Caliber Detective Agency Box Set 3 Page 6

  Rhonda Hart had been fastidious at keeping the cat boxes clean, and had been the same way with the room. However, she was an old woman who lived alone, and so she cut corners where she could, to conserve her energy.

  The closet in her son’s room, although clean, did have a layer of dust on its shelves. Photos taken of the closet by the crime scene investigators revealed that several objects had been moved around on a bottom shelf.

  The dust on that shelf was disturbed, but nothing appeared to be missing, as four cardboard boxes filled the space.

  Shea donned gloves after tying back her hair. She sat on the floor of the closet and grabbed the box on the far left. The cardboard was brittle, and flakes of it fell off.

  “Ah,” Shea said as she opened the box and saw the contents.

  There were comic books inside. Old superhero comic books from the fifties and sixties. Shea didn’t know what such things were worth, but she knew that the older they were the rarer they were. Rare meant that they were valuable.

  She went through each box, and as she did so, Shea noticed a pattern emerging. Rhonda Hart’s son had been a diligent collector of comics. He had what appeared to be whole series of some titles up until the time he’d left for the army. Or rather, they would have been full series, but many had the first few issues missing, along with scattered gaps here and there in the series procession. The early books, along with certain key issues would be the ones that would have the most valuable.

  “I just found me some motive,” Shea said to herself.

  After putting everything back the way she’d found it, she left the apartment and went about knocking on the residents’ doors.

  At every apartment, she casually inquired into one subject. When she found that many were in general agreement about the same person. Shea went looking for her. She had sought to learn who the biggest gossip in the building was, the busybody that any apartment house of size invariably possessed.

  Shea located the woman in the laundry room. She was pleased to see her mouth going a mile a minute as she complained about the teenagers in apartment 2-C.

  Shea made friends with the woman, and by the time she left the laundry room, she was almost certain she knew who had killed the cat lady and the paperboy.

  Trace Pruitt awoke sometime around noon.

  He was still groggy from the anesthesia he’d received during the operation he went through. As he grew more aware, he lay in his hospital bed and listened to the murmur of voices coming from the hall.

  The beeping of the machines monitoring his vital signs stirred Pruitt to greater wakefulness, as did the ache that was throbbing in his chest.

  When the events of the previous day came back to him, Pruitt’s eyes grew wide. He looked down to see that there were several needles running into his right arm, while his chest was heavily wrapped in sterile gauze.

  While looking around the room, Pruitt was amazed by all the flowers, balloons, and Get Well Soon cards. He couldn’t imagine who would have sent them.

  A nurse came into the room with a smile that made Pruitt feel better all by itself. She was an older woman, perhaps fifty or so, and she looked happy to see Pruitt awake.

  “Hello, Mr. Pruitt. My name is Donna and I’ll be your day nurse.”

  “Hey, how bad am I hurt? I’m weak and my chest feels weird.”

  “You nearly died saving the mayor, and the bullet you were hit with collapsed a lung while causing massive blood loss.”

  Pruitt squinted at the woman as she busied herself checking the machines and replacing an I.V. bag.

  “The mayor?”

  “Oh, he’s fine, don’t worry about Mayor Marks. In fact, he’s been waiting to see you.”

  “The mayor wants to see me?”

  “Yes, sir. He can’t wait to shake your hand. You’re a hero, Mr. Pruitt, a real live hero, and the whole country is talking about you.”

  Pruitt shook his head as if to clear it, but the gesture only made his chest hurt.

  “Hey, um…”

  “I’m Donna, sir.”

  “Yeah, Donna, what happened to me?”

  Donna patted her patient’s hand.

  “Your doctor, Dr. Reynolds, he’ll have to speak to you about your condition. I can tell you this, they expect you’ll make a full recovery.”

  Pruitt was about to ask another question when Donna headed for the door.

  “The doctor will be in to see you shortly. Once he says it’s okay for you to have visitors we’ll send in the mayor, oh, and your partner too.”

  Donna left, and Pruitt’s groggy brain tried to make sense of what she’d said.

  She said I saved the mayor, got shot, and was a hero the whole country was talking about. Me?

  Pruitt struggled to reach the TV remote with the arm that wasn’t stuck with needles, and soon he was watching a 24/7 news channel.

  When he saw the video of himself seemingly leaping in front of Mayor Marks, he understood why everyone thought he was a hero.

  “Damn, I look cool.”

  The male and female models that were presented to the world as news commentators were comparing Pruitt’s heroic act to one performed by Jake Caliber the third. The old man had taken a bullet to save the president.

  Then, an interview came on with the truck driver who had struck Pruitt the day before. The man was a gregarious sort, and he pantomimed his story as he told it.

  “Man, I’ve never seen anyone move the way Pruitt did. First, he somersaulted off a car, then kicked off my grill to get himself up high. And man, did he ever time it perfectly. He must have been a ninja in a former life. The man’s a real hero.”

  Pruitt surfed several other news channels, including a Spanish language channel, and damn if they weren’t showing his face everywhere.

  “Holy shit. I’m famous.”

  Pruitt turned off the TV, as the pain in his chest increased. Being a hero hurt like hell.

  Nurse Donna returned with the surgeon named Reynolds who had operated on him, as well as two other doctors. They asked Pruitt questions about his level of pain and informed him in detail about his injuries.

  “When can I get out of here?” Pruitt asked.

  “Give it a few days, Mr. Pruitt, and don’t worry about the cost. The mayor is paying for everything.”

  “Wow, okay.”

  “The mayor would also like to visit with you. I agreed to a short visit, and I’m afraid there will be a photographer too.”

  “Fine by me,” Pruitt said.

  After they all left the room, Pruitt recalled something else Donna had said, something about a partner. But, he didn’t have a partner.

  As Pruitt was puzzling that out, Rayne stuck her head in the room.

  “Pruitt, we need to talk.”

  He grinned. “You came to see me. I knew you liked me too.”

  Rayne smiled, then frowned, as she came into the room and saw the condition Pruitt was in. Without thinking, she laid a gentle hand on Pruitt’s cheek.

  “You came close to dying.”

  “I know, and my last thought was of you.”

  “What?”

  “It’s true.”

  Rayne removed her hand, then stared at Pruitt. Before she could explain why she was there, one of the mayor’s security team walked in. The man nodded at them, then the mayor of New York City was escorted into the room.

  The photographer that followed took photos with one hand even as he filmed with the other one.

  The mayor thanked Pruitt, then told him that he could eat for free at Marks’ Deli for the rest of his life.

  “Awesome,” Pruitt said, “But you guys should bring back those sweet potato fries you used to make. They were da bomb.”

  The mayor laughed. “I’ll put in a request for you, but now, let’s get a picture together.”

  The photographer took a photo of Pruitt and the mayor, then, the mayor made a suggestion to the photographer, who was named Harry.

  “Harry, take one of me with Mr. Prui
tt and his partner. It will make a great publicity shot for their business.”

  Pruitt stared at Rayne. “Partner?”

  Rayne smiled. “That’s a great idea, Mr. Mayor. We’ll place a poster-size version of the photo in the reception area at Pruitt/Carver Investigations.”

  “Pruitt/Carver Investigations?” Pruitt said, as if he were trying the name out to see how it tasted. He then looked over at the mayor. “Mayor Marks, would you like to know something about my… partner?”

  “What’s that, Mr. Pruitt?”

  Pruitt grinned at Rayne. “She’s as smart as they come… and hot too.”

  Harry took the photo just as Pruitt pinched Rayne’s ass.

  Chapter Twelve

  Nearly a week after Pruitt was shot, Shea O’Reilly and her partner Kim Williams sat across a table from the murderer of Mrs. Rhonda Hart. Mrs. Hart had been known affectionately as the cat lady. That same person had killed the paperboy, Grant Moulton, while attempting to make his death look like a suicide.

  The building manager’s wife, Celia Jones, held her head up and met the gaze of her accusers.

  “I didn’t kill anyone and I don’t know about any missing comic books.”

  “Yeah, you do,” Shea said, but for a while there, she had begun to doubt her own theory of the crime.

  Shea’s discovery of the gaps in the collection of comics didn’t necessarily mean that those particular issues had been stolen and were the reason for the murder. This was something that her partner, Kim Williams, had pointed out to her as they sat in their car outside the apartment.

  “The old lady could have sold them years ago, or maybe her son never bought those issues, or he did have them once, but sold them before being shipped off to Vietnam.”

  “I know that, but the cat lady was killed for some reason. I’m betting it was those comics.”

  “Any idea how much they might be worth?” Williams asked.

  “If they’re in the same condition as the other comics I found, they’d be worth over half a million.”

  “Damn. People have killed for a lot less than that.”

  “Yeah, and I also have a suspect. According to the building’s biggest gossip, a Mrs. Claire Witt, the murdered paperboy was hot for the building manager’s wife, Celia Jones. Mrs. Witt, the gossip, she said that Jones liked to tease Moulton, you know, for sport. And Moulton once told Mrs. Witt that he thought Celia Jones was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.”

  Williams had turned in her seat to face Shea.

  “All right, Detective O’Reilly, tell me how you think it all went down.”

  “I think Celia Jones learned about those comics from the cat lady while her husband was busy fixing the bathroom sink. The old lady probably mentioned that she still had all her son’s things, including those comics, but I doubt the cat lady knew what they were worth.”

  “That sounds plausible,” Williams said.

  “Don’t it though? Then, I think Celia Jones got to wondering about those comics and wanted to get a look at them, but without the old lady knowing. That’s when she enlisted her admirer the paper boy. He was to be her lookout while she snuck into the old woman’s apartment early in the morning by using a master key.”

  “And killing the cat lady, you think that was planned?”

  “Nah, but the old woman must have caught her going through her son’s things, and after that, it got ugly.”

  Williams nodded. “So far it makes sense, and we know it was loud enough to alert a neighbor, so the paperboy out in the hall must have heard the struggle as well.”

  “The guy probably freaked if he got a look at the old lady lying there on the floor,” Shea said. “But, a few sweet words and a couple of kisses on the cheek and he calms down a little. Still, Jones knew he wouldn’t be quiet forever. She had just killed an old lady, and if she wanted to cash in the comics someday, the paperboy had to go too.”

  “But how would she have time to tie a knot and get the rope around his neck?”

  “That rope was already there from the day before. Roofers used it to pull up heavy bundles of roofing tile from the fourth floor, then left it there. That stairway up to the roof is narrow, and makes it difficult to carry anything heavy onto the roof.”

  “That explains the rope being there, but why would the paperboy let her put it around his neck?”

  “Celia Jones could have done it after kissing him. All she would have had to do was loop one end over his head and give him a shove. After that, a broken neck would do the rest.”

  “All right, I’m down with that theory, but it only works if we can link her to those comic books.”

  And that was where Shea’s theory fell apart.

  If such comic books existed, Shea had been unable to find them. None of the comic shops in New York or the surrounding states had bought any valuable collections such as the one Shea described to them, nor had any of the online auction sites had the comics listed on them.

  Shea then wondered if the comics had been hidden somewhere inside the cat lady’s apartment until it was safe to come back for them. She and Williams had practically torn the place apart, but found nothing.

  A later search of Celia Jones’s apartment revealed nothing as well, except the fact that she and her husband were slobs. The only things hidden beneath their furniture were dust bunnies and missing socks.

  Refusing to admit defeat, Shea went back to the cat lady’s apartment one more time, while armed with a new theory.

  The comics were still in the apartment, but they were behind a wall in some secret compartment, such as an old dumbwaiter that was sealed up ages ago.

  However, there were no hidden dumbwaiters or secret hidey-holes. Shea had sat on the edge of the bed and looked about the room of a man who had died nearly half a century ago.

  It was while she was staring off blankly into space that she saw it.

  Shea had been facing the wall where the six litter boxes were lined-up when she detected an anomaly. Litter box number four had a mound of fresh cat litter that was sitting several inches higher than the others.

  She’d donned gloves as a smile crept over her face. When she’d uncovered the comics wrapped up together inside a heavy green garbage bag, Shea laughed.

  “We found the comics where you buried them in the litter box, Celia,” Shea said. “I figure once we compare your prints to the ones found on the comics we’ll get a match.”

  Celia Jones shrugged.

  “I touched them once. It was the time my husband fixed Mrs. Hart’s sink. Mrs. Hart showed them to me. That’s why my prints are on them.”

  “A judge might buy that,” Williams said. “But the bag of litter you used to cover the comics with had only been bought the day before. We’re betting that your prints are on that bag.”

  Celia Jones’s face grew pale as she trembled.

  “I want a lawyer,” she said.

  “Yeah, we thought you’d say that,” Shea said.

  Shea and Williams watched as Celia Jones was moved to a cell.

  “O’Reilly?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Good work, girl. I think we’re going to kick ass as partners.”

  “Thanks, Kim, and I know I still have a lot to learn.”

  “Of course you do, but it’s less than most rookies. You’ve got a knack for this work. Some have it and some don’t, but you do.”

  Shea grinned. “I’m a homicide detective on the N.Y.P.D, what could be better than that?”

  “Not a damn thing,” Williams said while laughing. “C’mon girl, I’m going to buy you dinner and celebrate your first case.”

  “The ‘Who killed the Cat Lady?’ case. It sounds like an old mystery novel.”

  “Or a comic book,” Williams said.

  Sammy Sloan sat across from Rayne Carver in her office at Pruitt/Carver Investigations.

  Sammy plucked a business card from a holder that sat atop the desk.

  “Pruitt/Carver Investigations? On the phon
e, you made it sound like my name might be on the business cards.”

  Rayne looked apologetic. “I know, and that had been my intention at the time, but—”

  “—I got upstaged by Trace Pruitt saving the mayor.”

  “Yes, but I still want you to work here. The name Sam Sloan is nearly as well-known as the name Jake Caliber.”

  “My dad and old Jake were cut from the same cloth, Miss Carver.”

  “Call me Rayne, and do you accept my offer?”

  “What’s it pay?”

  Rayne mentioned a salary figure and Sammy shrugged.

  “It ain’t much, but I’m here in New York for more reasons than work, so I’ll take it.”

  “Excellent, and, would that other reason be Velma Parker?”

  “Shit, am I that obvious?”

  “I picked up certain things, from her as well. Velma was worried about you when she heard about that shootout you had with the bank robbers.”

  Sammy smiled. “It’s good to know she still cares.”

  Across the street at the Caliber Detective Agency, the old man and Gail were staring up at the huge banner hanging from the gleaming glass tower across the street.

  PRUITT/CARVER INVESTIGATIONS

  “I knew Rayne had plans,” Jake said, “but I didn’t see that coming.”

  “She’s deluded to think she can compete with us,” Gail said.

  “Aw hell, it’s a big city with a lot of people. There’s plenty for all of us to do.”

  Gail’s phone made a sound, indicating she had a text. After reading it, she smiled.

  “They’ll be here any minute, Jake. Let’s go downstairs.”

  “I can’t wait to see the boy’s face,” Jake said.

  A minute later, the old man and Gail were stepping off the elevator and into the lobby, where Chris and Velma were waiting. With them were Lauren, and the old man’s girlfriend, Maggie.

  It was after regular office hours, and so the receptionist’s desk was unoccupied, and no customers were around.