Better Read Than Dead

  The look Milo gave me made me want to cry. I’d known him only a short time, but I really genuinely liked him. His look made it clear that he’d formed a new and permanent opinion of me; in his mind I was now one notch below pond scum, and for some reason that really, really bothered me. “You understand that my butt is on the line for you where this investigation is concerned, don’t you?”

  “Come again?” I asked, not picking up the subtle turn in the conversation.

  “I’m risking my career here by having you contribute your . . . uh . . . talents to this investigation, and instead of respecting the fact that I’m going out on a limb for you, and helping me, you’re working hard to point me in the wrong direction. Why?”

  I gulped before answering him. Milo really knew how to lay on the guilt. “I’ve already given you my impressions, Milo. I don’t know what else you want from me.”

  “How about the truth?”

  “I’ve told you everything I know. I can’t make something up just to please you, now, can I?”

  After a long, tense moment Milo took a deep breath and slowly let out his obvious disappointment in me. “Fine,” he said after a moment. “Have it your way,” he added dismissively and got up, turning his back to me.

  The way Milo turned away bothered me the most, so in a last-ditch effort to appear cooperative I asked, “Milo? If you guys have this video of my sister’s attack, isn’t it possible that there’s a video of Karen Millstone’s attack? I mean, she was probably grabbed in the garage the same way Cat was. . . . Maybe there’s a clue—”

  “No,” Milo said harshly, not turning around but cutting me off with the ice in his voice. “The video only records from Sunday through Saturday of every week, then loops back and starts over. Karen’s attack has been recorded over. If we’d known she’d been attacked in the garage instead of the post office we could have gotten to the tape sooner.”

  “Oh,” I said humbly. Long moments ticked by with neither of us saying a word, so finally I asked, “Can I go?”

  “For now.”

  With downcast eyes I made my way out of the room, noticing that Milo never looked at me as I walked out the door.

  I made my way downstairs and ran into Detective Steve Hurst. Steve was newly promoted to detective, having served on the Detroit police force for a couple of years before applying here to Royal Oak for the detective position. He was an extremely humorous young man who’d kept us all in stitches the night we’d gotten together to play poker. In fact, because he was so genuinely likable, I’d allowed him to count the change in his pocket as an article of clothing—otherwise he would have been wearing his birthday suit a whole lot sooner. “Hey, Abby!” he said jovially.

  “Morning, Steve, how’s it going?” I asked, turning to him and smiling broadly. Steve was cute in a boyish kind of way, with big green eyes, strawberry-blond hair and a quick smile. He had an energy that people just warmed to, and I imagined he was very good at gaining trust from people when it was necessary to do so quickly.

  “Not bad . . . Hey, sorry to hear about your sister. How is she?”

  “She’ll be okay; thanks for asking,” I said with a sigh.

  “Give her my best, and you take care, you hear?” he said as he moved past me to head up the stairs.

  I remembered something then, and before he’d gotten too far I called after him, “Hey, Steve, can I ask you a favor?”

  “Sure, what’s up?” he asked, pausing on the third stair from the top.

  “If I needed to look at an old police file from a long time ago, how could I go about doing that?”

  “Milo’s got you helping out on some of our cold case files?” he asked, coming back down the stairs to stand next to me.

  “Uh . . . yeah . . . that’s right, some cold case files. He gave me a copy of one that I’ve been tuning in on, but when I was looking through it I noticed that the second page was missing.”

  “How old is the case?” he asked, scratching his short-cropped hair.

  “About twenty years.”

  “Well, most of the files that old are kept on microfiche down in the basement. Didn’t Milo drag you down there when he gave you a copy of the file?”

  “Uh, no . . . he actually had me pick it up. See, it was sort of my idea to look into it; the case is a missing woman who was the mother of a friend of mine. I asked Milo about it and he got me a copy of the file, but someone forgot to make a copy of the second page. I’d ask Milo again,” I said, looking nervously up the staircase to the double doors, “but he’s so wrapped up in this serial-rapist case, and I don’t want to keep bothering him about stuff. Do you think you can spare me just five minutes to help find the file?”

  “Sure, come on with me,” he said, and motioned for me to follow him.

  We headed down the stairs to the basement and through a long corridor that dead-ended, forcing us to make a sharp left; then we went through some double doors and came to a large storage space with a microfiche machine, several tables and chairs, a copy machine and row upon row of filing cabinets.

  Toward the back wall and sitting behind a short counter was a pretty young woman with slim features, a perky nose and flyaway brown hair, who looked up as we entered. Steve walked over to where she sat sorting and organizing a gigantic stack of files. “Hey, Kristy, how are ya?” Steve said fondly to her.

  “I’m fine, Detective Hurst. What brings you down to the dungeon this morning?”

  “Well, this,” he said, indicating me standing right behind him, “is Abigail Cooper. She’s helping us with a case or two, and she wants to have a look at a cold case file. I’ll vouch for her if you help her out, okay?”

  “Sure,” Kristy said. “No sweat.”

  With that Steve patted me good-naturedly on the shoulder and said, “Kristy’ll take good care of you. Good luck, and I’ll catch you babes later.”

  “Thanks, Steve, see ya,” I said with a grateful smile as he walked back out the double doors.

  After Steve had gone I turned back to Kristy and said, “Hi. I don’t have a case number or file number, but I do have a first and last name—is that enough?”

  Kristy swiveled in her chair to her computer and set her hands just above the keyboard. “Not a problem. What’s the last name?”

  “Kapordelis—that’s spelled K-A-P-O-R-D-E-L-I-S.”

  “First name?”

  “Dora.”

  Kristy typed in the information and hit the search key. We both waited while the computer thought through the request, then bleeped that it had found something. “Yeah, here it is. Missing persons, huh?”

  “That’s the one. All I need is a copy of the second page of the police report. Can you help me find it?”

  “Sure, just give me a minute,” Kristy said, and scribbled down a number onto a sticky note. She then tore off the sticky note and walked over to one of the rows of filing cabinets. She came back a moment later with a roll of microfiche in her hand, and stepped purposefully over to the microfiche machine. She threaded a roll of film through the machine and pressed the forward button. We both watched in silence as the machine whirred and the film zipped by the viewer in a dizzying display of motion. Kristy then pressed the stop button, and I smiled as she had only to tab the film forward slightly to reach Dora’s police report.

  “You’ve done this before,” I kidded.

  “Oh, once or twice,” she said, smiling. “Okay, so you just need the second page, right?”

  “Yep, I have the rest; this one was the only page that got left out.”

  “Cool,” Kristy said, and hit a button on the right side of the microfiche. The copier behind us whirred into action, and we both turned to look at it as the moving ray of light whined underneath the cover, and in a moment a copy appeared in the tray.

  I smiled at Kristy, who was already rewinding the film, and picked up the paper, folding it twice and shoving it into my purse. I’d look at it later tonight and see if there was anything there worth tuning in for. “T
hanks so much, Kristy; you’re the best!” I said as I headed for the door.

  “No problem. It was nice meeting you,” she sang as I waved good-bye through the double doors.

  Quickly I headed back upstairs. I figured it was only a matter of time before Milo heard I was poking around in some old police file and came down here to investigate. On my way up I ran into the same officer who had picked me up that morning, and asked him for a ride back home. He looked a little annoyed to be playing taxi, but agreed after only two heavy sighs and an eye roll.

  The officer dropped me at the curb, and I made my way to my front door. Reaching for the door handle, though, I caught myself, and felt icy panic run down my spine. My door was not only unlocked, but partially open. Someone was inside, waiting for me, and I had a feeling it wasn’t the welcome wagon.

  I pushed the door open and hesitated on the porch, waiting for something from inside to jump out at me. Nothing happened, but the distinct odor of cigar smoke wafted out to assault my nasal passages. I grimaced in distaste and peered into my vestibule. Two figures sat, fat and troll-like, on my suede couch, dripping cigar ashes onto my wool rug and smearing the air with puffs of acrid odor from the fat Cubans dangling from their mouths.

  The first thing I noticed, other than their smelly cigars, was how ugly they were. One was short and incredibly fat; his face looked like it’d been squashed in an elevator and stayed permanently scrunched. His complexion was heavily pockmarked, and his eyes were small and sunken as they stared unblinking in my direction. He reminded me of a goblin, errant in his mission back to Hades after Halloween.

  The other one was tall and rickety. His posture was bent forward, giving him a sinister cast. His face was narrow and pinched, his nose a little too long, and his lower lip fell away from his bottom teeth, giving the appearance of a snarl. All he needed was a pair of bat wings to protrude out his back and he could have been the model for one of the gargoyles atop Notre Dame.

  “There’s no smoking allowed here, boys,” I said coolly as I stepped into my home. I was seriously hoping that my bravado would hide the fact that I was scared witless.

  It was obvious Andros had sent his henchmen to fetch me, but the question was why. The men stood as one, and regarded me. Gargoyle smiled evilly at Goblin and said, “No problem; we’ll put these out right away.” And with that he dropped his cigar on my rug and ground his heel into the butt, smearing ash and tobacco on one of the colored squares. Damn it, I loved that rug.

  “Nice,” I said giving him my best “Jerk!” expression. Goblin watched the exchange, chuckling, the sound like coins rattling in the dryer. Then he too dropped his cigar, mimicking Gargoyle and smearing a separate spot of ash and tobacco, causing both men to cackle like witches.

  Watching them I was seething with rage, but what could I do? I had no choice but to wait the bastards out until finally they’d had enough at my expense.

  When they’d finished laughing they turned as one in my direction, and without another word they walked to me and motioned toward the door.

  I pivoted on my heel and stepped outside, walking just ahead of them, when I noticed a car just down the street suddenly come to life and meet us at the bottom of the walkway. Goblin held open the door, and obediently I got in. Gargoyle came around to the other side, and blocked my exit by getting in and sandwiching me in between both of them.

  When all the doors were closed, we took off through my neighborhood, headed to the highway, then downtown.

  This time I didn’t look out the window; I was too busy worrying about what this impromptu visit was all about. I didn’t know if Andros had tired of me, or if he’d decided I knew too much, or if perhaps he’d found out about my connection to Dutch. What I was terribly afraid of was that all of those things were distinct possibilities, and that perhaps it was my turn to be fitted for a pair of cement-soled shoes—size nine.

  We reached the Kapordelis estate twenty minutes later, and I was allowed to exit the car without a great deal of manhandling. We walked through the enormous front door, down the same corridors and hallways I had previously been escorted through, and came to a rest in front of the closed double wooden doors leading to Andros’s study. Goblin pointed to a chair set off to the right of one of the doors, and I took a seat as I waited to meet my doom.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Time ticked slowly by as I waited inside the Kapordelis household. I could hear muffled voices coming from inside Andros’s study, but was unable to make out any words. Gargoyle and Goblin stood sentinel on both sides of the doorway, their vapid stares into space giving credence to my suspicion of their lack of intelligence. I scowled as I looked at them. The only thing worse than being kidnapped by dangerous mobsters was being kidnapped by dumb dangerous mobsters.

  Finally the double doors opened, and a familiar figure walked out. I sucked in a breath of surprise and quickly looked at the floor, trying desperately to conceal my face. I hardly needed the effort; Officer Shawn Bennington strolled out of Andros’s office with a sickening grin and a sweaty wad of money folded in his pudgy little hand. He was busy counting it as he absently followed Gargoyle out the way we’d come.

  As I stared at Bennington’s back, a cold chill tickled its way along my spine, and I remembered the parking ticket written by Bennington that I’d smugly handed over to Andros. In an instant I knew I’d made a big mistake, and Dutch was now in trouble. Big trouble.

  And presently I was in no position to help him. In fact, I suddenly realized, I could very well be in the exact same predicament.

  I looked to Goblin, whom I expected to wave me into Andros’s study, but instead he poked his head inside briefly, then closed the doors again and waited with me outside the doors. Ten minutes or so ticked by as my knee began to jump and dance with my worry. I had to get a warning to Dutch, but how? How could I possibly do that now?

  Movement to my left caught my attention, and I looked up to see a man of medium height with a forget-table face stroll into view. He paused outside the double doors and regarded me, and as I met his eyes I had the distinct impression we’d met before. He smiled slightly, inclining his head, then pulled open the doors and went inside. I blinked several times, wondering if I’d really seen what I thought I’d seen. The man seemed to know me, but I couldn’t place his face.

  As my knee bounced I worried over it, until a short time later, when the man appeared again, this time ignoring me as he walked quickly away. I watched his back as he disappeared down the hallway, and then I remembered something that sent a chill up my spine. I was sure I’d met him before, but I couldn’t recall his face. The only thing that seemed even remotely familiar was the way he had looked at me; there was a way about his eyes that tickled my memory banks . . . and then I had it. The man who had just come out of Andros’s study was the hit man I’d read for at the wedding.

  I tried to swallow the lump that had just formed in the back of my throat, but I couldn’t seem to manage any saliva. Just then Goblin opened one of the doors and motioned me inside. On shaking legs I walked forward into the den of the lion and faced Andros, fat and pungent in his big leather chair behind the monstrous desk.

  “Miss Cooper, you disappoint me,” he began, getting directly to the point.

  “How’s that?” I asked as I took a seat and met his stare.

  “I had hoped you would keep the police out of the picture, and my staff informs me that you were downtown at the station for several hours this morning.”

  My heart was hammering in my chest. Oh, God, he thought I’d leaked information to the police. I had to think fast. “On the contrary, Mr. Kapordelis, it’s you who disappoint me.”

  Andros regarded me with a dangerous look. I was pushing his buttons, and he was quickly losing patience. “Excuse me?” he asked in a voice that gave me the willies.

  “You gave me an incomplete file on Dora.”

  Andros leaned forward, his beefy upper body resting on his elbows as he perched on the desk. “What do
you mean?”

  “The file you gave me on Dora—the police report in it was missing the second page. I was asked by Detective Johnson to come down to the police station to verify some facts on my sister’s case, and while I was there I was able to go through the original police report on Dora’s disappearance.”

  Andros tapped his fingers across his desk as he thought about what I’d said. I took the opportunity to offer a little proof of my story. “See, I’ve got a copy of the second page right here,” I said as I leaned over and picked up my purse. Before I could fully lift it to my lap my arm was halted midmotion as a large, viselike hand gripped mine and painfully yanked the purse out of my grasp. Another henchman I hadn’t even been aware of had come from somewhere in the room to protect Andros from any false moves.

  The man who stood above me was tall like Gargoyle, but not nearly as thin. He was younger too, with jet-black hair and olive skin. He had broad shoulders, and would have been handsome were it not for the grim expression that turned his features angry and mean.

  I watched helplessly as he ripped open my purse and began to rifle through it, no doubt looking for the Stealth Bomber I kept hidden in my small change pocket. Finally, after rooting through hair spray, lipstick, wallet, gum, keys and a few unmentionables, Grim pushed the purse back at me and stepped to the far side of the room. I sighed my irritation and pulled out the now-crumpled copy of the second page of Dora’s police report, handing it over to Andros for observation.

  “Now, if all I wanted to do was point the police in your direction, why would I take a copy of Dora’s police report with me from the station? I mean, if I’d told the police about you, do you think I’d still be working on finding your wife?”

  Andros looked from the crumpled paper to me, then back again. I noticed that his hand shook slightly as he held the paper, either from pain or too much medication. But I had a hard time feeling sorry for the bastard.

  “I remember this page,” he said slowly. “I think Madame Jarosolov took it from the file when she had it.”