Jimmy’s no brain surgeon, but he’s not so stupid as to threaten someone in front of a hundred witnesses then plug ’em an hour later. Am I right?”
“You’re preaching to the choir.” I finished the calzone and brushed crumbs from my gown.
“What do you say? Let’s spring you from this joint, choir boy.”
Now? “The doctor didn’t say when I could leave.”
Gino held out both hands. “You waiting for a permission slip? You’re old enough to not have to follow stupid rules. Come on. It’s your leg. You look good. How you feeling?”
“I’m a little stiff.”
“Happens to me every morning.” Gino snorted. “Let’s go. Unless you like the food and lying in bed watching your leg heal.” He set an overnight bag on the bed. “I took the liberty of stopping by your hotel and picking up some of your stuff. Frankie got you checked in.”
“How’d you get in the room?”
“I know the front desk girl … intimately.”
Most solved murders were cracked within forty-eight hours. After that, memories faded, clues vanished, and trails grew cold. “I wouldn’t want the hospital to think I skipped out of paying my bill.”
“So you leave ’em a note.” He held up a black lacquered cane with a silver handle in the shape of a bloodhound. “I got you something else. Check this out.” He twisted the handle and pulled. Attached to the handle was an eight-inch dagger that fit into the hollow opening of the cane. “I saw something like this in a movie once. I heard you got shot in the leg and thought you should be gimping around in style. Try it.”
I slid the dagger into the cane. I turned the handle and locked the blade inside. “Nice.”
“So we gonna do this or what?”
Before I could change my mind, I changed into slacks and a sweater. I left a note on the desk to send the bill to the Carlyle.
Gino poked his head out the door. “Coast is clear.”
I kept weight off my leg with the cane and followed him to the elevator, hoping we wouldn’t run into my doc.
Gino stabbed the DOWN button and clapped me on the back. “Relax. You look like we just knocked off a bank.”
The elevator creaked to the lobby. In the morning haze, Gino hailed a cab while I leaned against the cane. I made a mental list of places to check and people to talk to.
Gino held the door open while I climbed into the back of the cab. Yesterday I was just ahack writer finishing a novel. To solve Mickey O’Brien’s murder I’d have to become what I’d been most of my so-called adult life. My fist tightened around the cane’s silver handle. Until I found Mickey’s killer, I was a detective.
Chapter 4
Anything Goes
During the cab ride from the hospital, I focused on the difficult task ahead. Gino dropped me off at the Carlyle, home for the immediate future. I checked in and took the elevator to my room on the third floor. The room I expected turned out to be a suite. Thank you, Mildred.
I ignored a chance to test the soft, comfy-looking bed and breathed in the scent of fresh white roses. During a quick shower, I managed to keep my bandaged leg dry, ignoring the urge to peek at my gunshot wound.
I set aside the pain in my leg. Determination to retrieve the key from Mickey’s ashtray and find out what it unlocked drove me forward. I changed into my cheapest suit, like the ones I often wore as a detective, grabbed the cane Gino had given me, and took a cab to the familiar office building in my old neighborhood. I stopped in front of the building to admire an impressive maroon Packard convertible, as common in our old neighborhood as the Crown Jewels.
The elevator took me to the second floor. In the corridor a sinking realization hit that perhaps this would be the last trip I’d ever make to the office Mickey and I shared for six years.
I couldn’t let emotions get in the way of my investigation into Mickey’s murder, no matter how much I missed him. Outside his office, I reached above the door and discovered the
“You’re preaching to the choir.” I finished the calzone and brushed crumbs from my gown.
“What do you say? Let’s spring you from this joint, choir boy.”
Now? “The doctor didn’t say when I could leave.”
Gino held out both hands. “You waiting for a permission slip? You’re old enough to not have to follow stupid rules. Come on. It’s your leg. You look good. How you feeling?”
“I’m a little stiff.”
“Happens to me every morning.” Gino snorted. “Let’s go. Unless you like the food and lying in bed watching your leg heal.” He set an overnight bag on the bed. “I took the liberty of stopping by your hotel and picking up some of your stuff. Frankie got you checked in.”
“How’d you get in the room?”
“I know the front desk girl … intimately.”
Most solved murders were cracked within forty-eight hours. After that, memories faded, clues vanished, and trails grew cold. “I wouldn’t want the hospital to think I skipped out of paying my bill.”
“So you leave ’em a note.” He held up a black lacquered cane with a silver handle in the shape of a bloodhound. “I got you something else. Check this out.” He twisted the handle and pulled. Attached to the handle was an eight-inch dagger that fit into the hollow opening of the cane. “I saw something like this in a movie once. I heard you got shot in the leg and thought you should be gimping around in style. Try it.”
I slid the dagger into the cane. I turned the handle and locked the blade inside. “Nice.”
“So we gonna do this or what?”
Before I could change my mind, I changed into slacks and a sweater. I left a note on the desk to send the bill to the Carlyle.
Gino poked his head out the door. “Coast is clear.”
I kept weight off my leg with the cane and followed him to the elevator, hoping we wouldn’t run into my doc.
Gino stabbed the DOWN button and clapped me on the back. “Relax. You look like we just knocked off a bank.”
The elevator creaked to the lobby. In the morning haze, Gino hailed a cab while I leaned against the cane. I made a mental list of places to check and people to talk to.
Gino held the door open while I climbed into the back of the cab. Yesterday I was just ahack writer finishing a novel. To solve Mickey O’Brien’s murder I’d have to become what I’d been most of my so-called adult life. My fist tightened around the cane’s silver handle. Until I found Mickey’s killer, I was a detective.
Chapter 4
Anything Goes
During the cab ride from the hospital, I focused on the difficult task ahead. Gino dropped me off at the Carlyle, home for the immediate future. I checked in and took the elevator to my room on the third floor. The room I expected turned out to be a suite. Thank you, Mildred.
I ignored a chance to test the soft, comfy-looking bed and breathed in the scent of fresh white roses. During a quick shower, I managed to keep my bandaged leg dry, ignoring the urge to peek at my gunshot wound.
I set aside the pain in my leg. Determination to retrieve the key from Mickey’s ashtray and find out what it unlocked drove me forward. I changed into my cheapest suit, like the ones I often wore as a detective, grabbed the cane Gino had given me, and took a cab to the familiar office building in my old neighborhood. I stopped in front of the building to admire an impressive maroon Packard convertible, as common in our old neighborhood as the Crown Jewels.
The elevator took me to the second floor. In the corridor a sinking realization hit that perhaps this would be the last trip I’d ever make to the office Mickey and I shared for six years.
I couldn’t let emotions get in the way of my investigation into Mickey’s murder, no matter how much I missed him. Outside his office, I reached above the door and discovered the
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