The Fruitcake Murders. Ace Collins

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СКАЧАТЬ and spell out the hard, cold facts to the misguided member of the fourth estate. Rather than level her with a verbal left hook from out of nowhere, Lane uncharacteristically opted to employ a bit of tact. “Tiffany, why don’t you shake the snow off your shoes and head into the living room.”

      Digging her high heels into the carpet, she demanded, “Where’s Elrod?”

      Lane shook his head. So much for kid gloves. It was time to blow the impertinent woman out of the water. “You’re not going to be talking to the district attorney tonight or any other time.”

      “You can’t keep the press away from him,” she shot back, pushing her five-foot-two-inch frame as high as it would go by lifting her heels off the floor and perching on her tiptoes. “I have my rights guaranteed by the constitution.”

      Lane leaned forward to a point where they were nose-to-nose and forcefully quipped, “I’m not trying to deny you the opportunity to interview an elected official. It’s just that it’s pretty hard to get quotes from a dead man.”

      “What?” As she pushed the word between her lips, the color drained from her beautiful face and her heels once more met the carpet. The news had deflated her ego as well as taken her voice. In another place and another time, that would have been something to celebrate, but not now.

      “That’s the sad fact,” the cop quickly explained, his tone lower and softer. “Now, if you’ll pick up that steamer trunk you call a purse and join me in the living room, I’ll give you what I know.”

      He didn’t wait for a response but turned on the heels of his brown wingtips and made his way across the hall through the pocket doors and into the home’s largest room. He waited in front of a dark green, velvet-covered reading chair as the woman removed her coat, laid it over the arm of the couch, dropped her bag on the cushion, and folded her arms.

      “I’m guessing it is murder,” she sadly observed as she pulled a pad and pen from her purse.

      “Your observations always were brilliant,” he cracked.

      “Not much to it,” she noted, “you’re from homicide. They don’t pull you out into the snow to investigate a death by natural causes.”

      He shrugged, sat down in the velvet chair, pushed his shoulders deeply into the high-backed cushion, and said, “The maid discovered the body about five hours ago. He was at his desk, phone in his hand, his head resting on his calendar, and a knife sticking out of his back.”

      After jotting down the information, Tiffany looked back to Lane. “So where’s the body?”

      “At the morgue.”

      “It looks like the crime scene boys are gone,” she noted, “so why are you house-sitting?”

      “Because the chief wanted to make sure the scene was kept fully secure just in case the medical examiner discovered something we might have missed during our initial investigation. You know the drill, something that might give us a hint as to who killed Elrod. Therefore, rather than spending my evening visiting with interesting people, I’m listening to the radio and hosting a pesky elf while waiting for the call that allows me to head back to my office and start filling out reports.” He frowned and then dryly added, “Merry Christmas!”

      “Makes sense,” the woman admitted as she sat on the couch, crossed her legs, and pulled the hem of her gray wool skirt down below her right knee, “at least everything but the interesting people part. Based on my knowledge of your friends, you don’t know anyone even vaguely interesting.”

      As she allowed the heel of her black pump to dangle off her right foot, Lane noted she still possessed a dancer’s legs. When his eyes moved upward, he was also reminded that as good as her pins were, they were not her best features. Not surprisingly, as his appreciative gaze arrived at her face, her full red lips, deep blue eyes, and high cheekbones dragged him into the kind of mental fog that all but caused the cop to miss her next observation.

      “Not going to be a good Christmas for Elrod’s wife.”

      “Nope,” he agreed as he recovered his focus by moving his eyes from the woman to the radio, “she’s downstate visiting her sister. Glad I’m not the one delivering that message.”

      Sounds of Dinah Shore singing “I’ll Walk Alone” filled the room, and for the remainder of the hit ballad, neither of them spoke. When the station launched into a newsbreak, Tiffany made a rather pointed observation.

      “That was Dinah’s first number-one record. Let me see, it has been two years since it was resting on top of the charts. You were in Hawaii on leave and were supposed to meet me at the Pineapple Club, but for some reason you didn’t show up. I wonder what her name was?”

      He frowned, “I drew guard duty that night.”

      She raised her eyebrows and slowly shook her head. “And you couldn’t call? I mean was it too hard to look up the number for The Stars and Stripes? You had no problem contacting me at work earlier that day.”

      “I couldn’t get to a phone,” he explained.

      “There was one in the guard house where you were supposedly patrolling.” She glared at the cop. “How do I know? Because you called me from there to make the date! In fact, you bragged about talking to me from a phone that was supposed be reserved for only official military use. So, Lane, I got dressed up, went to the club, and listened to that Dinah Shore song on the jukebox again and again, because I truly was walking alone.”

      “I’m sorry, Tiff, I was . . .”

      She waved her hand, “Don’t even try, none of the excuses you’ve ever given me held water. Let’s move past what was and into what is. Since you are confused about this case, I’ll move onto one that is twelve hours old. Have you made any progress tracking down a suspect in the Grogan murder?”

      “Tiffany,” he said, bringing his eyes back to hers, “are you making small talk or digging for information for The Star?”

      “A bit of both, Mr. Walker,” she admitted.

      “For print purposes, and you may quote me, we are close to making an arrest in the hit on the known underworld figure Stuart Grogan.”

      She cocked her left eyebrow and smiled, “So in cop jargon that means you don’t have a clue. You have found part of the body in a river and something to make an identification possible, but you have nothing else.”

      “I didn’t say that,” he hastily shot back. “So you can’t print it.”

      She shrugged, “Okay, I’ll cut you some slack. Now back to the case of the moment. Elrod was a good man. Straight as an arrow! He was trying to clean this city up. Shame this had to happen before he could reach that goal. Because if there was less crime we would need fewer cops and maybe the force would show you the door.”

      “So,” he grumbled, trying to ignore her dig, “why are you here tonight? There has to be more of a purpose than just needling me.”

      She shrugged, “There’s no reason to hold out on you now.” Tiffany tilted her head slightly, licked her lips, and frowned. “I guess, in the light of a murder, this doesn’t mean much now, but you know those Santas standing on the street corners ringing those bells?”

      “Yeah.”

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