beat along the boardwalk. As soon as she was far enough away, I grabbed Labeck by his jacket collar.

“You saw her coming! You grabbed me and kissed me so she wouldn’t see your face! You
used
me!”

“You seemed to be enjoying it.”

“That’s not the point! You didn’t kiss me because you wanted to kiss me. You—all those times when you
could
have kissed me, you didn’t. And you only kissed me just now because you
had
to, like when your mother makes you kiss your maiden aunt.”

“Mazie, that’s bat crap!
When
did I fail to kiss you?”

“If you can’t figure it out, I’m not telling you!” Burning with indignation, I spun on my heel and steamed off, back in the direction of the Fonz statue.

Labeck caught up with me. He had the nerve to grin. “Come on, Mazie—you ought to feel proud. You just saved an innocent man from a terrible fate.”

“Oh, get stuffed!”

“You can punch me if you want.”

“No. Because then you’re off the hook.” Guy Psychology 101: Punishment cancels offense.

“Hey, what about our brainstorming session?”

“Brainstorm
this
.” Luckily my middle finger wasn’t too frozen for action.

I stomped toward the north end of the Riverwalk, each stomp sending a jet of redhot pain searing along my nerves. Labeck slouched behind me, taking one long stride for every two of my shorter ones, and even though I was wearing a coat that came down to the center of my thighs, I swear I could feel his eyes on my ass.

I stopped stomping, coming to such an abrupt halt that Labeck bumped into me. I’d just spotted two men, walking fast, hurrying down the steps that led from Wells Street to the boardwalk.

“Cops,” I hissed. I don’t know how I knew they were cops at the distance of a city block—call it my prison-honed senses—but as they got closer, the bigger one’s walk gave him away. It was Vincent Trumbull. Probably tag-teamed with Baby Face Olafson.

Quarrel forgotten, Labeck and I about-faced and started moving south at a rapid clip, back toward the Wisconsin Avenue Bridge two blocks down the river. Our pursuers also sped up. Labeck and I broke into an all-out run, hurtling between patio tables, knocking aside chairs where a few die-hard al fresco fans sat out, bundled against the cold. Just ahead were the steps leading up to Wisconsin Avenue. Once we were on the street, we could duck into a building or blend with the crowds thronging the bars and restaurants in the entertainment district.

We were fifty feet away from the steps when a uniformed police officer appeared at the top, blocking our exit. I could tell from the uniform he was Milwaukee PD, not Brookwood, but agencies cooperate when it comes to apprehending scum like us. “Hold it!” the MPD cop yelled, starting down the steps toward us.