The Case of the Mistletoe Mistress - #3

The Case of the Mistletoe Mistress


EPISODE 3

The Grab

The snow that was here yesterday is mud today—and now, it’s lookin’ like rain. The weather in this town changes faster than a dame change’s her mind. I gets up early an’ heads to eleven-thirty Mass. I don’t wanna percolate the Man upstairs, see? There’s just some things you shouldn’t take for granted.

I’m readin’ the church bulletin durin’ the sermon and picks up on Father O’Shanahan talkin’ about Mary Magdalene, which I can’t figure since its Christmas an’ not Easter. But he’s gettin’ up there and gets all balled up sometimes.

It occurs to me, maybe Angel has a rap sheet. Most call girls don’t start out as call girls. They starts out as quiffs an’ work their way up. It’s sorta like climbin’ the corporate latter, except you’re supposed to do it on your back. I figures I needs to talk to O’Riley. She ain’t got no life either, so she’ll be workin’ today. I decides to call her when I gets to the office.

Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve and the first payment is due the day after Christmas. The only lead I got is Angel, and since Zoë’s girls wasn’t no help, I’m hopin’ she shows up at the Christmas party tomorrow night. That’s problem number one. Problem number two is gettin’ in. I don’t exactly hang around those high-hat society circles, so I’m pretty sure my invitation ain’t lost in the mail. Problem number three—an’ I’m hopin’ it ain’t really a problem—is Acosta. He got himself all in a lather about gettin’ blackmailed, and if he decides to get involved before I finds Angel, things could get dicey.

I pulls in behind my building and climbs the steps. The office is dark, somethin’ I ain’t used to since Arlene is always here. I flicks on the lights, closes the door and considers pluggin’ in the tree. I decides to save the electricity since the price controls just expired and the rates have tripled, thanks to the Democrats. Of course, they says it was because o’ the Republicans before them—and people believe ‘em, except the deal with BG&E was made twelve years ago under the Dems. Some people are freakin’ morons. They just put another Democrat in the Governor’s mansion, so they deserve what they get; like this new tax hike. Biggest in state history.

Remindin’ myself o’ that, I decides to turns the lights back off. I puts on a pot o’ joe and hits the john while I’m waitin’. The place is like a tomb without Arlene yappin’ at me. Problem is, I miss her not bein’ here. But I can’t never let her know that. She might take the meanin’ for somethin’ more.

When the joe’s done, I pours a cup, opens the bottom drawer and pulls out the bottle. Then I decides against it, so I puts it back. There’s gotta be one day outta the week I don’t drink. Sunday is as good as any. I picks up the blower and hits a speed dial button. Damn convenient, those things. Except now, I can’t remember any numbers no more. I gotta write ‘em down in a pocket phonebook. Maybe I should gets one o’ them cell phones like Arlene’s says, but I can’t swallow payin’ by the minute. I hears the blower ringin’ on the other end.

“O’Riley.”

“Hey, Doll. What’s shakin’?”

Me an’ O’Riley was an item a while back. Thirty-two’s a little on the young side for me, but she’s good lookin’ for a cop—like one o’ those gals you see on the TV police dramas—‘bout 5’-6”, long an’ lean, red hair an’ green eyes. Yeah, I gotta thing for redheads Most redheads I know are bearcats … in more ways than one.

“Well as I live and breathe,” she says. “You’re up early today, Sloane. It’s only one-thirty in the afternoon. What? You hard up or something calling me?”

“It ain’t like that, Colleen. I’m workin’ a case an’ need your help.”

“So, why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“Okay, so I ain’t called ya in a while. I been busy, see?”

“Yeah, right. What do you want now?”

I really oughta call her more often. She’s always got a chip on her shoulder. “I’m lookin’ for this girl, see? And it occurred to me in church this mornin’ that she might have a rap sheet.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Howda you know? I ain't even told you her name. She’s a pro. A workin’ girl. She might o’ got busted.”

“I mean … I don’t think you were ever in a church.”

“You slay me, Colleen, ya know that?"

"Your tax dollars at work, Greyson."

"So you gonna help me or not?”

“It’s going to cost you big, pretty boy. I’m very busy today.”

“Oh-kaaay…. Whatcha got in mind?”

“Oh, I don’t know…. Something’ll come to me.”


Colleen tells me to meet her at the station at three. Since I only got a first name, she figures it’ll take a couple o’ hours to go through the files searchin’ on that, and a description. After that, she’ll tell me what it’s gonna cost me. Like I don’t already know. She’s still carryin’ a torch from when we was goin’ out a year or so back. I hadda break it off. Datin’ a city detective was killin’ my business. She was always leanin’ on me to spill what I knew about a case. But I got scruples, see? Once she pinched me for clammin’ up about what I knew, and tossed me in the cooler as a material witness. That’s bushwa, even for her. And I’d still be there, too, if she wouldn’t’ve solved it on her own. Talk about a pain in the ass. Colleen’s a looker, but she can be a bitch.

I pulls into the station house a little after three and hightails it to the squad room. Colleen’s standin’ beside her desk talkin’ to some bull I don’t know; an’ I know most o’ the cops workin’ here. When she sees me, she tells him to take a hike. Then she turns in my direction, smiles, an’ strikes a pose.

I ain’t never seen her lookin’ so good. Or so tall. Her hair’s longer and she lost a couple pounds. She’s wearin’ a tight fittin’ black sweater and a pair o’ jeans that looks like she painted ‘em on; an’ when I gets in range, I smells the perfume she use to wear when we was goin’ out.

“Jeepers creepers, Colleen. You look swell!”

“Think so?”

“Ab-so-lute-ly! And what’s with them stilts o’ yours?”

She turns an ankle and pulls up a cuff revealin’ 4-inch heels. “Like ‘em?”

“I like what they do for you, Doll.” A little flattery oughta get me a long way, today.

After some catchin’ up, we starts lookin’ through the files. Colleen tells me they got this new software—facial recognition, they call it. It was developed for Home Land Security and all the departments got it. Supposed to make it easier to ID folks. Good idea in the times we lives in. But since I only got a three-quarter view of Angle’s face, the computer can only list potential matches. Eight to be exact. But only one is a brunette, and her hair is short. In the world’s oldest profession, it pays to be a blonde.

“I’m sorry, Greyson. The database was updated last week. This is the most current information we have. Looks like your girl isn’t in the system.”

“Rhatz! Guess I gotta do this the ol’ fashion way.”

“That’s really more your style. Why are you looking for her anyway?”

“She’s a runaway. Her parents are worried she’s gettin’ herself into trouble.”

“C’mon, Greyson. A runaway? Please. You can do better than that.”

“It’s the truth I tell ya.”

“And all her parents gave you was this black & white headshot to track her down? You don’t even have her last name.”

I hates it when she sees right through me. “This is why I broke it off with you, Colleen. Sometimes you’re too damn smart.”

“It's not that I'm that smart, Greyson. You're just a poor liar.”

“Says you. Lemme use your phone, will ya?”


Since I can’t find Angel in O’Riley’s files, my next move is the party. I figures Zoë’s my only chance to get in. I plops down behind O’Riley’s desk and pulls out Zoë’s card. She answer’s on the second ring.

“I don’t hear from you in twenty years, and now here you are two days in a row. So what can I do for you, Darling?”

“I needs into that party tomorrow night, Zoë. I figures you gets your girls in, you can get me in too.”

“I can probably do that. What’s it worth to you, Greyson?”

Now, I’m beginnin’ to feel like a taffy pull. Everybody wants a piece o’ me. What happened to that ‘Good Will toward men’ jazz Arlene was flappin’ her gums about?

“For cryin’ out loud, Zoë. Can’t ya just do me a favor?”

“Nope.” I hears the Devil in her voice.

“C’mon, Zoë. This is business. I gotta get into that party.”

“It won’t be painful. Promise.”

“I guess I ain’t got no choice, do I?”

“Afraid not.”

“Okay.... What do I have to do?”

“Just have dinner with me. At my place.”

For a second, I’m speechless.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“That ain’t so bad. Okay. You got a deal.”

“That’s a good boy. I’ll get you on the guest list as security for my girls. It shouldn’t be a problem. It’s a Black Tie event. Do you own a tux?”

“A tux? Yeah. I got a tux.”

“Good. And as sharp as you look in it, leave the fedora home. We don’t want you to draw any more attention than you already do.”

“Leave the hat home. Check!”

“You still have the permit for your .38?”

“Yeah.”

“I know you don’t like to carry it, but bring it. Other bodyguards will be armed. You should be, too. It’ll make you believable as security.”

“C’mon, Zoë! Ya wanna dress me too?”

“Now there’s a thought.”

“Listen, Doll. I’ve done this sort o’ thing before, see? Just get me in. I’ll take care o’ the rest, okay?”

“Alright, Greyson. I know you know what you’re doing. You’ve proved that to me countless times in the past. But you’ll need an escort. I’d escort you myself, but too many people know me there. You’ll need someone a little more non-descript. I’m thinking Kim-Lee. She saw us talking yesterday and asked about you.”

“Kim-Lee? That Oriental dame?”

“That’s her, but the politically correct reference is Asian. She was quite taken with you, and she's known to have excellent taste in men.”

I gets to thinkin’ about that. And as much as I want to, maybe it’s not such a good idea to take somebody I gotta worry about.

“I think I can handle that end myself, Zoë.”

“Alright, Greyson. Just make sure she’s worthy of your arm. I have a reputation to uphold, you know.”

“Thanks, Zoë.”

“And Greyson … just one more thing. When you come for dinner?”

“Yeah?”

“Bring your toothbrush.”


I didn’t hear O’Riley sneakin’ up behind me to eavesdrop on the conversation. That’s what I hate about cops. And it don’t matter I do the same thing myself.

“Zoë?” she says. “Zoë Yanick?”

“One and the same.”

“How do you know her? She’s … infamous, to say the least.”

“She ain’t so bad, Colleen. We go way back. You’d like her, once you gets to know her.”

“Or if I wanted to make a living on my back. We’ve been trying to put her out of business for years. Can’t make anything stick.”

“Well, don’t expect me to help ya. And you can toss me in the cooler if ya want. Zoë’s kinda special to me.”

“Why is it … all of a sudden, I’m envious?”

“Envious? You mean jealous, don’t ya?”

I sees Colleen start a slow burn.

“Okay … asshole! Jealous! Happy now?”

I can almost feel the daggers comin’ outta those deep-green, Irish eyes as she crosses her arms over her chest and kicks out a hip. I shoulda known better than to get Colleen riled up. Especially after she just did me a favor. She didn’t have to let me use her files. Now I gotta think o’ somethin’ to change her focus.

“It ain’t like that, see? Why else would I be askin’ you?”

“Asking me? Asking me what!”

She’s still got her arms crossed, but now she ain’t all rigid an' makin' like a statue. I got her curiosity up, see?. It’s kinda like danglin' yarn in front of a cat. "Well, I wanted to ask you what you were doin’ tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow night? Why?”

Dangle the yarn. “Well, I was thinkin’, if ya ain’t busy, maybe you might wanna go to a party with me.”

I sees her expression change. I waves the yarn faster.

“A party? What party?"

“It’s a Christmas party … down town.”

Colleen’s eyes narrow. “The only party I know of is the …” Then I sees the lights come on. “Wait.... Not the Windjammer party.”

I smiles, but don’t say nothin’.

“The WINDJAMMER PARTY?” She starts bouncin’ on her toes. She was fun to watch in that tight sweater.

“The WINDJAMMER PARTY?”

“Well, yeah, I was thinkin’ maybe you’d ….”

“YES! YES! What time are you picking me up? Shit! I don’t have anything to wear. I wanted you to come over tonight, but forget that! I have to go shopping! I hope they have something in my size. And I need shoes. And a bag! And earrings!”

I smiles to myself. This is gonna work out just fine. Now I got an escort I don’t hafta worry about. Colleen can take care of herself, leavin’ me to do what I needs to do.

“Get anything you need, Doll. But tomorrow night … leave your shield at home. You ain’t no cop. Get it?”

This is keen. Everything’s set. Now, all I gotta do is get to the pawnshop before they close. I need my tux for tomorrow night.


Christmas Eve, I picks Colleen up at eight o’clock. This is the ritziest party o’ the year and I don’t wanna get there too early. It’ll go till mornin’ an’ there’s no tellin’ how long I gotta be there, so I have to pace myself.

Colleen looks like a million bucks. It’s warm for December—70 degrees or so— an’ Colleen’s carryin’ a white, wool shawl over her arm. Her hair is down to her shoulders an’ her eyes are like green laser beams. She’s wearin’ a light green, sequenced evening gown that accents her eyes, and the slit that goes almost to her hip seems even longer cause o’ the five-inch stilettos she’s wearin’. I never thought I’d hear myself say this, but I did.

“My God, Colleen … you take my breath away. You’re absolutely beautiful.”

She smiles and leans into me, nuzzelin’ her cheek to mine. “I wanted you to be proud of me tonight, Greyson.”

“Doll,” I says, “them dames ain’t got nothin’ on you. You’re the cat’s meow.” I gives her a little peck on the cheek an’ helps her into the car. Twenty minutes later, we pull up in front o’ The Windjammer.

We’re three cars deep in the Valet lane, and while we wait, we sees the cream of Baltimore society strollin’ through the doors of the ritziest hotel in town. At the curb are young guys in tuxedoes, openin’ doors and helpin’ rich dames in furs out of their stretch-limos, or jumpin’ behind the wheel of the latest edition of a fire engine red Ferrari to take it to its parkin’ space. Then, it was my turn.

“You gotta be kiddin’ me,” the pimply-faced kid says when I gets out o’ my ‘98 Jetta. “You really want me to park this for you? Aren’t you afraid I’ll scratch it?”

“Listen, squirt. You’re a Valet, ain’t ya?”

“A Valet, yes. A demolition-derby driver, no.”

“Greyson,” Colleen says takin’ my arm. “Maybe we should keep the car in our control. If we let the Valet’s park it, we might not be able to get it if we want it. Besides, you’ll save fifty bucks in tips.”

“FIFTY BUCKS! They gonna detail it too?”

“Greyson … you’re embarrassing me.”

“Oh … I’m sorry. Far be it from me….”

She clamps her hand over my kisser. “Let’s just park the car around the corner,” she whispers. “I have my department sticker. Nobody will bother it, and we might need it quick.”

On the way here, I filled Colleen in on the reason we were goin’ to the party. I told her I was trackin’ Angel, and she could do what she wants if I spots her. This party was a big deal to her, and if worst came to worst and I had to high-tail it out, she could always stay. Colleen don’t get to many high-class joints like this. But then again, neither do I. But I knows she’s right. I leaves her there while I parks my jalopy around the corner. The Valet couldn’t have been happier. I walks back around and we goes inside.

The place is a palace. Ice sculptures in the lobby pointed the way to the ballroom, and Christmas decorations hung in every nook & cranny. There were hundreds of people in evening gowns and tuxedoes, and waiters and waitresses runnin’ around fillin’ glasses an’ servin’ o'dourves. The orchestra played Goodman and Miller, and the tables were set for royalty. Colleen just stood an’ took it all in; and when she was ready, we found our table.

Seated with us was a Councilman and his wife, the Chief of the Baltimore Fire Department, and some rich guy who made his money playin’ the ponies and his girlfriend. I gotta say, she couldn’t hold a candle to Colleen, and I noticed the rich guy thought so too. We felt a little out of our element, so after dinner, we headed for the bar.

Inside, a jazz trio was playin’ and there was maybe sixty or so people minglin’ back an’ forth. I figured this was where the action was, since I spotted a handful of Zoë’s girls chattin’ it up with some high-rollers. They was easy to spot. They was all wearin’ mistletoe on their gowns. If Angel was gonna show, this is where it would be. I got a gin & tonic for Colleen and a soda water for me. I never drink when I’m on the job. I was about to go to the john when Colleen pointed to a gorgeous blonde in a low-cut red gown talkin’ to the Assistant to the Mayor.

“Greyson. I may be wrong, but doesn’t she look a lot like the girl you’re looking for?”

I takes a gander. At twenty feet away, and lookin between people, she looks similar, but she’s got silky, waist-length, blonde hair. But she also has a branch of mistletoe on the strap of her evening gown. I pulls out the picture and compares it.

Colleen’s right. Her face is damn close. In the picture, there’s a scar at the end and just above Angel’s left eyebrow. I can only see her right side, so I sends Colleen over.

She smiles at the blonde and makes a bit o’ conversation, all the while movin’ to her left side. Then, Colleen gives me the high sign. I waits till Colleen gets back before makin’ a move. I don’t want her involved. I takes two steps and Colleen grabs my arm, stoppin’ me in my tracks.

“Look!” she says. “That’s Tony Acosta!”

I looks up to see Acosta grippin’ the blonde’s upper arm hard enough to leave marks half draggin’ her to the door. Behind him is muscle: two guys that looked like baby grands. It takes me a minute to decide what my next move is gonna be, but Colleen says it while I’m thinkin’ it.

“We have to follow them.”

Pushin’ our way through the crowd, we hustles out the same door Acosta used. I sees him, the blonde and his goons headin’ for the elevator. Acosta’s men yank a young couple outta the elevator car an’ they all step inside. The doors close. We don’t make it in time.

“You got your cell phone?” Colleen says.

“’I don’t have a cell phone.”

“Jesus, Greyson. When are you going to get with it.... Here!” She shoves a phone in my hand. “When it rings, answer it. It’s me. You take the stairs. I’ll call when the elevator stops and I know what floor they're on.”

“How? I got your phone!”

“I have the department’s phone. Now MOVE!”

While I’m running up the steps, I decides I need to get back to the gym, or quit smokin’, or both. I hits the third landing when the phone rings. Bad timin’ since my lunges are on fire.

“Ye … yes … what … floor?”

“Ninth floor.”

“NINETH? Why … not the freakin’ … penthouse?”

I stands there tryin’ to catch my breath and Colleen says, "I’ve got another elevator. Where are you?”

“Thir … Third floor.”

“Third? You're out of shape. Wait for me there!”

“No … problem.”

As I gets to the elevators, I hears the bell ding. The doors open and there’s Colleen. I stumbles inside and the doors close. She presses the button for 9. We stop on 4, 5, 7, & 8 to pick up passengers. When the doors open on 9, we push our way out. We sees Acosta and his goons gettin’ in the other elevator headin’ down. Angel ain’t with ‘em, and I spots blood on Acosta’s shirt cuff.

“We have to find her” I says. “I think he hurt her … real bad.”

Colleen runs to the house phone next to the far elevator and calls the front desk. She identifies herself as a police officer an’ orders the desk manager to have someone meet us on 9. Then, she asks about the rooms on this floor.

“They’re all hospitality suites, Officer O’Riley, reserved for the party.”

“How many rooms are on this floor?”

“44.”

“Shit! Get every person you can spare up here right now! … With keys!”


Bell Hops and desk clerks come tricklin’ outta the elevators a couple at a time and start knockin’ on doors. If nobody answers, they open them and check out the room. Twenty minutes goes by before we hear somebody yell, “Over here! Hurry!”

O’Riley an’ me goes runnin’ to the room and skids inside. Right away I sees a dame, covered in blood, with short blonde hair in a red evening gown lyin' on the floor. Then, I sees a long blonde wig sprawled on the floor a couple o’ feet away. I rush to the girl and brush her hair outta her face. She still breathin’, but she’s beat up real bad. I think I knows her, but I can’t remember from where. I starts talkin’ to her.

“Hey, Doll ... can you hear me?”

Her eyes blink open an’ they’re crystal blue … so light, they coulda been made o’ glass. I seen these eyes before. Then it hits me like a Mack truck.

“Miss Patterson….”

***

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