Six Murders Too Many (A Carlos McCrary Mystery Thriller Book 1) Read online

  My body shuddered like an earthquake. I staggered toward my front door, leaned against the wall, and vomited in the flower bed beside the steps. I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand and took a few deep breaths as I waited for my heart rate to return to normal. It took a while.

  While I waited for the police, I disinfected the cuts and applied some salve. There was nothing I could do for the shredded slacks or my dress shirt and jacket. They were so bad that I couldn’t even give them to a homeless shelter.

  The police finished their reports at midnight.

  I went to bed but tossed and turned all night, wondering who wanted me dead. And why.

  Chapter 24

  I sat across the desk from Dr. Virgil Norris. He peered at me through tortoise-shell glasses. “Please sit down, Mr. McCrary.” He started to shake hands when he noticed the bandage. “What happened to your hand?”

  “Some men shot at me last night, and I took a dive on the pavement to escape. They missed, but I got skinned up.” I didn’t want a conversation about the shooting, so I changed the subject. “Did Ike Simonetti’s assistant call you before I came in?”

  “Yeah. He said you had questions about Sam Simonetti and wanted a DNA sample. Something about the paternity of a baby born after Sam died. Did I get that right?”

  “Yes, sir. Do you have a DNA sample from Sam?”

  Norris shook his head and glanced at a file on his desk. “Sam died last year. I remember signing his death certificate. But we wouldn’t have his DNA.”

  “Have you retained any blood or urine samples?”

  Norris shook his head again. “Those go to the lab as soon as they’re drawn, and we don’t keep them. But the ones drawn at the hospital go to the hospital lab. Have you checked there?”

  “No, sir. I wanted to talk to you first. Whom should I see at the hospital?”

  “Harriet Chrysler in the hospital lab. I’ll tell her you’re coming.” He grabbed his telephone, consulted an old-fashioned Rolodex, and punched in the number.

  He leaned back in his chair and cradled the phone to his ear. “Harriet, Virgil Norris here. How are you, beautiful?” He listened for a minute. “Listen, Harriett, I have a detective here who needs some DNA from one of my deceased patients, Sam Simonetti.”

  He listened and then shook his head. “No, no. It’s not that kind of investigation; they just need some of his DNA for a paternity test. The patient died about six months ago.”

  Norris listened for a while. “I thought y’all might have a blood sample in the freezer.”

  He listened. “Okay, Harriett. G’bye.”

  He replaced the phone. “Harriet and I go back thirty years. She can get you anything they have. If she gives you trouble—and she won’t—have her call me. What else can I do for you?”

  “You told her I’m a detective. But I’m a private investigator, not a police detective.”

  “I know that, and you know that. But it won’t hurt if she thinks you’re a cop. Don’t correct her. Capisce?”

  “Capisce.”

  “Anything else you need?”

  “Sam’s widow, Ramona, had a baby four months after his death. She claims Sam is the father. Ike’s wife, who is an MD, thinks someone else fathered the baby. What do you think?”

  Norris thumbed through the folder. “Theoretically, Sam could’ve fathered a child, but since his heart attack, he’d been almost impotent. Partly that was a side effect of his heart medication, but also because of age. We spoke about it before he got married. I gave him an erectile dysfunction drug prescription for thirty pills and told him he could only use one a week. They married a few weeks later, and I gave him a physical before their wedding. They planned to honeymoon in South America, and he wanted to visit Machu Pichu.”

  “What’s the altitude there?”

  “I looked it up—eight thousand feet. I told him not to go above five. His heart wouldn’t take it.”

  “They took a cruise around South America instead.”

  “I’m glad he listened to me. If he’d remained in good health, I figured his first ED prescription would last him six months. Did you check if any of the ED drug was left? That could be a clue.”

  “Good idea, Doc.”

  “Anything else I can help you with?”

  “No, sir.” We shook hands. “Thanks for your help.”

  ###

  At Port City Regional Medical Center, a hefty, gray-haired woman in hospital scrubs pushed through the door. “I’m Harriet Chrysler, but you can call me Harry.” She noticed my bandaged hand. “What happened to your hand?”

  “Occupational hazard. I skinned it in a scuffle with a couple of thugs.” That was almost true.

  “Virgil said you wanted a DNA sample from Sam Simonetti.”

  “Yes, Harry. By the way, I noticed Doctor Norris refers to you as Harriet.”

  “Virgil’s old school. He thinks girls should have girls’ names. We have a nurse nicknamed Alex and Virgil always calls her Alexandra.

  “Anyway, about that DNA, I checked and we don’t have any blood samples. Sorry.”

  “What about urine?”

  “Urine doesn’t contain DNA, even if we did have some, which we don’t.”

  “Well, it was worth a try. You have anything else that could have Sam’s DNA? Anything from the autopsy?”

  “There was no autopsy.”

  “No autopsy? Isn’t that required?”

  “Common misconception. The law requires an autopsy for unexplained or accidental deaths or where a crime is suspected. Doctor Norris was Simonetti’s attending physician. He determined the cause of death, and he signed the death certificate. No autopsy required.”

  Wallace had told me there was no autopsy, but it never hurts to double-check.

  Chapter 25

  Before I got into bed, my phone played “Old McDonald Had a Farm.” “Hey, Grandpa. I’m okay. They missed.”

  “You know how I worry, Chuck.”

  “Thanks, Grandpa, but I’m fine. Skinned knees, elbows, and a scraped knuckle from hitting the pavement.”

  “How’s the Ghost?”

  Grandpa called my Avanti the Silver Ghost. He bought it used when he got out of the Army. When I graduated from college, he gave the Ghost to me. “The Ghost was shot up pretty bad, Grandpa. But my classic car guy is fixing her good as new.”

  “At least you’re okay. I love you, son. You know that I want more great-grandchildren. I’m counting on you, and if you get yourself killed, those plans go out the window, right?” He laughed to show he wasn’t serious, but I knew that his jokes masked a real fear.

  “I know, Grandpa. You’ll have more great-grandchildren, I promise.”

  “I got through Viet Nam with only two Purple Hearts. You weren’t so lucky in Iraq and Afghanistan. Don’t get yourself killed, you hear? That’d ruin my whole day.”

  I wondered if Grandpa had thought about how that would ruin my day too. “Yes, sir. I’ll be sure to duck. Give my love to Grandma too.”

  Chapter 26

  At the North Shore Precinct, I waited at the door to Lieutenant Weiner’s office until she waved me in.

  She put down the phone and walked around her desk for a hug. She slipped into her Jewish mother persona, which was easy to do because she was, in fact, a Jewish mother. “Carlos McCrary. So where’ve you been? You never call; you never write. You could be dead, and I wouldn’t know, unless I read the police reports about a certain drive-by shooting.”

  “Mother, I’d have called yesterday, but I knew I’d see you today. And I took you to lunch just last month.”

  She gave me a come-on gesture. “Let’s hear it, boychick.”

  I told her the little I knew, that the car followed me and I had no license number. “I got off four rounds and I hit the car once or twice.”

  “Yeah, I talked to the detective in charge of the investigation. He’s checking auto repair shops for an Altima with bullet holes.”

  “I would bet a steak dinner
to a French fry that the car’s at the bottom of a canal by now.”

  “Probably,” she agreed, “but you didn’t come here to tell me that. Whatta ya need?”

  “I have three sets of fingerprints I want you to check for me, Mother.” I held out the contact sheets for Ramona Simonetti, Ramon Gomez, and the waiter at El Rodeo.

  She didn’t take them. “Are these connected with the shooting?”

  “Maybe.”

  She took the sheets. “What’s the case? Is there any crime here? Or are you chasing another wayward husband?” She fixed me with her hard cop look.

  “Mother, there may be a crime. It may involve fraud and there may be three murders in Cleveland.” Or not.

  That got her attention. She pulled a note pad from her desk drawer. “Talk to me.”

  “Off the record?”

  “You know the rules, Chuck. If there’s an unreported crime or a crime about to be committed, the answer is no. If lives or property are in danger, the answer is no. You’ve got to trust my judgment. Remember: You’re the one who wants a favor. I am but a mere public servant sworn to serve and protect.” She bowed with fake modesty—not easy to do while sitting.

  I told her everything I knew and most of what I suspected. At the end, she picked up the contact sheets. “I’ll see what I can do, bubalah.” She wrote a note and paper clipped it to the contact sheets, which she put in her out box.

  She leaned back in her chair. “Terry Kovacs tells me she’s dating you. That shiksa has the hots for you real bad. You could do a lot worse. One thing, though, I guess you know she’s a little wild?”

  I nodded.

  “Terry’s sown a few wild oats around the department, but overall she’s a good cop for a rookie; she’s coming along fine. At least she’s stayed away from the married ones as far as I know. She has a good mind. She’ll be marriage material some day. Listen to an old yenta: Don’t give up on this one. Be patient, and don’t let her get away.”

  “So far, so good, Mother. But she wants to take it slow. I suggested an exclusive relationship and she passed; said she wasn’t ready. But I see her again tomorrow night.”

  “She’s kind of ‘girls just want to have fun,’ you know what I mean, bubalah?”

  “That’s exactly what she told me, Mother.”

  “I’m not surprised she wouldn’t go steady. But keep after her.”

  “People don’t go steady any more, Mother. We say that we’re in a relationship.”

  “Relationship, huh? It’s still going steady if you ask me.”

  ###

  The next day Lieutenant Weiner texted: Come see me.

  When I got to her office, she handed me a folder. “The first prints we got nothing on. She doesn’t have a record.

  “That’s Ramona Gamez Simonetti. One of the other two is the waiter and one is the guy I think is her father.”

  “The waiter had a DUI twelve years ago, nothing since. Here’s the rap sheet on Ramon Gomez. He was arrested twice in La Jolla, California for burglary five and eight years ago. First time, he copped a plea n exchange for community service and probation. Second time, the assistant DA dropped it because of an evidence issue. They also collared him three times for suspicion of arson, also in La Jolla, all from five to nine years ago. Didn’t you mention something about a house fire in Cleveland?”

  “Yeah. That’s the three possible murders I told you about yesterday.”

  Mother looked back at the file. “Ramon’s lived in Port City the last couple of years. How does this fit with your other info?”

  “I don’t know how the fire in Cleveland started. The fire investigators didn’t treat it as suspicious at the time. But it looks like I’m going to Cleveland on Monday.”

  Chapter 27

  I called the head of fire investigations from the Cleveland airport. “Captain, this is Chuck McCrary from Port City.”

  “Yeah, Chuck. Lieutenant Weiner from the PCPD called. I’ve been expecting you.”

  “Captain, can we see you this afternoon? We’re investigating a suspicious death in Port City and it may be connected to a fire here in Cleveland.”

  “I’m tied up the rest of the afternoon. How about tomorrow at 10:30?”

  “Thanks Captain, we’ll be there.”

  He gave me directions.

  ###

  A little before sunset, a shiny new brown Escalade with orange trim pulled to the hotel curb in front of us. Cleveland Browns colors.

  Snoop did a double-take when he saw the driver get out. “You’re Bob Martinez.”

  “You must be Snoop. Pleased to meet you.” Martinez shook hands, started to turn toward me.

  Snoop held onto his hand. “First round draft pick of the Cleveland Browns Bob Martinez. MVP at the Super Bowl two years ago Bob Martinez.”

  Martinez had six inches, a hundred pounds, and thirty years on Snoop. But he couldn’t get his hand free. “I see you keep up with your football.” He tried to turn toward me again.

  “Where do you know Chuck from, Bob?”

  Martinez finally pulled his hand away. “We played football together at Theodore Roosevelt High School.” He gave me a bear hug and lifted me off my feet. “Chuck, you’re a big-time private eye now.”

  “Well, I’m a private eye. Not ‘big time’ yet.”

  Snoop smacked me on the shoulder with the back of his hand. “You never told me you knew Bob Martinez.”

  “He’s taking us out to dinner. I wanted to surprise you.”

  “Well, you sure as hell did.”

  ###

  I awoke to the sound of rain mixed with hail beating on my hotel window. It sounded like popcorn popping. Summertime on the Great Lakes.

  Snoop and I took a taxi to the Cleveland Department of Fire Investigations. It dropped us at the entrance and we dashed through the rain to the shelter of the roof overhang. I shook out my umbrella.

  Snoop sneered at me. “Wimps carry umbrellas. I bet Bob Martinez doesn’t even own an umbrella. Real men get wet.”

  “Then you’re a real man, Snoop. Here, carry this until it dries.” I handed him my umbrella and brushed off the droplets clinging to my pants. “At least I don’t wear rubber overshoes.”

  “You would if they’d fit in your briefcase.”

  The receptionist directed us to Fire Captain Jake Crawford’s glass-walled office. He was on the phone, but motioned us to come in and have a seat. “And do it ASAP. Get on it now.” He hung up and reached across the desk, his hand extended. “I’m Jake Crawford. Which of you is McCrary?”

  I shook his hand first. “I’m Chuck McCrary, Captain. This is my associate Raymond Snopolski. Ray’s also a former Port City police detective consulting on this case.”

  “How can I help you gentlemen? Which case we talking about?”

  I opened my briefcase and handed him a file. “September 27 of last year, three women died in a house fire at this address on Edgewater Drive.”

  He opened the file and read the address. He punched the intercom. “Susan? Could you bring me the file on the Montrose fire on Edgewater Drive from last September?”

  Crawford read my thin file. “So, what can I do for you?”

  “I suspect the fire was arson.”

  The captain leaned back in his chair. “By whom? And why?”

  I told him about Ramona and Gloria and our suspicions about Gloria’s paternity. I told him I suspected the fire had been set to kill at least two of the heirs.

  “That’s a serious accusation.”

  “It’s a suspicion, Captain, not an accusation. We’re here to find out if it’s true.”

  “If it’s arson, then your client and the baby had the most to gain. Wouldn’t that make your client the prime suspect?”

  I nodded. “But, he’d be pretty stupid to hire me if he did it. I think Ramona’s father, the electrician, came here to arrange the fire that killed those women. With a house that old, the fire caused little suspicion. That’s why I’d like you to reopen the case.�
��

  Crawford’s door opened and a woman brought in a file and handed it to him. “Here’s the file on the Edgewater Drive investigation. You need anything else right now?”

  “No, Susan, that’s all. Thanks.” He flipped through the file. “The field inspector’s notes say the ninety-year-old electrical panel in the basement shorted out about 2:00 a.m. The wooden mounting box ignited and the fire spread to the wooden studs in the walls and the 2 x 10s supporting the floor above.” He looked elsewhere in the file. “Lacquer thinner and some old newspapers stored in the basement acted as accelerants. Then the fire caught the heating oil tank and the whole shebang went up.” He closed the file. “They didn’t have a chance. Old house, no fire detectors, no sprinkler system, wooden interior walls. A damned shame.”

  “Any chance the fire was deliberate?”

  Crawford flipped through the file again. “Old houses like this are firetraps if they haven’t been updated. Nowadays, fire code requires metal electrical panels, flame-resistant walls, and smoke detectors near every bedroom. We require fire-resistant storage for oil tanks.” He tapped the file. “This house had none of that.”

  “So that made it worse?”

  He leaned back in his chair. “In the 1920s, electrical wires were insulated with cloth treated with fire retardant. Ironically, the fire retardant property wears off as it ages and after forty or fifty years, cloth insulation can become flammable.”

  He opened the file again. “But this lacquer thinner is suspicious. Without it, the fire would’ve spread slower and allowed the occupants time to get out. On the other hand, these old houses have all kinds of crap stored in basements and attics—old mattresses, photo albums, clothing. All those things fuel a fire.”

  “Captain,” I asked, “What happened to the house after the fire? Has it been razed or repaired?”

  “We require the owners to repair or clean up within six months. But we had budget cutbacks so our enforcement is piss-poor. It could still be sitting there. Who inherited the house?”