You Bet Your Life: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Three) Read Online Free PDF Page B

operator said Mr. Marx couldn’t be reached, and she sounded as if she had more to say but couldn’t, or wouldn’t. I left a message.
    The phone rang, and Kleinhans was on the other end.
    “You got a number or address for me?” I said calmly.
    “I’ll give you an address in a few hours. Just remember, keep in touch and let me know if you get anything.”
    “I’ve already got a couple of things,” I said, looking down at Leonardo.
    “You’re fast,” clucked Kleinhans. I could hear squad room noises behind him and tried to imagine the room. I expected to be in it within the hour.
    “Well,” I said, “I’ve got a cold.”
    “Sorry to hear it.”
    “I can take care of that,” I said. “I bought a coat and some cold tablets. But I can’t take care of the other thing, the guy with the bullet holes who just fell out of my closet.”
    After a pause, Kleinhans sent out a sigh I didn’t need a telephone for.
    “You’re lucky you got me, Peters. Cops in Chicago don’t like jokes about bodies.”
    “No joke,” I said. “He’s lying on my floor. According to his wallet, he’s Leonardo Bistolfi. You know him?”
    “I know him. Don’t move. I’ll be right there.”
    I had exhausted everything I could do to keep busy. I knew what would happen as soon as I put the phone down, and it did. The tremor started in my fingers. If I didn’t do something, it would travel up my arms and into my legs. Then I’d start to sweat. If I didn’t stop it then, the next step would be to give up my breakfast. I’d seen corpses before, too many of them, but there is something about finding one in your closet that kicks the crap out of professional distance. A smart-ass voice not too deep inside my chest tried to say, “It could have been you. It could have been you.”
    To drown out the voice and give my hands something to do, I sang Pinky Tomlin’s “The Love Bug Will Get You If You Don’t Watch Out,” while I went through Bistolfi’s pockets and clothes again.
    By the time I sang “and when he gets you you will sing and shout”, I had discovered that Leonardo Bistolfi bought his suit in Miami and had a thick ring of keys. A decorative metal disc on the key ring had the initials LVB on one side and the word “Fireside” in black enamel on the other. He had sixty-three cents in change, including an 1889 Indian head penny I was tempted to pocket for my nephew Dave who saved coins. I resisted temptation. It was easy. Besides a monogrammed white handkerchief in his jacket pocket and the wallet I’d already looked at, Bistolfi was empty.
    I went through the wallet more carefully, but it told me nothing more. No membership cards. No notes. No numbers. No addresses, only Bistolfi’s address in care of Capone, Palm Island, Miami, Florida. I had succeeded in stilling the voice inside me and moved on to my rendition of Tomlin’s “What’s The Reason I’m Not Pleasing You?” Then my eyes fell on Leonardo’s bloody face. He was looking at me in surprise. I put the wallet back, washed my hands, and sat down to wait. My brain had stopped working. It needed a live human or two to get it running again.
    Thirteen minutes later, Kleinhans and two uniformed cops were at the door. We all looked at the body for a while, with Kleinhans humming something I didn’t recognize. He nodded to the older of the cops, who moved to the phone. People were gathering outside the open door, so the second cop, who he called Rourke, went outside and closed the door.
    “You hear Rourke out there yelling?” said Kleinhans softly as he kneeled.
    “No,” I said. There was a hum of voices beyond the door.
    “Rourke’s a yeller. If we can’t hear him, this room is the next best thing to soundproof. It’d have to be for someone to do this and not draw curious citizens like flies to Maxwell Street.”
    The fat cop was talking on the phone behind us, but he kept his voice down so I only caught a few words. It didn’t take much to guess he was