Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 52, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2007

Death at My Door by Percy Spurlark Parker

The green glow of my clock radio told me it was 3:17 A.M. as the doorbell prodded me awake. It wasn’t all that unusual an occurrence, Vegas is a twenty-four-hour town, and I carry a P.I. license.

The name’s Trevor Oaks. I have living quarters over Miller’s Game Room, an arcade I own just north of the Stratosphere on Las Vegas Boulevard. I climbed out of bed as the doorbell rang again, made it out of the bedroom at a fairly steady stride, and aimed myself in the direction of the apartment door. All in all a considerable feat, taking in the fact that my bum knee had been acting up for a week.

I made it to the door, pushed the intercom button. “Yeah, who is it?”

Nothing. Great.

“Okay, you got me up now. What the hell do you want?”

Still nothing, or almost nothing. It was very faint, like a slight cough.

I started to go back to bed, but hell, I was up and already at the door, and whoever was down there could start ringing the doorbell again. I opened the door to my apartment and hobbled down the stairs to the front door. Looking through the peephole the only thing I could make out was a car parked halfway onto the sidewalk, its headlights still on. Maybe some drunk had an accident.

He must have been crumbled at the base of the door because when I opened it he fell into the foyer. Dennis Rimmey. He lay on his back across the door’s threshold, a .38 snub nose on the sidewalk inches from his hand. From the blood on his shirt he’d been shot at least twice, once in his chest and once just above his belt line. A trickle of blood smeared the right corner of his mouth, and there wasn’t a flicker in his open eyes. The little cough I’d heard had probably been the last thing he’d uttered.

Looking down at him I tried to remember if there had ever been a time I liked the guy, even if it was just to the point of saying, “Rimmey? Yeah, he’s okay.” I couldn’t come up with anything. The dislike ran both ways. Neither one of us had much use for the other. It wasn’t because he was white and I’m black, at least not on my part. It wasn’t because we were both in the P.I. game and therefore competitors of sorts, although our clientele rarely crossed paths. It was just something instinctive and deep, and there from the first time we met. Rimmey was a class A slimeball and his word was as good as the next Grant that hit his palm. Although I’d never wished him dead, I didn’t feel any remorse either.

There was one thing that popped into my head: Knowing the dislike we had for each other, what the hell was he doing here?

“You sure he didn’t say anything? No whisper? No gesture?”

“He was dead, Joe. I’ve already told you that.”

We were upstairs in my apartment. The guy sitting at my kitchen table with me was Detective Sergeant Joe Grover. We’ve known each other since our UNLV football days.

“You’re being straight with me on this, Tree? No bs?”

Calling me “Tree” was another sign of how long we’ve known each other. Back in the day I was Trevor “Oak Tree” Oaks, second string offensive end. I was sure to be a starter my senior year, but I messed up my knee the year before, which ended any thought of a football career.

“I’ve told you the way it happened, Joe. There ain’t nothing else to say.”

“You and Rimmey weren’t working on anything together?” Joe asked, narrowing his gray eyes on me.

“Get real.”

“No mutual clients or friends?”

“None that I’m aware of. I mean, I’m sure we knew some of the same people. You can’t help that in this town. But that’s as far it went.”

Joe leaned back in his chair, a slight frown on his square-chinned face. “I’m having a problem here, Tree. As a friend I tend to believe you. As a cop it just doesn’t ring true. I consider you one of my closest friends, but if I had a couple of bullets in me, I can’t see myself parking on your doorstep, when the nearest hospital is what... a hot fifteen, twenty minutes away.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to level with me.”

I’d made coffee for both of us, instant and strong in oversized mugs. I took a swallow of mine. It was still hot and burned going down.

“Well?” Joe said, with a hunch of his shoulders, his brows knotting slightly.

“I’ve said what I’ve had to say. I don’t know why he picked my doorstep to die on. Maybe I should’ve dragged him next door and gone back to bed.”

Joe shook his head, dug a pack of cigarettes out, and lit one. I’d never picked up the habit, and of late he’d said he was trying to quit.

“I’m going to need you to come down to the station for a deposition,” he said, blowing smoke from his nostrils. “I’m telling you, this ‘I know nothing’ bit isn’t going to set too well with my bosses.”

“It is what it is, Joe.”

“Sure,” he nodded.

I stood at my window looking down at the street below, waiting until I saw Joe drive off in his unmarked car before I went back to my closet where I’d stashed the photograph. Percentagewise, I’d been about ninety-five percent upfront with Joe. I didn’t tell him I’d taken a folded photograph from Rimmey’s inside jacket pocket. I didn’t know what it was at first. I just saw something sticking out of his pocket, and curiosity got the best of me. Once I got a look at it, however, there was no way I could turn it over to Joe.

Mira Navilone was in all her skinny glory. The only thing that adorned her were a pair of dangling diamond earrings, and one strapless spiked heel on her left foot. The two guys with her wore Halloween masks. The black guy had on a George Bush mask, and I guess for political correctness the white guy wore an Al Sharpton mask. Their positions might have been choreographed by Cirque du Soleil.

Rimmey had left the keys in the ignition, the motor running, and the driver’s side door opened. I’d taken the keys and did a quick but thorough search of the car to make sure there weren’t any other photos around before I called Metro. I gave the keys to the first cop that arrived, telling him I took the keys to prevent a passerby from seizing the opportunity and making off with the car. He gave me a short speech about tampering with evidence, then got busy with crowd control.

Risqué photos, risqué cabaret acts, even risqué slot machines are pretty much commonplace here. Aside from the various decency groups who keep trying to bury Vegas’s old tag as Sin City, I doubt too many people would care one way or the other if the photo was hung from every lamppost on the Strip. Mira wouldn’t be thought the worst for it. In some circles she might even be praised. But I knew one person who would be spitting fireballs. Belle Navilone, Mira’s grandmother.

I’d seen her temper in action a time or two. Her husband had been one of the old Vegas mob bosses. He’d taken his life as the Feds were closing in on him, or so the story goes. Belle was left with enough money, property, and businesses in her own name that the Feds hadn’t been able to touch her.

I’d first met Belle when I’d tracked down her nephew for his ex-wife. Before the whole thing was over, both the nephew and the ex-wife were dead. The culprit, Belle’s handyman slash chauffeur slash bodyguard, was also moonlighting as Mira’s lover. I’d been the one who figured the whole mess out. Since then Belle and I had developed a relationship that I would say was more than an employer-employee type of thing. But I couldn’t go as far as declaring it a friendship either.

I didn’t get back to sleep, I didn’t even try. My head was too full with Rimmey dying at my door and trying to decide what my next move should be. Destroying the photograph and pretending I’d never seen it would be one way of going, although I knew that really wouldn’t help. Rimmey dying at my door put me into this thing, whatever it was, and I was going to be in it until I found some sort of solution.

Who killed him? How did he get the photograph? Why did he come to me? Big questions with not an answer in sight. I went through two more mugs of coffee, a couple of different CDs of Motown’s Greatest Hits, and a long hot shower before I locked in on what I should do.

Mira ran the day-to-day operation of Belle’s check cashing and loan stores. There were nine or ten Helping Hand Money Marts throughout the valley. Legal loan-sharking was about the best description for the places. It wasn’t the only business Belle owned or had money invested in. If you asked her, it all belonged to the family, which consisted of her and Mira. However, I doubted if anything was in Mira’s name.

Mira worked out of the largest of the stores on Boulder just north of Tropicana. I pulled my Town Car into the parking lot of the strip mall just before eight, wanting to catch her on the way in. It was a twenty-four-hour operation, but if I remembered correctly she usually made it in about eight thirty. I didn’t see her Caddy Escalade so, so far so good.

The Helping Hand sat in the middle of the storefronts and took up more space than the others combined. Dark green dollar signs were plastered about the pale green building and on the glass windows and danced on the neon sign on the roof.

It had been raining off and on all week. No great downpour, just enough to keep my knee bugging me. A few handfuls of drops hit my windshield, then stopped before I could decide if I should bother turning on my wipers.

The Escalade pulled into the lot, parking two spots over from me. I made it out before she did. “Morning, Mira.”

“Oh, Trevor. I thought that was you.”

The Escalade was Belle’s idea, it had to be. Left on her own, Mira probably would be driving around in a VW Beetle. By far, she wasn’t the ugliest woman I’ve ever encountered. And by the same measurement, she wasn’t the prettiest either. Skinny, homey, or mousy came to mind. She’d dyed her hair since the last time I saw her. It was black now, cut short and pasted to her head like a curly skullcap. The hair and the heavy eye makeup took away from her overbite. She wore tan tailored slacks and a darker brown satin windbreaker zipped low enough to expose the triple strand of pearls around her neck. Someone had been working overtime on her wardrobe.

“What brings you out this way?”

She was smiling, coyly perhaps; there was even assertiveness in her stance. But that all went away when I pulled the photograph out of my pocket. The pale blue eyes encased in the heavy makeup grew large and piercing.

“Where did you get this?” she snapped, grabbing the photograph out of my hand with such force she lost her balance, taking a step back to right herself.

“I took it off of Dennis Rimmey’s body. Somebody put a couple of bullets in him last night. He died on my doorstep.”

“I... I, uh.”

“Maybe we better go in your office and talk.”

“Yes...” she said, folding the photograph and jamming it in her purse.

She started toward the door to the Helping Hand, stopped, then looked back at me. “I think Lucky’s would be better.”

Lucky Frank’s — booze, food, and gaming — anchored the right corner of the strip mall. It was a dimly lit joint. A stab at trying to appear intimate, I guess. From the smell of the place, the low lighting probably also helped when they served their food.

There were only two people at the bar when we came in, both sitting far enough apart they could do their drinking in solitude. We grabbed a back booth, and I went up to the bar and got us a couple cups of coffee.

Mira dumped a lot of cream in hers, stirring it vigorously without looking up at me.

“We can start whenever you’re ready,” I said.

She stopped stirring, raised the cup, then put it down, took a deep breath. “I’m being blackmailed.”

Her statement confirmed what had been playing in the back of my mind. I didn’t think Mira had posed for the picture for her family album. There had been a glassy look in her eyes. My first guess had been three or four extra cocktails.

“How did Rimmey fit in?”

“He was my go-between. He was to pay the blackmailer last night and get the rest of the pictures and negatives. Fifty thousand dollars. It cleaned out my personal account. I’ve been up most of the night waiting for him to call. I... I was afraid something had gone wrong. I guess it did.”

“Where was the exchange supposed to’ve taken place?”

“In some warehouse out by the auto junkyards in North Las Vegas. Rimmey said he knew the area. You said he’s dead? Are you sure?”

“I’m sure, Mira.”

“I’m sorry. It was a dumb question to ask.” She shook her head. “I’m just, I don’t know... Did he have the other pictures with him?”

“Just that one,” I said, trying the coffee. It was hot, and that was the best thing that could be said for it.

A noticeable shiver went through her. “I don’t know what I’ll do if my grandmother sees those pictures. I’m not the strong person she is. She knows it, but she’s put a lot of trust and hope in me anyway. I’ve been trying, Trevor. I don’t want to disappoint her again.”

I was sure the “again” referred to Mira’s first encounter with love. The chauffeur slash handyman turned murderer. Shy Mira, not used to male attention, had been an easy target. The chauffeur slash handyman had turned to murder to protect his interest in Mira when Mira’s cousin came to town and it looked like the cousin might well take over running Belle’s business holdings. Belle might’ve even been on his list of intended victims.

Belle Navilone was a tough old bird. I didn’t have any doubts that she could handle the fact that her granddaughter was being blackmailed. Nor did I have any doubts that she would clamp down on Mira for getting in such a vulnerable position in the first place.

“I’ve got to ask, Mira. How willing a participant were you when that photograph was taken?”

“I wasn’t. At least not consciously, anyway. It had to’ve happened two weekends ago. I went to a party and woke up in a motel room the next morning not knowing how I got there.”

“Have you any idea what had happened then?”

“Not really. I mean, my clothes were all over the floor. I... I figured I’d had sex with somebody... but I didn’t know who. And I had an awful headache.”

She wouldn’t look at me as she spoke, and her voice had gone almost to a whisper. I had to ask her to repeat herself a couple of times before I got the full story out, including the trip she’d made to the family doctor to make sure the evening hadn’t left her with anything unwanted.

“The party. Whose was it?”

She shrugged. “Friend of a friend’s birthday bash. Sort of a girl’s night out.”

“How well do you know this friend?”

“Alicia? We roomed together at Nevada-Reno. She’s a partner in a dress salon at the Fashion Show Mall.”

“Any chance it might have been a setup?”

“You think Alicia could be involved? I hadn’t thought of it before. I don’t know. I don’t want to believe she would do something like that.”

“It could happen. Friends betray friends all the time.”

Her thin lips were set in more of a grimace than a smile. “Rimmey said the same thing about you.”

“How so?”

“The picture you had, I got one in the mail with the blackmail demands. I told Rimmey about it. The first thing he asked was if I thought the black man in the photo was you. I told him no, of course. He wanted to see the picture for himself, but I’d already destroyed it. Not that I would’ve let him see it anyway. He went on about the possibility of you being the man in the picture. Said he had never trusted you.”

“The feeling’s been mutual between us for years,” I said, wondering if it was possible to distrust a dead guy. “The photo you got in the mail, a copy of the one you took from me, or a different pose?”

She shrugged. “I... ah...” She dug in her purse, taking out the crumbled photo and looking at it for a moment before jamming it back into her purse. All the time shielding it from me in case I wanted to take another look. She shrugged. “It could be a little different. I can’t be sure.” She paused, then finally looked at me directly. “Trevor, can you help me?”

“You should’ve come to me first, Mira.”

She nodded. “I know that now, but with the working relationship you’ve got with my grandmother, I thought if I went to you, you’d go to her, and...”

“Yeah, well, for future reference, I wouldn’t have.”

Me Lady’s Attire was on the upper level of the Fashion Show Mall, sandwiched between All Time Watch Emporium and Precious Bath and Beauty. Before my sitdown with Mira ended, I’d gotten her friend’s full name and the name of her dress shop. Also, to the best of her recollection, the location of the money drop.

Alicia Perkins had a model’s figure: tall, willowy, with enough meat on her bones to make it interesting, but not enough to get in the way of how the clothes would drape on her. She was a fiery redhead with deep green eyes. The creation that draped her was gold satin, sleeveless with a wide neckline, and stopped abruptly at her knees, which allowed for a decent display of shapely legs and bareback high heels.

She studied the card I’d given her for a moment, then the green eyes looked at me, her thin lips somewhat pushed out. “Okay, Mr. Oaks,” she nodded, “just what can I do for you?”

“Running an errand for a friend of yours, Mira Navilone. If I could just get a few minutes of your time.”

She looked around the place. There were a half dozen or so women digging about in the racks of clothing, some assisted by staff members while mannequins stood sentry in evening gowns and lingerie.

“I guess I can give you a few minutes,” she said. “Come on, we can talk outside.”

I followed her out of the shop into the mall and over to the railing that afforded a view of the shoppers milling about on the first floor.

“Ever stand on the edge of someplace high up and feel like jumping?” she asked, leaning slightly over the railing. “The urge is supposed to be in all of us.” She turned back to me, smiling. “I’ve never felt it.” She paused, waved a finger at me. “You’re the guy that dropped the hammer on Mira’s so-called boyfriend?”

“I guess that’s one way of putting it.”

“Back in school I was the one with all the dates, and she was the one who kept her nose in the books. I used to try to get her to get out, have some fun. Then I guess the first guy she finally makes some connections with turns out to be a murderer. When I first heard about it, I thought she’d dig a hole and hide forever.”

“She’s managed it very well.”

“Yes, I know. She actually looked me up. We’ve had a lot of long girl talks. I’ve helped her with her makeup, some clothing selections. She’s still a work in progress, but we’re getting there.” She paused again. “What did you say you wanted to talk about?”

“That party you took Mira to. She thinks she might’ve lost a bracelet there. It was something her grandmother gave her, and she’d like to get it back if possible before the old girl finds out it’s missing.” I’d come up with the bracelet story on the drive over, hoping it was a plausible enough excuse for my being here.

“I met her grandmother once when Mira and I were roommates. She seemed like a sweet old lady, but Mira said she could be a bear.” She shrugged. “You know, I’ve spoken to Mira since the party, she didn’t say anything about a bracelet.”

“Got me, I’m just a hired hand.”

She reached over and gave my left bicep a little squeeze. Shaking her head, she said, “If you were my hired hand, I wouldn’t have you running around looking for some old bracelet. I’m going to have another long talk with Mira.” She paused, moistening her lips with her tongue. “Well, anyway, the party was at Dexter Drexall’s. He’s in advertising. He hit the big 5–0. Great guy. We had a blast.”

“So I heard. I was curious about something, though...”

The bright green eyes looked quizzically upon me.

“You drove Mira to the party, any particular reason why you didn’t drop her off back home?”

“Didn’t Mira tell you?” She showed some dentist’s masterpiece in her smile. “I, uh, hooked up with the guy I knew, and we left before the party was over. I did check with Mira first, she said she was okay with it. Said she’d met somebody herself.”

“Did she say who?”

“Sure you’re just a hired hand?”

“Just thinking of all the ways a bracelet can come up missing.”

“Sounds more like you’re checking up on her.”

“I assure you I—”

“Yeah, yeah, okay. Anyway, I haven’t the slightest idea who she was talking about. I was just glad she’d found someone. It freed me up. I guess I was thinking more of myself at the time.”

On the way to the parking garage I examined my impression of Alicia Perkins. Naturally, one of the first things on my mind was had she sat Mira up? It was a possibility, but I couldn’t honestly say I felt that way. From what I saw of the dress shop, it looked to be a prosperous operation. Not to say that Alicia didn’t have money problems; after all, this is Vegas.

But a lot of what I do in this business is on gut reaction. And right now my gut reaction of Alicia pegged her as being not as flighty as she pretended to be, definitely a flirt, and above all, a good friend to Mira.

The address that Alicia had given me for Dexter Drexall was up in Summerlin, near Charleston and Town Center. The place where Mira had said the money drop was to have taken place was on the tail end of Lake Mead by the auto junkyards. Both locations were north of the Fashion Show Mall, Summerlin to the west, and the money drop maybe twice the distance longer to the east.

Since I didn’t know the exact address of the money drop, logic dictated I head out there first. Well, my logic anyway.

It hadn’t rained any more; in fact, the sky was clear and the sun was doing its best to turn the rest of the day into a pleasant one. I took I15 out to Lake Mead, making it in under a half hour, which was pretty decent. During drive time, when folks are going to and from work, the freeways out here can turn into parking lots real quick.

Heading east on Lake Mead, the junkyards were on my left, with the majority of the warehouses and construction sites on my right. It took me three tries before I found the right white single-story building. It was set back off the street a good forty yards or so, and from the looks of the place it hadn’t been used for much of anything lately. Of the four windows facing the street, three were boarded up, and the glass of the other one was cracked. There was no driveway, paved or otherwise, and I kicked up a little dust storm as I pulled up to the place.

The place looked deserted, but I knocked anyway. I got no response so I tried again, louder this time. I tried the door next. It was unlocked and opened inward. I was confronted with a big empty shell of a building, well empty except for a few crates at the far end of the building on my right. Shafts of light came through several holes in the high ceiling, illuminating the dust particles dancing in the air. Even with the holes in the ceiling there was a stuffiness about the place. The building probably hadn’t been in use for over a year. An ideal spot for the money drop.

Coming out here was a longshot. I’d hoped to get some kind of hint of where the money had gone, but truthfully, I knew the chance of that happening was pretty slim, and I was expecting to come up empty handed. I definitely wasn’t expecting to find a body lying on the floor behind the crates. He was on his back, his arms stretched out above his head, his right hand still clutching a nickel-plated automatic. As far as I could see he’d only been shot once, right at the bridge of the nose of his Al Sharpton mask.

One of the guys in the photo with Mira? It was an easy enough assumption.

The crates also hid an oblong table from my view. The body was on the floor at one end of the table; a metal bowl sat on the table at the opposite end along with a can of lighter fluid. Ashes and twisted celluloid filled the bowl.

I wasn’t a math major, but I never had any trouble adding two and two. Rimmey had destroyed the photographs and negatives after pocketing one print for himself. While the light show was going on he’d probably shot the guy in the Al Sharpton mask in an effort to get the money for himself. But I hadn’t found the money in Rimmey’s car, so the odds are the guy in the Al Sharpton mask hadn’t been alone, most likely his buddy was “George Bush” from the photos. Rimmey hadn’t been able to get both of them, getting himself shot instead, and the guy in the George Bush mask had made off with the money. It didn’t explain everything, but I had a feeling I was pretty damn close.

Tampering with evidence at the scene of a crime, especially where there is a death involved, is a big fat no-no. There was nothing I could do about the slug in the guy on the floor, which I was sure ballistics would match to Rimmey’s revolver. But I couldn’t let the ashes of the photos stay around; there was no telling what Metro’s forensics team might be able to piece together.

I’ve gotten into the habit of keeping a few plastic bags in the trunk of my car ever since the second time I had a grocery bag break on me. The ashes and bowl went into one of the bags after I took another look around to make sure I hadn’t overlooked anything or left any fingerprints behind. Then I was off to Summerlin.

Driving west this time of day is never relaxing. Regardless of the polarized glasses and tinted windshield, there are angles where the sun just blinds you. You tend to look downward more than up, or at least I do. Yet there are dips in the streets and freeways that consistently test your relationship with the break pedal.

Dexter Drexall’s home was in one of the few communities in Summerlin that wasn’t gated. It was on a street called Star Spruce Lane, which mustn’t be confused with Star Spruce Drive, or Star Spruce Way, which all ran parallel to each other. It was a two story rust-colored tiled roof structure with a three-car attached garage.

I parked on the street in front of the place and made my way up the walk. I was just about to ring the doorbell when the door swung open and a dimpled brunette in shorts and halter top said, “Oh, Bill, I was...” She stopped, mouth and big brown eyes wide open. “God, I’m sorry. I saw the car and you were coming up the walk, I thought you were someone else.”

“I gathered that,” I said.

She shrugged well-tanned shoulders. “I could’ve sworn that was his car. I mean it’s the same color and everything. And you’re both bla — that is, uh, sometimes the sun hits the window... I just took a quick glance. Bill’s a photographer friend of ours. He lives just down the street on the corner. He was supposed to have been coming by to do some layouts. I just jumped at thinking you were him.”

Some people get embarrassed and clam up, others keep tripping over their own tongue. As fumbling as it was, she’d said all I needed to hear.

“You know, I’ve got to apologize myself. I was looking for Bill, and I got turned around. On the corner, you said, right? I’ll let him know you’re still looking for him, see if I can hurry him along.”

“Well, uh, thanks,” she said, with some relief in her voice.

I left her standing in her doorway, got in my car, and headed for the end of the block. I didn’t have to guess whether it was the house on the east or west side of the street. The garage door was opened, and I saw the car sitting there. It wasn’t the same year Town Car as mine, but the silver-gray color matched. It would be easy to mistake one for the other.

I pulled into the drive in front of the open garage, spotting the blood on the garage floor as I got out of my car. I rarely carry a gun. For the most part it stays in my safe behind my desk in my office at the Game Room. But at times like these I rethink my decision not to be armed all the time. Being careful not to track through the blood on the floor, I could see more blood inside the car through the driver’s side window and on the crumpled George Bush mask that lay on the passenger’s seat.

The door leading into the house was slightly ajar. I knocked, calling out, “Hey Bill, you in there? We’ve got to talk...”

I tried knocking again, and the door swung inward under the force of my clenched fist.

He’d just cleared the door before collapsing at the foot of the washer and dryer. I felt the side of his neck for a pulse, knowing it was a waste of time. The money made it farther into the room. Some of it had spilled from the gym bag that lay by his outstretched hand.

I got the money back into the gym bag, and the whole thing went into one of the plastic bags in the trunk of my car. Then I got my ass out of there, hoping that when Bill’s body was discovered, the woman down at the Drexall home wouldn’t feel compelled to volunteer any information to the police.

It looked like they’d killed each other at the money drop, or at least that was the result. Bill had gotten away with the money, and Rimmey had come after me thinking we were one and the same. Mira had said he had suspicions about me. Bill and I were both black, and we drove similar cars. It would explain why Rimmey had bypassed the hospital to come banging on my door. Not the best of judgments, but he would’ve been enraged and wanting to get the money back, or simply get even.

I’d been at this thing nonstop all day, and the first pangs of hunger let themselves be known. As soon as I wrapped things up with Mira I promised myself a hearty meal. The Steak House at Circus Circus was one of my favorite places to pig out. Fighting your way through the kids in the thoroughfare was always worth the trip.

I called Mira, told her I thought I’d gotten things wrapped up the best I could. We agreed to meet back at the Helping Hand Money Mart in an hour, which would be just about how long it would take me to fight my way through traffic.

When I got there the Escalade was parked in the same place it had been this morning. I pulled in alongside, climbed out, and got the two plastic bags out of my trunk. The young lady at the counter looked at me with a little wrinkle on her brow when I walked in with a plastic bag in each hand. But when I gave her my name, she said I was expected and buzzed me through the security door, which gave access to Mira’s office.

Mira was standing in front of her desk when I came into her office. She’d changed outfits sometime during the day. She was wearing a long-sleeved flowered dress now, mostly beige in color. It wasn’t until I’d closed the door and turned back to her that I saw Belle sitting behind the desk.

Belle Navilone, Mira’s grandmother, the one person Mira didn’t want to find out about the blackmail.

“Guess you didn’t expect to see me,” Belle smiled up at me.

“Where you’re concerned, Belle, I’m never surprised.” It hadn’t been anything I’d ever thought of, but once I’d said it I knew it was true.

She nodded, not a hair out of place on her silver-gray coiffure. Rings sparkled from every finger as she beckoned me closer. “I presume those are the pictures and the blackmail money. You did get all of the pictures, I hope?”

I looked at Mira, but she wouldn’t look at me. She backed up as I got closer, sitting in one of the chairs in front of the desk.

“Mira?” I said, waiting for a reply, but she kept looking at the floor. She seemed to be shrinking somewhat, her shoulder drawing in, head bowed, like a small child looking for someplace to hide.

“Mira?” I repeated. “What was all the bs you told me this morning?”

“Most of it was true,” she finally said, barely above a whisper. “You caught me off guard. I didn’t know what to tell you and what not to.”

“You did good enough,” Belle said. “Let’s get on with it. Did you get the money and the pictures, Trevor, or didn’t you?”

“I got them,” I said, putting the bags on the desk.

She nodded with a smile this time. She could’ve been a hundred and twelve, but she could pass for someone in her late fifties. Her makeup was done impeccably and with an even hand; there were just a few crows’ feet giving away a hint of age.

“I’d be careful with this one,” I said, indicating the smaller of the two bags. “It’s got the ashes of the photos in there. You might want to scatter them out in the desert someplace just to make sure. The money’s in the other one. I’d take care there too. I’m sure some of the bills have got blood on them. It would be wise to get rid of them.”

“I hope you didn’t have to put yourself in harm’s way.”

“No, Belle,” I said, sitting in the chair across from Mira. “It was just legwork.”

I explained my day to them then. There was no reason to hold anything back.

Belle listened silently, with a few more nods and another smile or two, until I was finished. “So, essentially they all killed each other?”

“I’d say that’s what happened.”

“And Rimmey came after you thinking you’d gotten away with the money?”

“It looks that way. He probably got a look at this guy Bill’s car. We’re both black, drove similar cars.”

“Any chance the police can come back on you for anything?”

“Could be. But I’ve played dumb before.”

“You’re a good man, Trevor. Be sure to send me a bill for your time. You can list it as miscellaneous surveys.”

“I’ll do that,” I said, standing, took a step, and then stopped. There were a few things I had to be sure of. “So, whom did they send the blackmail photos to?”

“To Mira,” Belle answered, only hesitating a moment. “She didn’t want to, but she was wise enough to bring them to me. Embarrassed as all hell, and about to piss her little panties just like she is now.”

“Grandmother,” Mira protested, then went back into her shell.

“Just what did you tell Rimmey to do?”

“Mira’s just about the only family I’ve got left,” Belle said, a slight vein growing at the side of her neck. “Those bastards attacked my family. Nobody attacks my family and gets away with it. I told him to see to it that it doesn’t happen again.” She’d gotten louder as she practically spat the words, her mouth in an evil curl. But then she relaxed and the vein faded. “Let’s say he took me more literally than I intended, and leave it at that. Personally, I think everything worked out for the best.” She stood up. “We’re finished here, aren’t we, Trevor? Don’t forget to get that bill to me.”

You can’t be with Belle Navilone fifteen minutes without coming away thinking about her. She was all in my head as I pulled out of the Helping Hand Money Mart’s parking lot. Her husband had been the connected guy, who’d blown his brains out when the Feds started putting the screws to him. No jail time for him. He’d settle things on his own terms. Up yours Johnny-law tough.

But it was episodes like the one back in Mira’s office that always made me wonder just who had been the mob boss in the family.