Dirty Blonde

CHAPTER 43

Cate eyed Russo as he slept, taking evil satisfaction in the extent of his injuries. An ugly Frankenstein gash ran down his left cheek, which was covered with skin-toned butterfly things, and a large pink-red egg swelled in the middle of his Cro-Magnon forehead, like a third eye. His greasy black hair had been shaved in a reverse Mohawk; a scalp-deep strip improvised to accommodate a white gauze bandage that wound sideways around his head, completely covering his left ear. His left arm lay in a light blue cotton sling, his right hand in a gauze bandage like a ping-pong paddle, and his knee, lying outside the blanket, was held rigid by a steel brace with navy blue padding. All told, Russo formed a bandaged, if brawny, mound in the white cotton sheet, and an overgrown thicket of dark chest hair sprang from the collar of his gown, like the Black Forest come to Philly.

Cate approached the sleeping man and put her face close to his good ear. “FIRE! FIRE! WAKE UP! EMERGENCY!”

“Ah!” Russo’s puffy eyes flew open in alarm. He tried to get up, grimacing. “Oww!”

“Just kidding!”

“Wha?” Russo blinked in pain, propped lopsided on his good arm.

“Recognize me, Detective? Or should I run away and scream?”

“Ahh. Owww.” Russo blinked a few more times, then sank back into the thin pillow. His voice sounded hoarse, hopefully from a tube they’d stuck down his throat. Dry.

“It’s me, Judge Fante.”

“The killer judge.”

“Once again, you’re half right. I must say, you got what you deserved, and I do excellent work.” Cate clucked over his ugly wounds. “You’re single, right? Better get used to it.”

“What’re you doin’ here?”

“Came to say hi.” Cate plunked herself down next to his swaddled form, bumping him roughly aside. “Make room, would you?”

Russo moaned. “Ow, stop it.”

“Oops. Sorry. Did I hurt you?” Cate give him another bump. “Yikes! I got crazy hips tonight!”

“Keep it up and I’ll call the uniform.”

“Do that. Tell on me.” Cate flashed on the swing of his car headlights, aimed right at her. “Doesn’t it itch like crazy under those casts, or are you in too much pain to feel it? They say, first comes the pain, then comes the itching. Maybe bedsores. Boils, too. Barnacles. Carbuncles. Pestilence. Maybe your nose will fall off.”

“Bitch.”

“Feeling’s mutual.” Cate bounced on the bed until he grimaced again. “Get well soon, would you? So we can lock your ass in jail.”

“You killed Rich.”

“No, I didn’t, you idiot, but I don’t think it was suicide, either. Look how much we have in common. I’m so glad you asked me out.”

“If I could move, I’d kill you with my bare hands.”

“If you could move, I wouldn’t have done my job.”

Suddenly there was a rattling in the hall, and they both looked over. The door was being opened by the uniformed cop, holding it ajar for a short attractive woman in a white uniform with a nameplate that read, JULIE WILLIAMSON. She was pushing a tall metal cart with shelves for dinner trays. She grabbed a tray from the cart and scooted into the room with it. “Hello, you two!” the woman sang out, carrying a green plastic tray on which sat a plate of roasted chicken beside a spreading pool of mashed potatoes and olive green peas, puckering as they cooled.

“It’s about time,” Russo grumbled, and Cate stood up.

“Here, let me help.”

“Thanks a lot,” the woman said gratefully, handing off the tray and hurrying back out to her cart. The uniformed cop nodded, then let the door close.

Cate turned to Russo with the tray. “Hungry?”

“Yeah.”

“Me, too. Another thing we have in common. We’re made for each other. You complete me.”

“Gimme my dinner.”

“In a minute.”

“What the hell is your problem?”

“I need information. Tell me why you think Marz didn’t kill himself, and don’t give me all the soft stuff, like that he wasn’t that kind of guy. Give me hard evidence. Make your best argument. Sell me.”

“Who’re you kidding? This some game you’re playing? You hired the scum to kill him and Simone.”

“Like I said, I don’t think Marz killed himself. I met his wife and she convinced me, but that’s not evidence. You oughta help me out, since only one of us is mobile enough to catch the bad guy. Now answer my question and I’ll give you your dinner.”

“Not enough blowback for a suicide,” Russo answered gruffly. “I don’t get you, lady.”

“What’s blowback? I’ve heard the term, but I don’t really know what it means.”

“Blowback’s the blood and tissue that gets on your hand when you shoot yourself. The explosion blows it back on your hand.” Russo shifted in bed, wincing. “Rich shoulda had a lot of blowback. He had some, but not as much as I woulda thought. Or other suicides have.”

“So?”

“So that means somebody else got the blowback. It’s proof that your man put his hand over Rich’s and pulled the trigger. The hand on top blocks the blowback.”

Cate visualized the gruesome scene. “Like a stencil. How do you know how much blowback to expect?”

“Judgment call. Rich had stippling, so I would expect more blowback.”

“What’s stippling?”

Russo sighed theatrically. “Why you playing this game? You’re a freak, you know that?”

“What’s stippling? Your chicken’s getting cold.”

“Tattooing from the gunpowder, against the temple. Looks like a starburst. Shows that the gun was fired at close range. Gun fired that close should produce a lot of blowback. This didn’t. So your guy tripped up.” Russo’s injured face twisted. “He fooled them but he can’t fool me.”

“Right. You’re a genius, that’s why you drove off a cliff. Now tell me this, Einstein. Why would Marz let somebody put their hand over his and shoot him?”

“He was drunk. Anybody coulda done it.”

“He was drunk?” Cate asked, surprised. “I hadn’t heard that.”

“We smelled it on him. We found booze in the car. The test’ll come back with levels, if it’s not back already.”

Cate considered it. “Still, it’s consistent with suicide.”

“That’s what Nesbitt says, but I know Rich. He drank on the sly. His liver would show it. I guarantee the autopsy shows it.” Russo tried to lift his head but couldn’t. “Gimme my dinner!”

“He drank?”

“Hid it real well, but I know the signs. I used to be a drunk myself. He popped Altoids and got lost for a stretch now and then.”

Cate thought of what Sarah had said. Richard frequently went off alone, to think. “Did you ever confirm this with him?”

“Huh?” Russo seemed to grow suddenly tired and almost cooperative.

“Did you ever ask Marz if he drank?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He’s an Orthodox Jew. What do you think he’s gonna say? I want my dinner!” Russo raised his head, then gave up and put it back down again. “Why you askin’ these questions? Why’d you come anyway? Get outta here.” Russo shouted, “Yo, rookie! Rookie!”

The door opened, and the young cop stuck his head inside. “Yes, Detective?”

Russo pointed at Cate. “Get her outta here. She’s got my dinner.”

“He’s delusional, he’ll be fine,” Cate said, getting up, shooing the cop out, and closing the door behind him. She rolled the tray to Russo and folded her arms. “Here’s your dinner, you big baby. Buon appetito.”

Russo blinked, or at least his swollen eyes twitched.

“Aw. Can’t you feed yourself?”

Russo dropped his bandaged head backwards into the pillow.

“What a pity. Didn’t think of that, did you?”

“Please, God,” Russo said to the ceiling.

“You’re breakin’ my heart. Any other evidence?”

“Are you serious?” Russo’s eyes slid to Cate. “You know you hired that guy to do it.”

“Wrong. What else you got? That delicious meal sits right in front of you and you can’t even eat a bite. That’s ironic.”

“I’ll fix you.” Russo lifted his head, fumbled for the call button, and pressed it with a thumb. “The nurse’ll come. She’ll feed me.”

“Not gonna happen. They’re busy. I know, I was just out there.”

“We’ll see about that.” Russo kept pressing the button.

“Why don’t you ask the Boy Wonder at the door? Maybe he’ll feed you.”

“That’s too gay.”

So enlightened. “You’re going to prison. Think of it as orientation.”

Russo stopped chuckling.

“Tell me about the videotape. You’ve seen it. Why don’t you think it’s Marz?”

“I could just tell. The guy on the videotape didn’t walk like Rich. Rich walks fast. The guy in the cap walked slow.”

“He was going to shoot somebody. Maybe he needed to take aim.”

“Not point-blank. It wasn’t Rich.”

“Let me ask you a question. Could it have been a woman?”

Russo paused. “Possible.”

Micah.

“But it wasn’t. It was the guy you hired.” Russo kept pressing the call button.

“Where did Marz go after the verdict?”

“To get loaded.”

“How do you know?”

“I watched him, I knew his habits. He had his routines, we all do, especially drunks. When things went bad with the writing, or we got another rejection letter, he’d disappear.”

“You know where?”

“No.”

“Another woman?”

“No. The bottle.”

Cate considered it. “You said they found booze in the car. What else did they find?”

“The gun, and that’s another thing.”

“Tell me.”

“It was a revolver, a Rossi. Looked new, like it was bought in a store.”

“Okay, what’s wrong with that? Rich wouldn’t have been able to buy a gun from the street, even his wife said that.”

“I checked the two gun shops in town, the one in Old City and one in South Philly. Neither had sold to Marz.”

“Maybe he bought it in the suburbs.”

“I checked ten others in the area, none of them had, either. Also, the gun we found in the car had the serial number filed down, so it couldn’t be traced. Why would Rich do that, if he was going to shoot himself?”

“Maybe when he shot Simone he didn’t know if he’d shoot himself.”

“Rich didn’t even know enough about guns to scratch off the serial number. I had to tell him those things for the scripts. He didn’t know anything about guns. In one of his first drafts, he had a revolver with a safety on.”

“So?”

“Revolvers don’t have safeties.”

“I knew that.” But Micah could have bought the gun and filed the number off. And she’d know about doing that from the TV show. “So what else did they find on him? A wallet?”

“Yes.”

“Cell phone?”

Russo stopped. “I don’t remember.”

Bet not. Cell phones show who called you last. Cate pulled her chair over to the bed, picked up the fork from the dinner tray, and stabbed a piece of white meat.

“Come on, Judge. Gimme a break.” Russo raised his raspy voice. “I’m starvin’ here.”

“Shut up.” Cate found the foot pedal, raised the top half of the bed, and stuck the chicken in Russo’s face. “Eat this before I stab you.”

“This a trick?” Russo peered down at the chicken, his bruised chin going triple.

“Eat!”

Russo took a bite and chewed, wincing as he swallowed.

And just at that moment, the door to the hospital room burst open.