The Red Hot Fix by T. E. Woods

Author:T. E. Woods [Woods, T. E.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-345-54927-3
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2014-06-09T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirty

Mort stood over the body and contemplated the great equalizer of death. Yesterday Mort’s pay grade wouldn’t have gotten him any closer to Reinhart Vogel than he’d been to the big man’s wife a half hour earlier. Separated by an arena, twenty thousand people, and a dozen security guards. Now Vogel was lying dead at Mort’s feet. His battered bald head less than an inch from the tip of Mort’s resoled wingtip. Cold eyes staring into nothing. Yielding no clues to whose face was the last he’d seen.

Yes, sir, Mort thought. Yesterday you would have passed me on the street without a second glance. And I’m the guy who’s gonna figure out who killed you.

A uniformed patrolman stepped in front of Mort to unroll the body bag. “Trixie’s moving uptown, eh, Chief?”

“And she’s getting antsy.” This from the officer who took the maid’s statement. Thin hair and thick waistline. “Just one day since her last kill.”

Mort and Jimmy exchanged looks.

“I’ll take the gist of the maid’s statement,” Mort said. “Save your opinions.”

Thick and Thin looked around to see if anyone else had caught the putdown. He flipped his pad open and read off the facts. “Says she’s been on the payroll just over a year. Comes three times a week to tidy up and do laundry. She figured since the lady moved out and with the Wings playing at home, the joint would be vacant. Figures it’s a good time to do her thing.”

Mort scanned the living room. Six officers. A dead man sprawled on the floor. Still enough room for a neighborhood beer party. “Tell me more about the lady who moved out.”

“One of Vogel’s chippies is my guess. I mean, look at this place. Everybody knows Vogel and the missus got a palace on Mercer. That’s a half-hour ferry ride at most. What’s a guy with a mansion that close need with a pad downtown? If this ain’t a love nest, I’ll eat my hat.”

Mort looked at the officer’s strained belt and had no doubt that given sufficient ranch dip, the man could follow through on his wager. “We have a name on the newly departed woman?”

“Maid didn’t know. Just that she could tell it was the same woman from the laundry and the food in the fridge. All organic crap. Maid gets word she needs to come by and pick up a new key. Comes up, boom. No ladies’ clothes. No tofu shit in the fridge.”

Mort bit his lower lip. “So the maid comes up …”

“Security desk says she signed in at 9:32. She came straight to the penthouse.” He read from his notes. “She headed to the kitchen and put her cleaning supplies on the counter. Came in here to put on some music to entertain her while she cleans. Rounds the sofa, finds him laying here all bloody and dead, and runs out of here screaming something in Spanish so loud it brought everybody running. They take one look and punch 911.”

Mort watched the coroner’s crew zip Vogel into his bag and heft the corpse onto the gurney.

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