The Boss is away today—too much on her editing plate, but she’s fine/happy with that.
The three of us are still entrenched in the Mo-Mo Martine case. Someone took out this up-and-coming Montreal-based mobster back when disco and polyester were popular . . . but his body was only discovered recently . . . on our side of the world!
Here’s an excerpt:
He held up a ruddy, scarred hand and then pointed toward the living room. Before we could proceed, an officer rushed through the front door. “McLeod’s delayed. Engine blew on the H1. And Tenafly slipped down an incline as he was checking out the area. Twisted his ankle.”
Ald Ives rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath.
I moved to the aluminum baluster railing and eyed the expanse before us: sapphire ocean to the front, stately homes over the incline to our left, and a racket-ball club to the right. Given how Antoinetta was sitting, it seemed likely the shot had come from somewhere along the tree- and shrub-dense slope.
“Care to do some private-eyeing?” I asked my colleagues.
“Let’s—”
“Leave it to my team,” Ald interrupted Rey with a stern expression.
“Your team seems to be slipping up,” she said with a disarming smile. “Or is that down?”
He rolled his eyes again and peered below when his name was called.
“The cousin’s here to pick up his sister to take her to the funeral parlor, sir. What’ll we tell him?” a young officer asked.
Ald drew a deep breath. “I’ll be right down.”
“Catch up later?” Linda asked.
He nodded curtly and instructed us to provide our statements to Officer Ramsey before we left. We watched him hasten outside.
“Telling someone they’ve lost a loved one has got to be the toughest part of the job,” Rey murmured.
Linda and I concurred.
“Are we still meeting Harry for dinner?” Linda asked.
“No reason not to,” Rey replied, nodding toward an officer checking something on his cell phone. “That’s Ramsey, isn’t it?”
I nodded, recalling having met him at an HPD softball game last month. “After giving our statements, how about we do some digging and see what we can find out about Stefano’s fatal ‘accident’?”
Rey eyed me curiously. “You thinking it wasn’t one?”
“Pietro had something to do with Mo-Mo’s death. Stefano died just a few months after. Coincidence? Or . . . ?”
“Or,” my cousin said flatly.
“Or,” Linda repeated with a firm nod.
We haven’t placed any bets re who the killer might be, because it could be one of a dozen-plus potential perps.
We do love challenges, though, so we’re going to get out there and meet one head on!
. . . Aloh-haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.
The Writer's Grab-Bag 