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  I said, “Okay, so who set that timer?”

  Bud said, “The girl?”

  Black said, “So she took sleeping pills or intentionally overdosed, then climbed inside an oven and cooked herself. That’s bullshit. Nobody would do something like that.”

  Sometimes Black came right out with it. I said, “Yeah, my sentiments exactly. I don’t think she’d have the guts to do it, either. Somebody else set that timer.”

  Bud said, “Nobody in their right mind would climb inside a freakin’ oven like that. She was wide awake when she got in there.”

  I said, “Maybe she wasn’t in her right mind. Maybe she was suicidal, too.”

  Black said, “I’m telling you that no woman would willingly commit suicide this way. It just wouldn’t happen.”

  Bud stood up. “Hell, Nick, no man would, either. This is loony tune time.”

  Black’s eyes met mine. “She almost looked like she was hypnotized.”

  I considered that, and it made sense to me.

  Bud said, “Yeah, that’d have to be one helluva potent hypnotist to make a pretty young girl climb inside an oven and take a nap, never to wake up again.”

  I said, “Let’s run the other tapes. See who else was hanging around here today. We just might get the killer on tape.”

  We stood and watched Bud fast-forward through footage from the other cameras, anxious to find out who set that timer and when, but that happy little Disney wish just didn’t pan out. Nobody showed up on the film. Nobody, nada, so crap. We went back further on the tapes. The previous night’s crowd at the pizzeria looked normal, a bunch of families with kids running back and forth from their booths to the bank of video games in the corner, young men and women on dates sitting in the same side of the booth and sharing garlic kisses, and a few single people out for a lonely sausage pizza all by their lonesome.

  “Bud, we’re gonna have to interview every single employee and anybody else we can identify on the surveillance tapes.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  The girl appeared several more times on tape, once arriving late last night, close to midnight, according to the camera’s digital reading, but as far as we could tell, Mikey Murphy had not been in the restaurant at all yesterday or today. And if he’d been upstairs all that time, he would’ve had to fly out the windows like an apparition to avoid all those security cameras surrounding the place.

  When the crime scene team finally wrapped up downstairs, it was well past three in the morning. Black and I left by the front door, the smell of the victim still heavy in the air, an acrid, awful reminder of what had transpired that day. I was dead tired, so I asked Black to head home, not overly thrilled by my life at the moment.

  Unfortunately, tomorrow wasn’t gonna get any better. Black was still scheduled to take off for that seminar in New York City, leaving me in bed all alone with my Glock nine and some creepier than creepy, Rachael Ray Yum-o kind of culinary pizza nightmares. Even worse than that, Bud and I had to drive up to Jefferson City in the morning and tell Michael Murphy’s family that their son no longer walked among the living.

  SIX

  Early the next morning I spent some time in bed saying one lively and erotic good-bye to Black, which was probably gonna be the highlight of my day, hands down. Around eight o’clock, after an Irish Spring shower of mutual sudsing and other delights, Black bopped off to check on his Cedar Bend patients before he boarded his own personal Learjet to fly to New York. Less worldly, I drove over to Bud’s apartment in my black Explorer and picked him up for our coming ordeal in Jefferson City.

  And away we went to notify the Murphy family, which was not exactly in our wowee-look-what-we-get-to-do-today category. We hadn’t called the parents yet and neither had Charlie, so they were still blithely unaware that in approximately one hour their world was going to explode in an impact closely resembling the Big Bang theory. Charlie had given me their telephone number, but no way was I going to break this kind of bad news over the phone.

  Then again, I had to know if they had made it home from their European tour, so I punched in Joseph Murphy’s private home number and was told by a haughty, I’m-better-than-you-even-if-I-have-to-wait-on-people-all-the-time maid that they had arrived home from London but that neither Mr. or Mrs. Murphy were presently in the mansion or inclined to receive visitors. Wow, a mansion, even. Also according to the Murphy’s unseen but unlikeable house help and after some official prompting aka threats of arrest, she let loose with the fact that they’d slept on the transatlantic flight then dropped off Joseph Murphy at the airstrip so he could get a limo to the capitol building for a powwow with the guv. The wife and her daughters apparently had remained on the private plane for a quickie jaunt over to the Plaza in Kansas City to do a bit of last-minute shopping for upcoming summer soirees but would return soon. The rich and powerful just really had a tough row to hoe, I declare. Guess London shops didn’t have an expensive enough inventory to wow said Murphys.

  I thanked the maid, whom I had already nicknamed Beeotch, and just off the top of my head, too, then I flipped the phone shut, and said to Bud, “Head straight for the capitol building. That’s where daddy Joe is.”

  “Maybe we’ll get to meet the big guy.”

  “By that, you mean Governor Stanton, I take it.”

  “Yeah, maybe he’ll remember us someday in the future and present us with some kind of state distinguished service medal for cracking a big case.”

  “Oh, yeah, I’m sure that’s gonna happen. He won’t think we’re good enough to mop his floors, if he’s like most politicos I’ve met up with. Or Murphy’s maid.”

  “I bet Nick knows this Murphy guy, right? Probably real good friends. Hell, they probably get together and talk about who has the most money. Stuff like that.”

  I glanced at Bud. “I thought you liked Black.”

  “I do. You know I owe him big-time for what he did for me, but you gotta admit the guy runs in high circles.”

  Yeah, high circles were his stomping ground, okay, except where his own family was concerned. Those circles were more like Corleone/Soprano/Capone mafia stomping grounds, all very well hidden so Black could keep all his important celebrity patients and governor friends. Of course, he didn’t stomp on those kind of grounds himself, lucky for me. He was as straight an arrow as they come. Somehow, and unfortunately, however, I just kept running into those selfsame wiseguy friends of his and thus complicating my cases, which I found more than irksome. Yes, it had caused some friction now and then between Black and me, but our hormones and better sense had helped us weather those storms, at least for the time being.

  Bud glanced over at me. “Oh, c’mon, Claire, don’t get all pissy. I like Nick. Maybe I’m just jealous you spend all your time with him. We used to go to the shooting range together and eat cheese bread and guzzle pitchers of beer at Pizza Hut. No more. You cut me out of the picture, just like that.”

  “I spend more time with you than I do with him. It’s just that time flies when you’re with me because I’m so easygoing.”

  That met with a sarcastic guffaw. “Yeah, right. But you shoot straight and you got me to the hospital in time when that snake bit me, so I guess I’ll keep you.”

  The Missouri State Capitol building sits high on the banks of the Missouri River and is pretty much a scaled-down replica of the Federal Capitol building in Washington, D.C. Lots of steps, lots of tourists snapping digital cameras, lots of kiddies on tour, and lots of self-important people strutting around. The latter being the hardest to take.

  Bud said, “Shit, there must be a hundred steps out here. Let’s find a ground-floor entrance.”

  I concurred, not in the mood to climb Mount Everest, or its concrete ilk. We strolled over to one side of the massive stairs, admiring all the shade trees and green lawns and beds of blooming marigolds and purple and red petunias, where we found the much-sought-after entrance sans steps with lots of state workers loitering around outside, women mostly, and all of
them dressed in black suits, white blouses, and sturdy heels. Must be a state law to dress staid. Plus, they apparently knew about all those steps out front and avoided them like the plague.

  Inside the entrance, we flashed our badges at a security guard and asked directions to the governor’s office. He was a young guy, clean cut, right out of the highway patrol academy, if my guess was correct.

  He told us where it was and how to get there. “You can’t miss it,” he added as an extra dose of encouragement.

  “You know a man named Joseph Murphy?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Make me feel old, why don’t you, kid? I looked for peach fuzz on his chin. “Has Mr. Murphy signed in with you today?”

  “Yes, ma’am. About an hour ago.”

  “Okay, thank you very much.”

  Bud said, “You got an elevator in this place, man?” Bud wasn’t exactly into unnecessary exercise, although he could run a five-minute mile when he had to, like when a hatchet-bearing freak was chasing him. Don’t laugh; it happens. I speed up, too, under such circumstances.

  The smiley young man directed us to the elevator, and we rode up with more secretary types dressed in dark suits, although all their nameplates identified them as legislative assistants. The word secretary must be passé in Jeff City. Most of them held matching Starbucks Styrofoam cups, and the aroma of vanilla latte almost made drool run out of my mouth. I forced myself not to snatch the nearest one, flash my badge, and gulp it down before she could claw it out of my grip. Guess I’m caffeine deprived.

  “I’m hungry,” said Bud, as we stepped out into an impressive marble corridor.

  “Maybe we can bum a donut from the guv,” I said, but I was watching the people strolling around us, all of whom were headed somewhere, very, very fast and efficiently, too, and all with a studied air of importance with a capital “I.” Hey, maybe all capital letters, now that I think about it. More of the clone assistants, who at least looked pleasant and spoke to us, and a lot of males, who looked either harried or pompous. Both, sometimes. The latter were probably the state legislators themselves, although I know one or two from my own district who aren’t half bad once you get to know them. The harried ones here, however, were so busy kowtowing, they were backing into each other.

  Another security guard stood outside the guv’s door, and we stopped politely, flashed our badges politely, and he examined them politely and peered at us as if we were gonna jump out of a Mission Impossible movie and tear off rubber face masks and become Osama bin Laden or Tom Cruise Dancing on a Couch before the guy could get off a shot.

  “Okay, detectives. What can I do for you?”

  “We’re here to speak to Joseph Murphy. We were told downstairs that he’s meeting with the governor this morning.”

  “That’s right. He came in roughly sixty-five minutes ago.”

  That’s roughly for you. I wondered what precisely amounted to. The guard went on, raising one hand to scratch his neatly trimmed brown sideburn. He had a military buzz cut, big brown eyes the color of that vanilla latte I was craving, and was in full uniform, hat held in his hand. I wondered if he burned up outside in this kind of heat.

  “You’ll have to talk to Debbie Winters. She’s the governor’s personal assistant.”

  Debbie Winters was sitting inside the guv’s spacious outer office at a gargantuan desk that made her look even smaller than she was. She was a good-looking, petite blonde with big blue eyes, and Bud couldn’t help but notice. He smiled. She smiled. I smiled. It seemed the thing to do.

  “May I help you?” she said to Bud. Forgot about me, I guess. Like most of the women Bud and I met up with. Since it appeared I was just along to help him charm the ladies, I let him do the talking.

  Bud moved closer, looked her over pretty good. She had on one of those expensive black suits, too, a pantsuit with a white tee underneath it, a very subdued elegance. Then Bud said, “Yes, ma’am, you sure can.”

  They both beamed impressive white-toothed wattage, and I wondered what kind of help they were talking about.

  Bud said, “Debbie, right?”

  “Yes, that’s me. And you are?”

  More coy smiles. I declare, set a wedding date, already.

  “My name’s Bud Davis. I’m a detective in Canton County down at the lake.”

  “Is that so? My mom, Dorothy, used to live there, not too far from Ha Ha Tonka. She really likes that area. So do I.”

  “Awesome,” agreed Bud, but we all knew who he was talking about and it wasn’t any lake views.

  I decided to interrupt their suggestive, but not yet indecent, sexual innuendo. “We’re here to see Mr. Murphy. It’s urgent.” I held up my badge to show I really meant it.

  “And you are?”

  “Detective Claire Morgan. Is Mr. Murphy available?”

  Debbie did give a quick glance at my badge, but she appeared to like Bud’s better, along with some of his other things. But shortly afterward, she got hold of her tango-dancing hormones and said, “He’s in conference with the governor and asked not to be disturbed unless it was urgent.”

  Didn’t I just say that? “It’s not only urgent, ma’am, it’s very urgent.” Sometimes throwing in certain adverbs helped with recalcitrant guardians of important doorways.

  “In truth, Debbie, it’s a matter of life and death.” That was Bud. Handsome face all concerned, waxing dramatic for pretty Deb’s approval.

  “Oh, then, in that case, I’ll call him right away.” She picked up the receiver, but then she hesitated, put it down again, and looked at her Bud. “Maybe I should go in and tell him myself. There’s an important meeting going on.”

  She dragged her eyes off Bud’s goofy smile and looked less impressed with my expression. “Could you possibly tell me what this involves? I know he’ll ask me, and he doesn’t like to be disturbed.”

  Her blue eyes were talking to me now, woman to woman, and they were saying loud and clear, “Joseph Murphy can be a real jerk, and he’s gonna jump all over me with both feet if I go in there and interrupt his important gubernatorial business without a helluva good reason.” I am exceptional at interpreting secret feminine eye codes, as you can see.

  “We’ll take all responsibility for this interruption, Ms. Winters. Trust me, he’s not going to reprimand you after he hears what we have to say. It’s extremely important that we see him as soon as possible. It’s a personal matter.”

  “I see.” Her expression told me she believed me a little bit but wasn’t totally sure of my motives. She gazed at Bud again. He nodded, backing me up, and her shoulders sagged with reassurance. “Will you need a private conference room where you can talk to him without being disturbed?”

  “Yes, ma’am. That would be a very good idea.”

  Debbie Winters smiled at Bud, and she did have a very nice smile, I had to admit, then she rose and crossed over the plush purple-and-red Persian carpet and passed into the sacred inner sanctum where white tapers were probably burning on governmental altars made in the shape of Missouri. Bud watched her every movement until the door closed softly behind her, and I didn’t interrupt his lusting until the latch clicked and his eyes became clear again. I do believe he likes her looks.

  “Okay, Bud. This is gonna be difficult, so let me do all the talking. I sense this guy might turn out to be a real jerk.”

  That got his attention. “Really, what makes you think that?”

  See what I mean? Men don’t have that little intuition vibe that women do when dealing with other women. Debbie of the Blue Eyes sent me a nice little warning sign, one that said Tread Carefully with JM and Nobody Gets Hurt. I’d gotten it, loud and clear, and I heed those kind of messages, you know. I skid to a stop and look both ways, just like I do at train crossings.

  “Just a hunch I got, Bud.”

  Debbie returned, face all flushed and angry. She’d gotten reamed out in advance, it seemed. I felt her pain. She said, “Please follow me, detectives.”

  Bud fo
llowed her with earnest attention, and I trailed along for the ride. She led us down a long hallway and around a corner then over the bridge to grandma’s house. Maybe Mikey’s dad, Joseph, was gonna be the big bad wolf. She stopped and opened a tall mahogany door. Inside, we found a good-size room, replete with a long shiny conference table, mahogany, too, covered with glass with lots of little notepads and pens sitting at each of the thirty swiveling black leather chairs. The walls were painted a pale peach color, and two 50-inch plasma televisions hung on one wall. Along the other wall were lots of portraits of earlier pompous politicians. All the maroon drapes were closed nice and tight, but I think my expertise at geography put us in a room overlooking the east side of the capitol grounds.

  “Well, this must be the break room where all the legislative assistants watch Bold and the Beautiful,” I commented to Bud, after Debbie had hastened back to her duties at the guard desk.

  Bud said, “Or where they plan up ways to tax us all to death. I hate taxes worse than poison.” Bud had gotten rooked on his last tax return and was still fuming.

  “You shoulda taken it to Coffman and Company in Springfield like I told you. I got money back this time. Black told me about them, and he came out smelling like a rose, too, of course.”

  “I will take mine there next year, trust me. I will drive them there myself and beg them to take me on as a client on my hands and knees.”

  “That should do it.”

  Our titillating tax talk was interrupted when the corridor door opened behind us, and we both turned to see who was popping in to say hello. A man entered, tall and dark, imposing, even. He frowned at us, stern as hell, I’d say, then he shut the door, then frowned at us some more and all the way across the room, too. Okay, we get the picture. You are pissed. We have offended one of the great ones and we will have to pay a severe penalty of irked looks and dented brows.

  “I’m Joseph Murphy. How can I help you, detectives? I’m very busy at the moment, so I can’t give you much of my time.”