Corpses Say the Darndest Things: A Nod Blake Mystery Read online

  “Please do.” With that, having done all of the damage I could for the moment, I let Miss Bridges show me from her office and back to the vestibule.

  If Frank Wenders were to discover I had photos of his latest murder victim, on the night of her death, having sex with a gentleman without the benefit of a conjugal connection, and that I'd failed to turn them over to him, he'd have come down on me with every ounce of his considerable weight. If he'd known that I not only had them but was showing them to others he'd have just shot me. Showing them to Gina Bridges had been a risk and admittedly I'd wound up with little for taking it. But I did at least now know for certain who the first set of players were as the identities of Katherine Delp and Nicholas Nikitin had been confirmed. I had to hope, for the present, that embarrassment and potential ruin for the Temple church might help Miss Bridges, and Delp once he knew, to keep my secret. With this on my mind, I was actually surprised when the church secretary paused on the way out.

  “Mr. Blake…”

  “Blake,” I corrected (unhappy that we'd regressed).

  “Blake,” she said as we reached the doors, “about those pictures; a scandal could ruin the Delp Ministries.”

  “I'm sure it could,” I agreed. She was staring at me with something like fear in her eyes and it suddenly dawned she was questioning my veracity. I smiled to show her we were all on the same team. “I think I started this conversation by telling you it was confidential. I assure you, Miss Bridges, I am the soul of discretion. It's part of my business.”

  “Part?”

  “Yes. I'm also partial to the truth. If you're worried about me showing them to anyone, I'm not ready to do that. If you're worried about me blackmailing the reverend or the church, shake your head real hard, the feeling will go away. I'm too busy and too lazy to be a blackmailer. Delp hired me and he's going to get a bill; per diem and expenses, including film and developing. I don't charge for content. When the case is finished, the photographs are his to do with as he pleases.”

  “But I don't understand. Your case is finished, isn't it?”

  “If that's what you call a joke,” I told her. “I don't get it. This case has only just begun.”

  Chapter Six

  I entered my office, feeling behind schedule as usual, shouting directions over my shoulder as I passed Lisa's desk. “Get a hold of Large,” I told her, referring to a friend and informant of mine who was all that his name implied, plus nosy, who on occasion gave me a hand with everything from threading administrative needles to poking into lions’ dens with a stick. “Have him check with his mole in the Department of Corrections, will you? See if they have any history on a Nicholas Nikitin; N – I – K – I – T – I – N.”

  Lisa pushed her glasses up on her nose, pushed a pizza-by-the-slice box to the corner of her desk, began scribbling atop her pile and, through masticated pepperoni and cheese, asked, “Is he Russian?”

  “I don't know. He sounds it. Maybe Large can tell us.”

  “Right.”

  “Then see if Willie Banks has been bailed out yet.” I paused at the door to my office. “If he has, get a hold of him and get him over here. His car is already drawing flies and I expect peasants with pitchforks soon. Tell him to get it off my lot.”

  “Right.” She held up a fistful of pink and blue note slips. “Do you want your messages from this morning?”

  “Are any of them reporting this building on fire?”

  “No.”

  “Then, no.” I pointed at her phone. “Large. Tell him I need speed.”

  “Wenders didn't look happy this morning.”

  I didn't know if she was changing the subject in order to stop me or stopping me in order to change the subject. It didn't matter. I'm not an ogre, I paused again. “How does Wenders not looking happy make today different from every other day?”

  She ducked the question and asked another. “Are you in trouble again?”

  “I think I should resent that.”

  “That was a non-denial denial.”

  I gave her the stare, made a noise of derision, slipped into my office, and closed the door. I poked the speed dial button on my phone as I sat.

  It was answered uptown in the DMV's office. “Illinois Department of Motors Vehicles. This is Miss Laney, how can I help you?” Though we'd dealt with each other on and off for years over the phone, Kellie Laney and I had never actually met. It was probably just as well. She had a voice as warm as a melted cheese sandwich and, with the images I'd created in my head, meeting her, even if she was a knock-out, might be a letdown for me and surely would have been for her.

  “How's your love life?”

  “You would be the last one I'd tell,” she said. “What are you doing, Blake? I heard they pulled your license and threw you out of the city.”

  “They will when they catch me. But that is neither here nor there. Right now I need a favor, beautiful.”

  “That's obvious, you called.”

  “It hurts when you talk that way.”

  “What do you want, you pest?”

  “You. But you're holding out on me.”

  “And will continue to do so. Now that that's settled, anything else?”

  “I need the skinny on a Nicholas Nikitin.”

  “Nicholas,” she repeated. I could hear typing. “N – I – K…”

  “I – T – I – N. Nikitin.”

  “Is he a bad man?” Laney asked.

  “Aren't we all?”

  “You don't even want to go there,” she said. My cheese sandwich had gone cold. “When's dinner?” she added. “You've been promising me a dinner for two years. You still owe me.”

  “Of course I do. The anticipation is the excitement,” I told her. She made a noise. “Hey, that's not nice. I was sincere.”

  “You sincere?” She made another noise. “Are you ready?”

  I grabbed a pen. “Ye-ah, more than ready.” She talked and I scribbled – all that she had. “Thanks, doll face.” She asked a question and I couldn't help but wonder if some weird new club was forming. “Well, yes,” I answered. “Now that you ask, I do think I'm Humphrey Bogart.”

  She must have been a Bogie fan and, based upon where she told me I could go, must have known he'd starred in King of the Underworld. I decided not to ask, offered a simple “Uh huh” in reply, and quietly set down the receiver.

  *

  I entered the lobby of the swanky Lake Shore Apartments building just off Lake Shore Drive; the address I'd found on the vehicle registration of the virile Nicholas Nikitin, now verified by Kellie Laney. Locked glass doors and a humorless security guard stood between me and the elevators. She was short, square, and bumping fifty hard enough to break bones; everything I loved in a woman. I waved to her and smiled, making it clear I offered no threat and that she'd probably really enjoy my company. Without any indication she was convinced or that we'd established a life-long friendship, she buzzed me in.

  “Hey, how are you?” I asked approaching the desk. “I'm looking for a tenant, Nicholas Nikitin.”

  Glowering beneath a protruding forehead and a single eyebrow, the guard said, “We don't give out tenant information.”

  I brightened the smile. “Not even for me?”

  “Who do you think you are?” she asked staring icicles, “Sam Elliott? We don't give out tenant information.”

  “Well, of course you don't. I'm not looking for information, just your tenant.” I handed her a business card. “I'm Mark Pullman,” I lied, “Illinois State Lottery. Nikitin is a multimillion dollar winner and he hasn't responded to our letters. Guys a millionaire, but doesn't answer his mail.”

  “Really?” Finally, life in her eyes. “A millionaire, here? Damn!”

  “You said it. I go home every night to an arthritic dog and a wife and dinner that are both frozen.”

  She scowled. “We all got problems.”

  Ah, the motherly type. “Sure, but before I go home to my problems, I spend my whole day handing out four,
five, and six figure checks to complete strangers.”

  “Yeah, that would suck. What d'you say this guy's name is?”

  “Nikitin. Nick Nikitin. Course, now he's a millionaire, he'll probably stick with Nicholas.”

  The guard began to hunt and peck on her computer keyboard. “No. He ain't here. Wait a minute.” More hunting. More pecking. The green screen didn't help her sour complexion. “Yeah. No wonder I don't know him. He moved out six months ago. How long ago did he win?”

  “I've been looking for a while. In fact, he's about to expire. You know, if you don't claim your winnings in a year, it's bye-bye winnings. You wouldn't have a forwarding address, would you? I know it's probably breaking the rules but, if he knew you helped him out, and if you wanted I could let him know that, and then he'd probably show his appreciation.”

  “Sure.” She looked again and, a minute later, though it couldn't afford to, her face fell. “No. Nothing.” She was disappointed but not nearly as much as I was. I thanked her pleasantly, escaped the confines of the glass cage, and paused outside to consider my next move.

  Chapter Seven

  I was back at the office before I planned or wanted to be with absolutely nothing to show for my sortie. Willie's car was still in my lot. I entered, pushed through to the outer office and stopped at Lisa's desk. The cupcake she was eating looked good, chocolate cake, chocolate frosting, but the two-cake package on her desk was already empty and it was, presumably, the second of the pair she was making short work of. Oh, well.

  “Any luck finding Nikitin?” she asked, through creamy filling.

  “About as much as you had finding Willie Banks,” I said. “But, moving on, I had a thought. You said your mother taped the Delp television crusades. Would she let me borrow those tapes?”

  She looked at me like I'd grown a third eye. “Getting religion, Blake?”

  “Not just yet.”

  “Good.” I did a take, but let it go. Sometimes it was best to just let it go. “He's supposed to be on television tonight,” Lisa said, making the last of the cupcake vanish like she was Harry Blackstone Jr.

  “Who's supposed to be on television tonight?”

  “Who were we talking about? Delp. He has a special on tonight. Mother's probably already making her popcorn.”

  “Really?” That was interesting. The guy hadn't been able to see me that morning because he was indisposed by his wife's death. But he wasn't so far gone he couldn't preach tonight. Call me cynical, or just hard to convince, but I wasn't overwhelmed by his show of grief. Still, as the vice-president of the Solomon family's Reverend Delp fan club was right there in front of me, I kept my doubts to myself. “I'll have to tune in,” I told Lisa. “Don't forget to ask your mom about those tapes for me.”

  The telephone rang as I headed into my office. I shut the door, and just got sat down, when Lisa opened it again and poked in her head. “Miss Bridges is on the phone.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You know, if you put in an intercom, you'd save me a lot of time, not to mention the wear and tear on my shoes.”

  “I also know that if I got rid of you and hired an answering service, though it would send Hostess into bankruptcy, I'd save me a lot of money, not to mention the wear and tear on my last nerve.”

  Lisa turned, mumbled something about me being “No Mike Connors,” and left, closing the door behind her.

  I picked up the phone. “Blake. Yes, Miss Bridges.” She was calling to let me know she'd broken the awful news about Nicholas and Katherine to the good reverend. “How did he take it?” She didn't like that question a bit and told me so. “I'm not implying anything, Miss Bridges, I'm asking questions. That's what I do, I ask questions.”

  There was a good long pause while she sorted out how she wanted to deal with the disagreeable detective. At least that's what I guessed was happening. She finally put forward a demurrer, saying she didn't intend to discuss Reverend Delp's personal life on the telephone. I apologized, assuring her my secretary would be firmly spoken to because I'd been led to believe that she, Miss Bridges, had called me. There followed another long pause. Hell, you might as well hear the rest yourself.

  “You're doing this on purpose, I suppose?”

  “Miss Bridges?”

  “Being objectionable. You're doing it on purpose for some reason?”

  I considered the first rule of being a detective (and staying alive): admit nothing, deny everything, demand proof. The poor thing was struggling to deal with me and she wasn't the Lone Ranger there. I took pity on her. “I'm not being purposefully objectionable,” I assured her. “But let's start over.”

  “All right,” she agreed. “The real reason for my call, Blake… Reverend Delp has asked me to secure your services to find Nick Nikitin.”

  That set my nerves a-twitching. “Has the reverend spoken with the police since you and I last talked?”

  “Well, yes. They've spoken, briefly.”

  Oh Christ. I'd just gotten her back in the buggy and now this. I hated to even ask, but I needed to know if the cat was out of the bag. “If he's told them about Katherine's affair,” I said, “the police are already looking for Nick. You won't need me. I couldn't compete with their manpower.” I kept it to myself that the coppers were probably already on their way to scoop me up and toss me in the can.

  “He hasn't told them,” she said.

  “He hasn't?”

  “No. He hasn't.”

  I started breathing again. “Nothing about the photographs or the…”

  “The Reverend didn't mentioned the… situation you brought to our attention. The situation we're not going to talk about on the phone. He agreed with you. In fact, the Reverend thought that if you found Nick first, before the police…”

  “That things could be wrapped up more quietly?” Her silence told me I was right. It also told me my execution at the hands of an irate Lieutenant Wenders had perhaps been postponed. “All right,” I told her. “I can certainly try to find him. But, failing that,” sigh, “the police may have to be notified.”

  “That's a last resort?”

  “I can assure you on that. You wouldn't happen to have an address for Nikitin?”

  “I checked,” she said. “He was living at the Lake Shore Apartments.”

  I thought of a curse word. “Is that the most current address?”

  “Yes, for him. But his emergency contact information has an address for his brothers, John and Mike Nikitin, sharing a place on Racine Avenue. I don't know if that's up-to-date either.”

  “Could you give me that address?” I scribbled the number down. “All right, Miss Bridges, I'll take a look.”

  That's when the change came. That's when, in a voice that came right out of the oven, she told me to call her Gina. If we were going to be working together, she said, closely together, I should definitely call her Gina. How could I not? She asked what she should call me, assuming, I guess, the relationship had changed on this end of the line as well. Maybe it had and maybe it hadn't. Maybe it would and maybe it wouldn't. But I told her, with a smile in my voice, that Blake was working out just peachy for me. She took it like a trooper.

  I hung up and opened the door to the outer office. “Lisa, I'll need another contract drawn up for Delp.” She shot me one of her patented looks, made all the more questioning by her huge glasses. “He's hiring me again,” I told her, “to look for Nick Nikitin.”

  “You're already looking for Nick Nikitin.”

  “Right. In which case I might as well let someone else pay for it.”

  She shrugged her thin shoulders. “Can't argue with that. By the way,” she said, “you were so fast with the sarcasm earlier, you didn't give me a chance to tell you; Willie Banks is still a guest of the tax-payers. His mother wanted to know if you could drop his car off at her place.”

  “You told her, No, right?”

  “Sort of.”

  I leaned against the door frame, sorry before I even asked, “What do you m
ean, sort of?”

  “Well, actually, I told her, yes.”

  *

  Clouds encircled me as if I was a god. That's the way it will be when they draw the comic book of my life. Actually, I was just a down-and-out detective arriving in Willie's smoking, piece of crap car. I'd gotten a ridiculous, time-saving idea of killing two birds with one stone and had decided to take the wrecked Mustang back to Mother Bank's place, with a stop en route on Racine Avenue to flush Nicholas Nikitin out of the weeds. I'd checked with the city and found the house jointly owned by Iancu and Mikhail (Americanized as John and Mike) Nikitin; Nicholas' older brothers.

  As I climbed out of Willie's wreck, coughed, fanned the gray air, and started across the street, a hand parted the front window blinds. I saw it, but acted as if I hadn't and headed for the front door. As I climbed the steps, I heard a side door slam and caught a glimpse of someone bolting through the back yard. He looked a whole lot like Nick Nikitin (though I didn't know him well with his clothes on). With a not particularly well thought out shout of, “Hey,” I took after him.

  For the rest of the telling, I might as well get on a first name basis with the guy. After all, once I'm chasing you, we're friends. Nicholas jumped the wooden fence at the rear of the property.

  I went over the fence after him and found myself in a gravel alley between the back yards of two residential blocks; poorly kept fences, grass that needed mowing, several unseen dogs barking. To my left, Nicholas was on the hop, shoe soles and elbows. He appeared to be just as good a runner as he was a sexual swordsman and I didn't have a Chinaman's chance in hell of catching him. So, of course, I took off after him again. At the end of the alley, he turned the corner to the right and vanished from site behind a garage. I got there, turned the same corner, and was immediately struck in the face by what was probably a meaty fist. Not that I knew for sure, not that it mattered in the slightest. What mattered for me was, despite it being the middle of a bright sunny day, the lights went out.

  Chapter Eight