The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag 00 - Swept Under the Rug

Prologue

    “ I need to speak with Detective Capri, ASAP!” No doubt I looked like a lunatic rushing in off the streets, my hair a wind-blown rat’s nest and reeking of Murphy oil soap. Somewhere in my mad dash from the Valentino estate to my mini Cooper, I’d lost my pony-tail holder and trashed the knee on my favorite pair of cleaning jeans. No matter though, I still clutched the evidence to my chest, gripping the photocopied paper with all my adrenalin-charged strength.
    The blond mountain of a uniformed officer behind the battered check-in desk didn’t quite roll his eyes, but I could tell he’d stifled the impulse. “She’s in a meeting Ms. Phillips—”
    “ Mrs . Phillips.” I corrected out of habit. God alone knew why the officers at the Hudson Police Department couldn’t seem to get it through their heads that I was married, probably because no man in his right mind would lay claim to the over-zealous Laundry Hag.
    Too bad for Neil, he’d been stuck with me long before I’d become the bane of Hudson’s finest.
    “Mrs. Phillips,” The burley blond guy tried to stare me down, but I wasn’t about to back off. I had two pre-teens at home and if this stegosaurus descendent wanted a battle of wills, I’d kick his Big & Tall butt.
    “Look Bub, I’m working with Detective Capri and she needs this information, stat!” Cripes, I needed to lay of the primetime medical dramas.
    He rose to his full height, which practically brushed the hanging lamp behind the desk. Thunderclouds gathered along his eyebrows and I wondered whether the Bub or the stat had torqued him up.
    “It’s all right, Stan, I’m here.” Detective Capri hustled down corridor from the bowels of the precinct. Either she had stellar timing or someone tipped her off that her favorite visitor was making another scene. Capri dressed like a man, walked like a man and from what little I’d seen of her in action, she fought like a man. I had no idea what her first name was, but I called her Butch since no man could be more so.
    Capri wore pantsuits a la the Hillary for Prez collection; always with the juxtaposition military issue combat boots. Today’s suit came in a navy blue with a crisp white button-up and her only accessory was a scowl. “If you’ll follow me Ma’am.” She didn’t make it a question, just whirled on her size nine shit-kicker and trundled off.
    I cast a smug glance to the blond menace before scurrying after her.
    Capri led me to her office, a small cubbyhole littered with polyurethane coffee cups and reams of random papers in varying colors. My inner neat-freak itched to tidy the stacks and dispose of the garbage, but from previous conversations, I’d gleaned some insight into the detective. Capri liked her mess and wouldn’t allow me to monkey with her system.
    “What do you have for me?” Small talk was not one of Capri’s strengths, but I appreciated that she didn’t roll her eyes or lace her tone with sarcasm. I may not possess much pride, but the Hudson P.D. did a number on it with every visit.
    “Here,” I snapped the photocopy open and handed the paper over with a flourish. “I was cleaning at the Valentinos’—”
    “Do you mean Markus Valentino, the electronics mogul?” Capri cut me with a sharp glance.
    “Yes, he owns a place on the outskirts of town with trophy wife number three, a former Miss Texas. She hired me on right after Christmas, and today I happened to be dusting the den when a fax came in.”
    Capri studied the photocopy, her mouth set in a grim line. “’The Phoenix is rising; you’re gonna get burned’,” she read aloud. “Where’s the original?”
    “I put it back in the fax machine for Valentino to find.” Capri shook her head and I scowled wondering what was on her mind.
    “I meant what number did the fax come from? If you had the number we could trace it back to the source.”
    Oh. Well, shoot. I shrugged helplessly and felt like a twit for not paying attention to such an important detail.
    Capri shuffled some papers and actually found a clear spot on her desk. She set my evidence down and spun the paper to face me. “These letters appear to be cut and pasted out of magazines. See how the type is different? Of course, without seeing the original, I have no way of knowing if this is in color, if the letters came from different papers or not. Some word programs can create this particular effect. You sure it was a fax, not a photocopy? Most people have the