much to it,” she noted, “you’re from homicide. They don’t pull you out into the snow to investigate a death by natural causes.”
He shrugged, sat down in the velvet chair, pushed his shoulders deeply into the high-backed cushion, and said, “The maid discovered the body about five hours ago. He was at his desk, phone in his hand, his head resting on his calendar, and a knife sticking out of his back.”
After jotting down the information, Tiffany looked back to Lane. “So where’s the body?”
“At the morgue.”
“It looks like the crime scene boys are gone,” she noted, “so why are you house-sitting?”
“Because the chief wanted to make sure the scene was kept fully secure just in case the medical examiner discovered something we might have missed during our initial investigation. You know the drill, something that might give us a hint as to who killed Elrod. Therefore, rather than spending my evening visiting with interesting people, I’m listening to the radio and hosting a pesky elf while waiting for the call that allows me to head back to my office and start filling out reports.” He frowned and then dryly added, “Merry Christmas!”
“Makes sense,” the woman admitted as she sat on the couch, crossed her legs, and pulled the hem of her gray wool skirt down below her right knee, “at least everything but the interesting people part. Based on my knowledge of your friends, you don’t know anyone even vaguely interesting.”
As she allowed the heel of her black pump to dangle off her right foot, Lane noted she still possessed a dancer’s legs. When his eyes moved upward, he was also reminded that as good as her pins were, they were not her best features. Not surprisingly, as his appreciative gaze arrived at her face, her full red lips, deep blue eyes, and high cheekbones dragged him into the kind of mental fog that all but caused the cop to miss her next observation.
“Not going to be a good Christmas for Elrod’s wife.”
“Nope,” he agreed as he recovered his focus by moving his eyes from the woman to the radio, “she’s downstate visiting her sister. Glad I’m not the one delivering that message.”
Sounds of Dinah Shore singing “I’ll Walk Alone” filled the room, and for the remainder of the hit ballad, neither of them spoke. When the station launched into a newsbreak, Tiffany made a rather pointed observation.
“That was Dinah’s first number-one record. Let me see, it has been two years since it was resting on top of the charts. You were in Hawaii on leave and were supposed to meet me at the Pineapple Club, but for some reason you didn’t show up. I wonder what her name was?”
He frowned, “I drew guard duty that night.”
She raised her eyebrows and slowly shook her head. “And you couldn’t call? I mean was it too hard to look up the number for The Stars and Stripes? You had no problem contacting me at work earlier that day.”
“I couldn’t get to a phone,” he explained.
“There was one in the guard house where you were supposedly patrolling.” She glared at the cop. “How do I know? Because you called me from there to make the date! In fact, you bragged about talking to me from a phone that was supposed be reserved for only official military use. So, Lane, I got dressed up, went to the club, and listened to that Dinah Shore song on the jukebox again and again, because I truly was walking alone.”
“I’m sorry, Tiff, I was . . .”
She waved her hand, “Don’t even try, none of the excuses you’ve ever given me held water. Let’s move past what was and into what is. Since you are confused about this case, I’ll move onto one that is twelve hours old. Have you made any progress tracking down a suspect in the Grogan murder?”
“Tiffany,” he said, bringing his eyes back to hers, “are you making small talk or digging for information for The Star?”
“A bit of both, Mr. Walker,” she admitted.
“For print purposes, and you may quote me, we are close to making an arrest in the hit on the known underworld figure Stuart Grogan.”
She cocked her left eyebrow and smiled, “So in cop jargon that means you don’t have a clue. You have found part of the body in a river and something to make an identification possible, but you have nothing else.”
“I didn’t say that,” he hastily shot back. “So you can’t print it.”
She shrugged, “Okay, I’ll cut you some slack. Now back to the case of the moment. Elrod was a good man. Straight as an arrow! He was trying to clean this city up. Shame this had to happen before he could reach that goal. Because if there was less crime we would need fewer cops and maybe the force would show you the door.”
“So,” he grumbled, trying to ignore her dig, “why are you here tonight? There has to be more of a purpose than just needling me.”
She shrugged, “There’s no reason to hold out on you now.” Tiffany tilted her head slightly, licked her lips, and frowned. “I guess, in the light of a murder, this doesn’t mean much now, but you know those Santas standing on the street corners ringing those bells?”
“Yeah.”
“I began to wonder how much money they brought in for charity,” she explained. “When I observed what was going into their pots and what was being deposited in the city charity account . . . you know we have that chart in the paper each day . . . well, things didn’t add up. In fact, the figures the charity gave us were only about 60 percent of what I figured they should have been.”
“My, aren’t you good at math,” he quipped.
“I’m serious,” she shot back. “Someone is diverting a big part of those funds somewhere else. There are tens of thousands of dollars in donations that are not going to ever get to the orphans or widows that the blasted war created. So, I had an appointment to give Elrod my information on this scam. He was interested.”
“Why didn’t you run with it?” Lane asked. “Most papers go with the story and hide their sources from the police. This sounds like a hot headline to me.”
“Ah,” she replied, “printing the story might have ended the scam, but it wouldn’t have gotten the money back. Plus, it would have caused folks not to give donations to the legit Santas. In this case, I don’t want a scoop or a byline, I just want to get the money back and have those responsible for this con game arrested.”
“So, Tiffany Clayton has a heart after all.”
“I also have something else you are lacking,” she chuckled.
“What’s that?”
“A brain.”
He shook his head. Why did she have to be so beautiful? She’d be so much easier to deal with if she were just average-looking. Then his mind could stay focused. And that was the big problem. Whenever he looked at her for too long he lost his train of thought. If fact, the train almost always jumped the tracks! It was one of the reasons he’d missed a few of their dates. He was afraid she’d look at him with those baby blues for several hours and he’d then say something that would trap him for life. Though, in truth, maybe that trap wouldn’t really be so bad. After all, weren’t these verbal wars just a way to keep from admitting he really liked her?
“Copper, your eyes are burning holes in my new gray suit.”
And they had been. Maybe it would be better if the lights were out. No, that wouldn’t be any good. The darkness would just bring out her perfume. What was it? Oh yeah . . . Tabu. How he wished she’d changed to a scent that was not so intoxicating.
“Mr. Walker, do you have any thoughts on Elrod or does the cat have your tongue?”
He had to look at anything but her in order to make sense. That’s the way it had been since he met her on a summer day in Wrigley Field. Clearing his throat, he once more turned his eyes