Once Bitten, Twice Dead Read online

  “Sure, unburden your soul.” Why was I being so sarcastic? Doris could be a sincerely religious person—I shouldn’t be mocking her.

  Doris began the unburdening. “When you talked to my husband, he came home that night very upset. He said that he was a suspect in a murder case.”

  “He was, and is. But I have a gaggle of suspects, Mrs. Manheim. Why was Pete so upset?”

  “I don’t know, but what bothered me was that he told me that I’d have to give him an alibi.”

  “Why did he need an alibi?”

  “The night before, he didn’t come home at all from work. He wasn’t home all night. It was unusual. I was worried. I almost called the police, but the next day he showed up around noon without any explanation. I asked him where he’d been, but he wouldn’t tell me. Then, after you interviewed him, Pete asked for me to say he’d been with me all that night and the next morning. Was that when that person was killed?”

  “Yes, between six and seven o’clock of that morning that Pete was not with you.”

  “Why do you suspect Pete?”

  “I’ll keep that between Pete and myself. If he wants to tell you, he will.” I wasn’t sure how much Doris knew about Pete and drugs. Are cocaine users allowed into heaven? Oops, there I go again.

  “Mrs. Manheim, what I can tell you is that after you recently embraced religion, Pete told me he had also joined the church, and he would never murder anyone because he would go straight to hell. Something like that.”

  “That’s absolutely not true, Detective. Pete has never set foot inside this church. That’s why I knew it was safe to talk to you here without Pete knowing. He never even gives me a ride to or from services.”

  “Mrs. Manheim, I will have to talk to Pete again and tell him what you told me.”

  “Do you have to?”

  “Are you afraid that he would hurt you?”

  “No, Pete’s a gentle person, but I feel bad telling on him like this. I know I’m going behind his back, but I had to clear my conscience.”

  “That’s fine, Mrs. Manheim. You can’t walk around with a dirty conscience.”

  This one did not get by her. “You don’t like me, do you?”

  “It’s not about liking or disliking. You did good telling me. If your husband is a murderer, he could kill again if pushed, and you’re the person closest to him. You yourself might be in danger.”

  “Pete could never kill anyone. Like I said, he’s a peaceful individual. Whatever happened to that victim, if it involved Pete, it must have been an accident.”

  I didn’t want to tell Doris that a meat cleaver didn’t get planted into a forehead by accident, but I think I had warned her enough.

  Pete was at the warehouse of Regal Foods again for our second meeting. I told him what his wife had related to me. Manheim threw up his hands. “It’s no use, Detective. No one can keep a secret nowadays.”

  “Tell me your secret, Pete. Did it involve murdering Ed Butcher?”

  “No!”

  “Then tell me where you were all that time.”

  Pete shrugged his shoulders. “All right. Now the whole world will know. That night I started a new direction in my life.”

  “You started being a killer?”

  “It’s the exact opposite. When Doris had come home the year before and told me about her ‘conversion,’ she wanted me to join Calvary Lutheran also. I think I do believe in God, but I’ve never been much for formal religion. I think the people in it are mostly sincere, but it’s just not for me. But I did think I should try to better my life like Doris was doing. For the longest time I couldn’t figure out how. Then that night I got a brainstorm. I joined a soup kitchen to help the homeless—we work late at night and into the early morning. This was my first time there. It’s in North Philly; you can check it out.”

  “I will. But why did you keep all that a secret?”

  “I thought people would laugh at me. The people I deal with don’t exactly do charity work—they’re rough and tough. I thought they’d think I was weak.”

  “You could have told your wife. She wouldn’t have laughed. She would have appreciated your good effort.”

  “That is true, but she’d tell people. You just saw that in action when she talked to you about something I wanted kept quiet. She’d tell it to all those old maids in her social group, and it would get around. I’d feel foolish.”

  “So you risked being a murder suspect so that you wouldn’t feel foolish?”

  “I don’t like to be thought of as weak. Besides everything would have been fine if Doris hadn’t blabbed to you.”

  I checked with the soup kitchen in North Philly. Pete was there the whole time he said he was.

  I was still searching for Ed Butcher’s killer, but I couldn’t very well advertise it in the yellow pages.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  After talking with Pete Manheim, I dropped back home to grab a snack. I opened my door, heard a second click, and the world went black.

  I opened my eyes. Through the haze I thought I could see my brother. Why did he have such a worried look on his face? Then the rest of that reality jumped out at me: I was in a hospital bed; my arm was bandaged; and my head hurt.

  “Raven, you’re awake.”

  “Mark what are you doing here? A better question—what am I doing here?”

  “Your apartment blew up. Someone set a bomb. Your front door is fairly thick. It protected you from the full effect of the blast. You got knocked out, but other than a few burns, a concussion, and a sprained wrist, it looks like you’ll be fine.”

  I wished Mark hadn’t mentioned those burns. I could feel them now, seemingly all over my body.

  Mark bent over and gave me a kiss on the forehead. “The doctor was worried about that concussion. He thought you’d wake up, but he wasn’t absolutely sure. He didn’t say the word, ‘coma,’ but I did think it.”

  “How long have I been in the hospital?”

  “This is the third day.”

  “I’ve been out all this time?”

  “I’m a pretty optimistic person, Sis, but I was beginning to become concerned. Oh, Raven, I love you so much.” Mark leaned over and gave me a warm hug—a tear of his hit my cheek. “I’m so glad you’re O.K.”

  Now Mark got his authoritative voice. “What’s going to happen, Raven, if for you to come to New York to live with me for awhile.”

  “There’s a practical consideration, Mark. I have these cases. I have to stay here in Philly.”

  “You don’t have an apartment, anymore. It was totally destroyed in the blast. You don’t have a place to live.”

  My life had changed. I took up Mark’s generous offer. I said I’d move in with him for a month if he’d help me find a new apartment in Philly. “Deal,” he said.

  Luckily, a month earlier I had moved my money out of the suitcase in the closet into a bank, so that was still all preserved. But Mark was right—at the moment I was homeless.

  Since college, I had lived alone for five years. It was a little difficult getting used to another person being there with me, even if it was my own brother. However, after a week I did relax a bit more. Amazingly I had no broken bones, but Mark did say it would be good to take a long break from those cases, and I agreed. I applied for a month’s disability leave, and got it. However, just sitting around, even for a few days, began to drive me batty. After the fourth day of having read two novels and watched twenty hours of mind-numbing TV, I asked Mark, “What’s the latest story you’re working on for the paper?”

  “It’s a possible corruption thing. Why?”

  “Could you use a partner?”

  “Raven, you have to rest.”

  “Remember when you had that surfing accident, and you had to recuperate for two months? How long before you got restless?”

  Mark smiled. “Maybe three hours. All right, Sis, you can accompany me on my travels. Are you sure you feel up to it?”

  �
��Listen anyone can do your soft job. No sweat.” I was trying to tease Mark, but I did think his job wasn’t too difficult. In the next three weeks I was proven very wrong.

  Mark’s investigation concerned a New Jersey state senator who might be on the take. My brother had been pursuing leads for a couple of months now and was making some progress. He filled me in: “Raven, Senator Stauffenberg, was just elected for his third term. The word on the street, though, was that since this election had been so close, Stauffenberg owed many favors. My paper is interested in one of Stauffenberg’s heaviest contributors, Tony Zemco. We think Zemco is connected to organized crime involving drugs, prostitution, and even illegal weapons across the Mexican border.

  “I’ve been following Zemco for two weeks now, but so far there’s no connection to Stauffenberg.” For the next three days we sat in Mark’s car while Zemco who was supposedly a legitimate lawyer, went to work seeing clients, ate in upscale restaurants, and came home each night.”

  “Totally boring, Mark,” was my only comment.

  “That’s what a lot of this job is. I’m waiting for him to contact Stauffenberg.” We went another week before we struck pay dirt.

  In the rain we watched Tony Zemco enter a downtown office building, a few blocks away from his law firm. “This could be it, Raven. Stauffenberg’s office is in that building.”

  “How will you know what they’re talking about? Maybe they’re just having a friendly chat.”

  “Stauffenberg’s office is bugged.”

  “Isn’t that illegal?”

  “To catch these weasels you sometimes have to resort to loose methods.”

  “’Loose methods?’ It’s against the law, Mark.”

  “Raven, maybe just starting into this crime field yourself, you might be a little naïve. You’ll never catch the perps you’re after if you use legal means.”

  “It’s just hard for me to accept what you’re doing.”

  “How much success have you had with your legal methods in your cases?”

  That one hurt. “Thanks for your praise, loyal brother.”

  “I’m sorry, Raven, but I have to do what I can to get the story. Good probing journalism can cut down the crime rate in this city.”

  “By committing another crime?”

  For all our discussion, it turned out that the tape in Stauffenberg’s office had nothing incriminating on it. They did just have a friendly talk centering mainly on why the Jets missed out on the Super Bowl this year.

  Mark was not one to give up. The next day he told me, “We’ve now got a tape in Zemco’s office.”

  “How did you do that?”

  “I’ve got an in with a paralegal who works for him.”

  “Why would he do that for you?”

  “It’s a she. She didn’t know Zemco was dirty when she started working for him. She just found that out recently and contacted me, willing to help.”

  “How did you know this girl?”

  “I got to know her so I could get closer to Zemco. I followed her until I got her social habits down and then sat next to her at her favorite bar.”

  “So then you dated her to further your plan of finding the truth out about Zemco and Stauffenberg?”

  “You got it.”

  “Do you like her at all?”

  “She’s O.K., but not really my cup of tea.”

  “Mark, you’re manipulating this girl. Did you sleep with her?”

  “Of course.”

  “With all your talk of morals, you don’t seem to have any.”

  “Again, Raven, you’re living in a Pollyanna world.”

  I quit accompanying Mark on his surveillance. A week later he bounced into my room all enthused. “We got him!”

  “Who?”

  “Stauffenberg went to Zemco’s office, and they talked about Stauffenberg giving construction contracts to Zemco’s ‘associates.’ It’s a direct violation

  “But I need your help now, Raven.”

  “My help?”

  “Yes, my paralegal friend quit—she couldn’t take it anymore. I have to get that bug out of Zemco’s office. I can’t do it. Zemco and Stauffenberg know me because I’ve tried to interview both of them for the Times articles.”

  “What are you asking me, Mark?”

  “The listening device is in a flower pot on Zemco’s window sill by his desk. All you have to do is dig down a little into the dirt. If you went in there for some kind of legal excuse and distracted Zemco, then you could retrieve the bug. I can write the story without anyone knowing how I got the information. But if someone finds the bug and traces it back to me I could be prosecuted, or worse Zemco might have one of those associates take care of me permanently.”

  I debated for a full day, but then I agreed to help my brother. Maybe I had no ethics either.

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  I sat in Tony Zemco’s office looking like a woman if ill-repute. Mark and I had gone shopping for the appropriate clothes: a short skirt, see-through blouse, and three inch stiletto heels.

  Tony did notice.

  “Well, hello there. I would be very willing to assist you.”

  “I know you handle divorce cases. I want to take my husband for every dollar he’s got. He’s a violent brute, and I’m done with him.”

  “Sure. I personally can get that done for you.”

  According to Mark’s plan, he would now make a scene with the secretary in the outer office to try to get an interview with Zemco, causing Tony to go out there and handle it. Mark was a little late, and Tony had already begun pawing me as he sat next to me.

  Suddenly we heard shouting. Hooray—Mark had arrived.

  Zemco moved away from me—thank goodness. “What the hell is going on out there?” He practically ran into the next room.

  My first two scoops into the dirt produced nothing. However, Mark apparently was doing a good stalling job because Tony had not come back. I still had time. My hand touched something that felt like plastic. I had it—it was so tiny—and quickly put it in my purse. I was sweating.

  When Zemco came back, I told him I would check back with him to start setting up the proceedings. He again had his hands all over me as he escorted me to the door. He gave me a final pat on the butt. “See you soon, doll-face.”

  Such a swell experience with Tony Zemco.

  Mark’s article accusing Stauffenberg and Zemco of corruption came out a week later. Four days after that, Mark was dead. That night, walking back to now our apartment, he got two bullets in the back of the head.

  I grieved for three days and wanted to quit my own job as a cop. I got totally depressed—I felt by helping Mark on that news story I had been partially responsible for his death. Two weeks earlier Mark and I had found another apartment for me in Philly, so I could go back there. But for another week I simply stayed at Mark’s, as if I could wish him to walk through that door. Now, holding my brother’s picture in front of me, I vowed to get the people who had killed him.

  I did have access. What I could do was go back to Tony Zemco with my phony divorce story and take it from there. It was time to avenge Mark’s death.

  “Why Mrs. Raver, it’s so good to see you again.” I had used “Raver” so I could remember my fake name. I couldn’t actually believe I was sitting six feet away from the person who had killed my brother.

  It was as if I could see sleaze literally oozing out of Zemco, as he gave me his syrupy voice. “So you’re going through with that divorce? I’m so glad you’ve come back to me.”

  “I know that out there is the right man for me. There are so many kind and generous men out there, like you Mr. Zemco.” I wanted to throw up.

  “You will make a fine prize for someone, Mrs. Raver. I could tell you were a woman of quality when I first saw you. Now let’s get down to business.”

  I found out quickly that “business” for Tony Zemco was to get me into bed. The problem was that I couldn’t let him see the wire setup I had been constantly wearing. I h
ad gone to the NYC police and they were very helpful in supplying me with the proper equipment. They were also very honest in telling me that until I brought them some hard evidence, I was totally on my own.

  So my first plan was to try to get Zemco to talk about the killing without me having to have sex with him. But that plan wasn’t working. Zemco was intensely aggressive, and by the third date I knew I’d have to sleep with him in order to get his confidence. That night I left the wire setup at Mark’s place and went out dining and dancing with the creep. By midnight we were lying next to each other on top of Tony’s silk sheets.

  About twenty minutes earlier, Tony had trouble getting it up, but with a little work on my part we finally did it. I hated every minute of it. And then immediately after, Tony fell asleep. His snoring and wheezing was so romantic.

  I had to go through a similar torture one other time, but by now I was making progress into finding out about Tony’s life. He was opening up to me. He had been divorced three times, and from what he told me his business thrived because of his connections with “the real people who run New York City.”

  “Who are these people?”

  “You don’t want to know. They aren’t very nice. Not nice like you.” And he nuzzled his face in between my legs. Oh, god, it was about as artful as a slobbering dog. But after his huffing and puffing was over, Tony told me more about his associates. “They’re into every big time deal in the city. They’re still into drugs, whores, and extortion; but lately they’ve branched into legitimate partnerships. They’re a lot harder to catch now because they’re within the law.”

  The next time we went to dinner, I wore my wire again, and I felt it was time to get the evidence on Tony. I had been stalling on giving him any information about my divorce; whenever we talked about it I just told about what a terrible life I’d had with my “husband.” I couldn’t keep this up forever. Halfway through the meal, I said just casually, “Didn’t I read a couple of weeks ago that you and Senator Stauffenberg were connected?”

  Tony looked up from his chicken parm. I had to go easy.