The Tall Open Window

"Not even a clue as to why?" I pressed.

"Nobody knows. Michelle was really down about it, but she didn't want to talk."

"How about Dawn?" I asked.

"What about her? She was OK to work with. Really nice, really friendly. You know."

"Was she together with somebody? Boyfriend? Girlfriend?"

"She had a steady boyfriend. She had hopes. I mean she wanted... She... Oh, crap!"

She took a deep breath, continued.

"Dawn, what she wanted more than anything in the whole world was a house with a white-fenced yard, two kids, a dog and a mortgage. So silly, right? I mean, with what she was doing..."

She fell silent. I didn't press; dreams die hard enough as it is.

Another item: While Daphne Cooke could be both kind and protective, she also kept a pretty close watch over her people.

"Would you believe I found her going through Michelle's purse a couple of days ago?" she said.

"Did she see you?"

"Yeah. She said that she was leaving Michelle a small present. She showed me $100 she'd been leaving for her. It seemed odd, but not weird, if you know what I mean. She could be generous when it suited her. She asked me to let it be a surprise."

"And did you?"

"Yes. I knew Michelle was having financial problems because Rachel was gone. But, after, when Michelle was surprised to find the money, I told her."

"She must have been happy about that."

"No, actually. She looked really worried and dug into her purse again."

"Was anything missing?" I asked.

"No. She dug until she found an airline ticket in an inside pocket -- American Airlines, I think. She was really happy to see it still there and asked me not to mention it to anybody."

"Did you?"

"No."

I went with her into the station, bought her ticket and handed her $100 for travelling expenses.

"Stay low," I said. "Get a job, go to school. Stay off your usual Net sites like Twitter and Facebook. Pry the chip out of your phone as soon as you find a seat on the train and throw it out the window; buy another one once you get to New Haven. Change your email address and don't contact anybody here, not ever. You're not that big a target, Francine, even for the mob; this will all be a bad memory in a couple of years."

Her hug was surprisingly strong. I saw tears on her face through the window as the train pulled out.

I had a good feeling about her.

+

I stopped in at the Plaza the next morning to talk to their booking people. I wound up talking to an assistant manager named Doris McIlhenny. I wasn't surprised when she told me that the room in question had been booked by one 'D.T. McArthur', using a personal credit card.

I left the hotel and headed west, looking for a coffee shop or something.

"Hey, Taffy!" a voice called.

I turned to see a figure in the mouth of an alley across the road.

"Hey, Taff!" she repeated, waving at me.

Her real name had been forgotten by everybody but the tax department; people on the street had been calling her Biddy since just about forever. She was older than dirt, with wild white hair and a dress more holes than fabric.

But Biddy was as honest as they come - rougher than a lace condom, but straight and friendly to the whole world. God knows how she survived on the streets, especially at her age. A number of people -- me too, once -- had tried to find a real home for her, but she'd said it would be 'too confining'. She preferred her freedom and it was her call.

I crossed the road to say hi. Street people hear a lot and Biddy was a good old gal. I was surprised to see her with a purse.

Biddy needed a purse like the University needed more entitlement. Come to think of it, I'd never seen her with one before. This one looked new, or at least 'new-ish' -- canvas stencilled in a bold, flowery pattern with leather straps.

"Hey, Biddy," I said. "Nice handbag!"

She grinned even brighter. "Yup, just found it. Isn't it a beaut?"

"Where'd you find it?" I asked.

"Inna dumpster just down there," she said, pointing down the alley behind her with a thumb.

A light-bulb went off in my head. I looked back over my shoulder at the Plaza Hotel.

"What's in it?" I asked.

Her face fell. I guess she'd been hoping for cash or something she could sell, maybe ID she might get a reward for returning.

"Just makeup," she admitted. "Like, what do I need with eyebrow pencils, Taff?"

We shared a giggle for a moment, then I looked around again, orienting myself. I turned back to the old girl.

"What are you going to do with it, Biddy?"

"Thinking of taking it to the Three Serpents Pawn," she said, almost conspiratorially. "They take stuff like this sometimes."

"The Snakes'll give you maybe five bucks, Biddy. How about you sell it to me?"

She looked at the bag, back to me. "It ain't your style, Taffy."

"Fifty bucks, Biddy."

"F-f-fifty bucks!"

Her head tilted a little and she looked at me out of the corner of one eye.

"Really, Taff?"

I answered by reaching into my purse and pulling out a fifty. Her hand went to snatch for it, but I pulled it out of reach, tore it in half in front of her horrified eyes.

I held one half slightly forward.

"This is for now, Biddy. You get the other half when..."

"When?' she asked, her eyes fixed on the bill.

"When I hear from Lieutenant Cotton at Homicide that you've personally handed the bag to her and shown her where you found it."

She sagged. "You didn't say anything about cops," she said bitterly.

I got it. Street people and cops are not besties, I know.

"You're not in trouble, Biddy. Lieutenant Cotton's going to be real happy, trust me."

I waved half of the fifty in front of her. "You will, too."

"You're not joking with me, are you, Taffy?" she asked again. Her voice sounded sad, echoing lost hopes and new worries.

"No joke, Biddy. Not with you."

She nodded. Her hand snatched her half of the fifty and she tottered off, purse under her arm.

"Give it to her in person, Biddy," I called, "not the desk sergeant."

I pulled my phone out of my purse and called Sarah. Her phone was busy, so I left a voice mail.

"Sarah, it's Taffy. I've sent somebody over to give you something I think might be really important. Play nice, please -- and call me when you're done with her."

I stopped in at a local wine bar to wait. My phone rang half an hour later.

"McFitch," Cotton's voice boomed over the phone, "are you trying to critique my makeup?"

I laughed, looked around. Nobody was nearby.

"Sarah, what was the odd thing about those two girls?"

"Nothing," she said after a moment. "Two gorgeous women murdered while making love in a posh hotel room. Happens every day, Taffy."

"Seriously. What was missing from the room?"

She knew her stuff, didn't have to think about it. "The second purse?"

"Bingo. Two women, one purse -- and that was tucked under the bed."

"Your point?"

"Sarah, what if whoever did it thought they had both purses? What if they got part-way home before they opened the second one?"

There was a long silence before she spoke.

"You're not so dumb, Taffy. If it matters, I sent Sergeant Ojima back with the old broad to see where she found the case."

"Thanks, Sarah. Anything from the autopsies?"

"No, nothing significant. Definitely a.22 Short, probably a Beretta."

"Thanks again."

+

I pulled into the parking lot behind Colleen's apartment building. It was in a so-so neighborhood, one which seemed to be struggling to decide whether it was going up or going down.

There was a bunch of kids playing basketball across the alley and I saw them eye the beater. I made a show of locking the doors, saw them lose interest.

There was a button marked 'Superintendent'. I pushed it and got no response, so I pushed a few more at random. In short order, I heard a buzz. Security's all in the mind.

I pulled the door open and entered. The place was clean and smelled OK, even if it was coming due for a serious painting. Looking down the hall, I saw an old woman mopping the floor. She wasn't quite elderly, but seemed to be chasing it closely. It'd been a long time since I'd seen someone wearing curlers and a kerchief. They rather went with the frayed dress, mind you.

"Are you the Super?" I asked.

"Me?" she smirked. "Do I look like the Super?"

"That would depend on my knowing what the Super looks like," I replied.

"Well, I ain't. I'm just work for him."

"Is he around?"

"Who knows? The sumbitch don't tell me." She thought for a moment. "It's Wednesday. He's probably down at the pool hall drinking his lunch."

Her eyes narrowed. "Why? What's it to you?"

"I'm looking for Colleen Baden."

"Baden, eh? Whadya want with her now?"

I flipped out my badge, waved it quickly in front of her bleary eyes.

"Insurance," I said. "Looks like she's been mentioned in a will but the company's address on her is ancient and they're trying to see if she's the right Colleen Baden."

"That so?"

"Yeah. My friends and I hope you can help us."

"Friends?"

I opened my purse again and took out two ten-dollar bills. She looked at them but did nothing, so I added a third. She still did nothing, so I moved to put them back.

Her arm shot out, seized the far end of the bills.

"Give," she said, looking around.

"Seen her lately?" I asked. I didn't let go.

"Not for a few days. She's been looking worried lately. Last time I saw her was, lessee, two days ago. She was headin' out with a little suitcase. I asked her if she was goin' on vacation, but she didn't say nothin'. Some people are just stuck-up."

There was nobody else in the hall.

"How about I take a quick look in her apartment?" I asked.

She frowned. "Ain't supposed to..."

"Take me there," I said, firmly, tugged on the money.

She took a deep breath, nodded, so I let go of the bills. At the door to the apartment, she used a passkey to unlock it, then turned without looking inside.

"Ain't never seen you," she said.

"Seen who?" I replied, then stepped inside and closed the door behind me.

It was pretty clear that somebody had been looking for something. Looking very hard.

I won't say the search had been systematic, but it certainly had been thorough - thorough as in 'destructive'. Clothes were dumped everywhere; the few books had been opened and tossed. Purses had been dumped, one of them actually turned inside-out.

The bed had had its mattress pulled aside and slashed. Cushions and pillows had been sliced open. The toilet tank cover was resting in the bath tub. The drawers had not only been emptied, but removed and dumped upside-down. An overstuffed chair lay on its side, its springs visible through slashed fabric. The edges of the rug had been pulled up and two rather nice glass table lamps had been wrapped in towels and smashed with something. The refrigerator hadn't been spared and food lay all over the floor and counter. Containers of flour and sugar and pasta and salt had been dumped in the kitchen sink -- maybe to avoid leaving footprints? Even the key-rack on the wall had been knocked off its hook to see if there was a space behind. I nudged it and the mail box key it still held with one toe. The key looked lonely, so I put it into my purse.

I kicked through a snowdrift of paper from an overturned trash basket next to a smashed printer. My foot toed through ads, flyers, empty envelopes.

About the only thing not overturned or smashed was a landline phone on the floor by the ruined sofa.

Out of curiosity, I picked up the phone and pushed the Redial button. It rang a few times, then a voice answered with, "Parkway Motel."

"Sorry," I said quickly. "Wrong number."

On my way out, I found the old woman.

"Somebody trashed the place," I said. "Maybe you should call the cops."

"Maybe I should mind my own business," she said, not looking up from her mopping.

+

Sitting in the beater and waiting for the a/c to kick in, I decided I was done for the day, unless the day decided it had something really useful to contribute.

There was a good Tuscan joint not far from my place. I figured I'd pick up something on the way home, something with prawns maybe, and eat it in the tub. I could just sit there, let the warm water do its work and eat right from the box.

I pulled out my phone to look at the menu and saw a text from Vlad, wanting to know if I was available for a drink.

Vlad was cute, but it was too close to home. Men were a complication, always needing attention, always underfoot -- except when you needed them. A workplace boyfriend is always a recipe for disaster and I valued Vlad too much as my assistant to let my hormones put me into some place where I might have to fire his delectable ass. Dammit, anyway -- why couldn't he have been working for somebody else? I reluctantly decided I was outside of coverage for the night.

The phone quivered again in my hand.

This time it was from André: up for dinner?

I smiled. Maybe the night had some promise after all.

The bubble-bath and prawns morphed into a really quick shower and a Cajun place he knew of. I looked at the menu and made a rough guess at his finances. This had to be high-end for him; I ordered moderately, ate everything, refused desert. The food was pretty good.

We made first-date small talk. He wanted to know how I'd become a detective; I asked about saxophones. To my delight, André said he liked to dance. He knew a place and, when we got there, wonder of wonders, the boy even knew how to lead. Maybe, I figured, I should date more musicians.

I stayed away from asking him about anything he'd seen at Hot Flashes. I had higher priorities at the moment. OK, let's be honest, maybe lower.

Later, the lights were low and the music had gone very soft, a lover's dance. I put my head on his chest and let myself be led around the dance floor. He smelled good, some sort of soap overlaid on strong young male. I felt it deep within me, a warm glow. His hand slipped a bit lower than my back. I knew it would either soon slide back up or else I'd be faced with a choice.

The decision was made for me when the music stopped and the band took a break. His hand dropped from not-quite-my-bum and he started to lead me off the dance floor.

I held onto his hand and didn't move. He stopped, turned back towards me. I took both of his hands in mine, looked up into his eyes.

"Thank you, André. This has been fun."

I leaned up, a slight but smiling pucker on my lips. André wasn't slow on the pick-up. His tongue explored my lips softly, probed a little and met my own heading out to welcome a guest. It turned out he was as good as kissing as he was at dancing.

I kind of lost track of time.

I can't remember the last time I'd actually blushed, but then a couple of tables around the dance floor started cheering and whistling and I had a new entry for the diary I don't keep. André turned a little dark and took a step towards the nearest one, but I pulled him back. Right then, I needed a lover, not a fighter. I whispered that into his ear and he rocked back just a little as it hit home. He blushed a little himself, looked embarrassed.

"I have a roommate."

I have a cast-iron policy of not inviting men back to my apartment and knew that my tall saxophone player must have already blown his budget trying to impress me. Don't be cheap, Taffy. He paid for dinner and dancing; you can pay for the hotel.

I squeezed his hand.

The Plaza was nearby and I knew my way around it. As we entered, I pointed at the bar.

"Buy us something to drink, hon. I'll meet you by the elevators in five minutes."

The desk clerk was a sour-faced little rat. He'd seen André and I come in and kept asking me how many guests would be sharing the room. I would have slipped him a five, but his attitude was annoying.

"There's one of me," I said flatly, "and I'll need just one bed. If there's a problem with that, get on the phone and call Doris."

My casual use of the manager's name ended the discussion and André was waiting for me, a bottle of not-bad white wine in hand.

The room was nice, about what I'd expected. Cut to the chase, the bed looked good and the curtains closed all the way and that's all we really needed. I pointed at the bottle.

"Open that, will you, André? I need to freshen up."

When I emerged a minute later, I was hardly surprised to find him lying on the bed, his hands tucked behind his head and his clothes neatly folded on a chair. I caught my breath; it was an impressive sight.

He had a wicked grin and I felt it resonate all the way down to my toes, like I'd been suddenly sapped from behind.

He stood, picked up a glass of wine in each hand. I took one, sipped it, let my eyes roam over him.

He wasn't hugely tall, but those shoulders were broad and the hips narrow.

"Turn around," I said. "I want to look."

He chuckled, turned happily on the spot. Damn!  I do like a good set of buns on a man.

He finished turning; his grin had grown wider. Something else had grown, too, and my eyes lingered on it.

"You like?"

"I like."

I handed him the glass, stepped closer. Without any conscious thought, all by themselves, my hands rose, flat against the hard muscles of his chest. He had decent chest hair, too, something I personally approve of. Glass in each hand, he smiled as my hands slid down over his sixpack.

"Are all musicians this ripped?"

"Only the saxophones."

I leaned in, licked one flat nipple, then the other.

I looked up into those warm, expressive brown eyes, giggled a little at the way they opened wider as my hands moved further south, loitered on something very promising. Those long, long fingers hadn't  lied.

"Look at that," I whispered. I lifted my chin and learned something more about musicians and kisses.

I let go, took a deep, deep breath, took both glasses from him. The way my heart was pounding, I needed a large gulp. Instead, I took a sip -- it was decent wine and he was watching; I didn't want to shatter all his illusions just yet.

I was about to step past him, put the glasses down, but he turned the game around, caught my blouse. I looked up at him, remembered my daydream of his hands on me, found the reality better than the fantasy.

Strong thumbs gently swept over my breasts, then again. He lowered his mouth to mine once more, his tongue saying bonjou  in the best Cajun fashion. I felt my nipples pop up like a pair of.380 bullets. I tried to shift to put the glasses down, but he had me caught.

"Don't lose those," he said softly. Without taking it from my hand, his hand brought one to his mouth, took a sip, released it.

I felt a nudge on one thigh. Looking down, I saw his organ, stiff as a billy club now. I felt a sudden dampness in my panties.

His one hand swept down to my waist. His other started unfastening my blouse, one button at a time, deliberately. Finished, his hand drifted inside, over my bra, then inside it.

I decided the man knew where he was going. It'd been a long day. I was tired of being the tough one, tired of being in charge. André clearly knew his way around the neighbourhood; I'd let him drive.

I closed my eyes, focussed on how good his hand felt on the girls.

His hand came out of my bra. I was ready for the usual embarrassing bra-catch fumbling, but he proved talented there, too. His hands had no sooner touched the catch when I felt the straps sag.

It was a good omen.

His hands cupped my breasts, fondled them slowly. There's something to be said about a musician, I guess, someone used to coordinating gentle, sure movements of their fingers and hands. André was a maestro with his and I felt that old familiar happiness bloom inside me as they teased and played soft cans and hard nipples.

He knew skirts, too, for the hook parted as soon as he touched it. I smiled at the tickling feeling of the zipper moving down my hip. His hands rose to sweep blouse and bra off my shoulders; they pooled on the floor with my fallen skirt. I stepped out of the pile, kicked it aside, twirled out of his grip and finally managed to put the darned wine glasses down.