Dying Breath - A Thriller (Phineas Troutt Mysteries Book 2) Read online

  Now I had one flat tire, and one missing tire.

  The bastard had also taken my lug tool.

  I called Triple A, they towed my car to the shop, and then I took a cab to Le Femme, getting there seventy-six minutes late.

  Le Femme was the kind of joint where even the lighting was pretentious. I asked the maître d for the Kahdem table, and he stared at me with a look one would give a double amputee applying for a basketball scholarship. I’m allowed to make amputee jokes because I actually am an amputee. My right hand was missing, and I had a robotic prosthesis in its place.

  That may seem like a non-sequitur, but I needed to mention that for the new readers. It plays a part later in the story.

  I had to wait another few minutes before I was taken to my table.

  Mazdak Kahdem was a few years younger than me, thinner, taller, hairier, and wore an open-necked silk shirt baring more gold chains than a hip-hop star.

  Rather than berate me for my tardiness, he stood and shook my hand.

  “Thank you for coming, Mr. McGlade.”

  “Sorry I was late, Kahdem. I had an… incident.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “No one died,” I said, adding, “yet.”

  “Since you were delayed, I took the liberty of ordering for you.”

  “Thanks. Remind me to call you tomorrow morning so you can pick out what I’m wearing for the day. I’m guessing it’ll involve gold chains.”

  “I meant no offense, Mr. McGlade.”

  “Apology accepted. So what is it you’d like to hire me for?”

  “I’ll be honest with you, Mr. McGlade. I’m looking at several different private investigation firms. I called you because—”

  “Because you’ve done your research, and you know I’m the best.”

  “Actually, I have done my research. Your career smacks of mediocrity, occasionally punctuated with highlights of unnecessary flamboyance.”

  “Trust me. The flamboyance is necessary.”

  “Your biggest claim to fame seems to be that television show based on you, Fatal Autonomy—what does fatal autonomy mean, exactly?”

  “It’s an enigma. Like I am. But I’ve done a lot more than that.”

  “You’ve been covered by the media many times. Most notably, for that Gingerbread Man serial killer case, assisting that cop with the whiskey name.”

  “Guilty. But that only scratches the surface.”

  “You saved that woman doctor, in Flutesburg.”

  “Guilty again. But there’s so much more.”

  “You ran over a Girl Scout.”

  “She jumped in front of the car! And I only grazed her foot!”

  “Mr. McGlade—”

  “She can walk without that prosthesis! She’s faking it for the insurance money!”

  “Mr. McGlade—”

  “Do you know how many boxes of her damn cookies I had to buy to make up for—”

  “Please, Mr. McGlade, you’re making a scene. I’m simply showing you that I’ve done my research.”

  A metrosexual waiter, who was so well groomed and shiny that I wondered if he’d had his pores surgically removed, came over and set a basket in front of me.

  “Would monsieur enjoy a beverage?”

  “I’m working,” I said. “So I’ll settle for just a beer. Got Sam Adams ale?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well take it from him when he’s not looking and bring it here.”

  I was always tickled by a good play of words involving possessive nouns.

  My waiter, however, wasn’t. He managed to look polite while he sneered at me, then strutted off, his ass cheeks so tight you couldn’t get a chisel in there. The basket contained a single soda cracker, the size of my big toe.

  “Look, Kahdem, you haven’t hired me, but I don’t need the work. I’m making a ton of television cheddar. I just bought a racehorse. We gonna keep playing footsie, or do you want to tell me why I’m here?”

  A busboy came by with an ice bucket. Using a pair of tongs, he dropped an ice cube the size of a peanut into my water, which was the size of a shot glass.

  “I need someone who knows exotic dancers, Mr. McGlade.”

  “I love exotic dancers.”

  “I know. You’ve spent more than ten thousand dollars in my club over the last few months.”

  “That much? Really?”

  “My employees like you. More importantly, they trust you.”

  Our pristine waiter, who made it look like it was a colossal chore to even be there, showed up with a beer for me, and a snifter of something brown for Kahdem.

  “I didn’t know he was drinking,” I said. “Gimme what he’s having.”

  “A Courvoisier 21 year old?”

  “Yeah. I can’t even remember the last time I had a 21 year old in my mouth.”

  “Do you even know what Courvoisier is?”

  “It’s booze that tastes like brandy.”

  The waiter looked at Kahdem for approval, and Kahdem nodded. Then the stuck-up little toad tried to take my beer. I slapped his hand.

  “Where I come from, taking a man’s beer is a killing offense.”

  He half-rolled his eyes and walked off.

  “Are you sensing attitude from our waiter?” I asked Kahdem.

  “Ernesto is the best.”

  “Ernesto? Is that his real name?”

  “Do you have a problem with him?”

  “He seems like the kind of guy who popped out of the womb and then shamed his mother for making a mess.”

  “I can request another waiter.”

  “Just tell me the job, Kahdem.”

  He nodded, looking sad. “It’s one of my employees. A dancer. Her name is Abigail Mumford.”

  “Name isn’t familiar.”

  “She dances under the name Cherry Wine.”

  I snapped the fingers of my good hand and grinned. “I love Cherry Wine! She’s one of my faves!”

  Cherry was in her twenties, always smiling and enthusiastic, and laughed at my jokes.

  “Cherry disappeared four days ago.”

  “Four days?” I didn’t get it. “That’s not really a big deal, Kahdem. You, of all people, know how much money these ladies can make. She might have decided to spend a week in Vegas. Or, hell, go shoe shopping in Paris on a whim.”

  “Normally, I wouldn’t worry about her. But if you know Cherry, you know what her number one priority is.”

  “A boob job.”

  Since I’d known her, Cherry had been saving up for implants. Her parents gave her an A cup. She wanted double D. It was something she talked about. A lot. Cherry considered it the path to a better life. Bigger tips. Fewer creeps. Hollywood and modeling auditions.

  Kahdem nodded. “The surgery was scheduled for yesterday. She’s been planning it for over a year. One of the best plastic surgeons in California. His waiting list is gigantic. But she never got on the plane, never made her appointment.”

  “Change of heart?” I suggested. “Dancers do go on to do other things. Maybe she got tired of being ogled and groped.”

  “Does she seem like a woman who would have a change of heart?”

  I considered it. As much as a client could know an exotic dancer, my impression of Cherry was that she’d never been happy with her breasts, and that even if she hadn’t danced, she still would have wanted the operation.

  “Cold feet? Maybe she got scared.”

  “Do you think Cherry is afraid of surgery?”

  I shook my head. She had a few tats, a few piercings. This wasn’t a skittish lady.

  “I’ve left several messages, and even had Parviz drop by her apartment. She’s gone.”

  “So you’re thinking foul play,” I stated.

  “Another dancer at the club, Puma—”

  “I love Puma!”

  “—is Cherry’s best friend. She told me she has no idea where Cherry is.”

  “Could Puma be lying?”

  Kahdem pursed his
lips, then nodded slowly. “Perhaps. Everyone lies about something.”

  Was he lying about that? Perhaps…

  “Does Cherry have other friends at the club?”

  “Everyone likes Cherry. She’s a nice woman. She tips well. The bar staff. The wait staff. The bouncers. She even buys lap dances from other girls.”

  I admired that. It’s exactly what I would do if I were a stripper.

  “Does she party?”

  “No more than anyone else. I don’t allow hard drugs in the club. No coke, no smack, no ice. Just booze and grass, and everyone has to be sober on the clock.”

  “How about stalkers?” I asked.

  “She has regulars. All the girls do. But we’ve had creeps come on to some of the girls. Parviz does a good job persuading them to not come back.”

  “You’ve talked to your employees? No one knows anything?”

  “No one. We’re all worried.”

  I mulled it over. Everything I knew about women could fit on a Post-It note and still have room for all fifty state capitals and a recipe for chicken marsala. But I was sure that not one woman would ever abandon a pet.

  Which meant her disappearance was almost definitely involuntary.

  The waiter came by and placed a platter in front of me.

  On the platter was a sprig of parsley, a single asparagus spear, and a tiny brown lump that was smaller than the soda cracker I’d eaten.

  “I hope you like lamb,” said Kahdem.

  “I do. Did it fall off the plate?”

  “That is the lamb, sir.” The snooty waiter pointing a perfectly manicured finger at the brown lump. “Surely you recognize a perfect cut of meat when you see it.”

  I looked him up and down. “I know I recognize a bad cut of meat when I see it.”

  “Perhaps monsieur would prefer something else? Something more appropriate for your limited palate?”

  Starting a fight with a snobby waiter was very immature.

  Luckily, I was very immature.

  “Where did you learn your skills, Ernesto?”

  “I attended culinary school at Château Chappeau, where I graduated meilleur cochon. I’ve also assisted the finest sommelier in Chicago, Pitre Souliers Rouges.”

  “Impressive. Is that where you got your sneering lessons?”

  “Monsieur, I do not sneer,” he sneered.

  “Gotcha. No lessons. So being a condescending prick just comes naturally.”

  Kahdem made a snorting sound.

  Ernesto maintained his superior gaze. “Perhaps I can persuade the chef to make you a cheeseburger.”

  “I’ll stick with the lamb. And I’ll take my drink, if you’re not too busy looking down your nose at me.”

  He stuck his chin up and walked off. I popped the whole pieced of lamb into my mouth. It tasted mealy.

  “So you actually like this place?” I asked Kahdem.

  He shrugged. “The coffee is good.”

  “For twelve bucks, it better be good. For that much, Juan Valdez’s happy ass better jump up from the cup and French kiss you.”

  I killed the taste of the lamb with some beer.

  “If I were to hire you, Mr. McGlade, what would you do to find her?”

  “Same as I always do. Talk to people who know her. Track her credit cards. Check her social media for clues. Call the hospitals. Tell me, Kahdem, are you romantically involved with Cherry?”

  Kahdem seemed insulted by the notion.

  “I don’t do that, Mr. McGlade.”

  “What’s the point of owning a gentlemen’s club if you don’t date the employees? It’s like owning a brewery and being sober.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  I killed the rest of my beer. “I gotta say, Kahdem, it’s really suspicious for a boss to take this much of an interest in an employee who’s only been missing for a few days.”

  He paused. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. “In Iran, my mother was a professional bandari dancer. It is known as the Persian belly dance. When done correctly, it is graceful, elegant, beautiful.”

  I made a mental note to Google it.

  “She was stoned to death. By a group of Islamic extremists who considered her impure. I was a child at the time. Shortly after, my father and I moved to the United States. My father opened the club. He always respected, and protected, his employees. Since his passing, I have taken up his work ethic. It is the only way I know.”

  “So you’ve never gone out with one of your dancers?”

  “Never. I am… already in a committed relationship.”

  I wanted to call bullshit, but something about the speech reeked of sincerity. And then it hit me.

  “Parviz,” I said.

  Kahdem didn’t respond. But his eyes told me I was correct.

  “You’re a lucky dude,” I told him. “Parviz is super hot.”

  “He’s a nice man. We have a lot in common.”

  “Sure. And the six pack abs don’t mean anything to you.”

  Kahdem cracked the smallest of smiles. “His abs are… nice. But relationships centered on physical attraction don’t last, Mr. McGlade.”

  “I know. But they’re great while they do.”

  Ernesto returned with my drink. He set the snifter down in front of me.

  “Would monsieur care for a straw?”

  This guy.

  “You don’t have a sippy cup?” I asked, batting my eyelashes. “One with the round bottom so it won’t tip over?”

  He smiled blandly. I killed the snifter, which tasted like brandy—go figure—and held up the glass for him. Ernesto took it.

  “Don’t worry,” I assured him. “You can’t catch super herpes just by touching my glass. You should wash your hands, though. Fast.”

  Ernesto, eyes widening, immediately dropped my snifter, which shattered on the floor.

  Everyone in the dining room stared at him, and our snooty waiter turned a lovely shade of stop-light red.

  “It’s okay!” I told the gawkers. “You’re probably all safe from this waiter’s super herpes!”

  Ernesto scurried away. Several diners stood up to leave. At least two women dug into their purses for hand sanitizer.

  “Mr. McGlade,” Kahdem said, “you are abrasive, rude, and seem to delight in causing trouble.”

  “That’s how I roll. Deal with it.”

  Kahdem raised his glass. “You’re hired.”

  I took Kahdem’s glass, finished his liquor, and leaned closer to him. “I get five grand a day, plus expenses.”

  “I’ll give you five hundred.”

  “Deal. I need a ten day retainer to start.”

  “Five days.”

  “Done.”

  “Is cash okay?”

  “Cash is always welcome.”

  “What else?”

  “I need some pictures of Cherry, her address, and a list of friends. Regular pics in street clothes, not pics of her dancing.” I realized what I’d just said. “Actually, if you have pics of her dancing, I’ll take those, too.”

  I took a cab from Le Femme to the car repair shop, where a big wad of Kahdem’s money went to new wheels, new lug nuts, a new custom lug nut wrench, and a cardboard air freshener that was supposed to smell like vanilla, but instead smelled like vanilla’s fat, ugly brother, the one who was behind in four child support payments and thought wearing socks with sandals made him some kind of rebel.

  Then I was on the case.

  My first stop was Cherry’s apartment in Streeterville.

  She wasn’t there.

  I wasn’t actually expecting her to be there. That would have been too easy. But I wanted to look around her place, and the only way to do that was to break in. There were many ways to break into a—

  “You looking for Abigail?”

  I turned to look at the guy standing in the hallway. I deduced he was really high, because his eyes were so red they would stop a car, and he was wearing a shirt with a pot leaf on it, and he absolutely reeked
of weed.

  I almost asked who Abigail was, and then remembered that was Cherry’s non-stripper name.

  “Yeah. I’m her…” Father? Brother? Uncle? “Fabruncle.”

  “Cool. She was with some dude and went to her friend Meredith’s place.”

  Meredith. That was Puma.

  “Thanks. If you see her, tell her that her fabruncle stopped by.”

  “Cool. Got any chips or cookies or snacks of any kind?”

  “No.”

  “Cool.”

  Puma and family lived in a neighborhood known as the Gold Coast. Apartments and condos here went all the way up, giving you breathtaking views of Lake Michigan and the city. Puma’s apartment was on inner Lake Shore Drive and Goethe, which I’d heard pronounced gear-tay, go-thee, geoth, and that street with the G. I didn’t know which was correct. Can’t say I cared too much, either.

  The high rise had a circular driveway in front of it, and was swanky enough to have surveillance cameras on the outside. Probably to alert the attendant who was camped out inside, ready to open your door and park your car in the underground lot. I did just that, and the doorman came up to me. He was in one of those silly old-fashioned doorman outfits, with the red cap and a zillion gold buttons on his matching vest. He looked sad, as most doormen do. Probably because they had to wear that silly outfit.

  “Are the Stars home?” I asked him.

  He didn’t answer. I showed him my P.I. license, which didn’t seem to impress him.

  “I don’t answer questions about the tenants,” he said.

  “What’s your name, friend?”

  “Jasper.”

  “Nice to meet you, Jasper. I’m Harry. And I’d like to introduce you to a close friend of mine.”

  I showed Jasper a hundred dollar bill. After he got a good look at Mr. Franklin, I ripped it in half and gave him Ben’s profile.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Star are on vacation,” he said.

  The magic of Benjamin Franklin.

  “How about Meredith?”

  “I believe Miss Meredith is home.”

  “Have you seen this girl around with Meredith?”

  Kahdem had texted me several pics of Cherry. I found one of her in a sweater.