After Hours Read online

  Morelli slowly exhaled. “The only woman you’ve ever loved…”

  “Yes?”

  “She’s a man.”

  Farnum’s reaction could not have been much different had Morelli hit him in the face with a brick. Many moments passed before he whispered, “What?”

  “It’s true. The coroner confirmed it. She’s a man.”

  “But—this isn’t possible.”

  “I’m afraid it is. You have to understand—there are a lot of drag queens out on the Peoria strip. I’ve heard some of the boys in Vice say one person in five in those clubs is a cross-dresser.”

  “I’ve had drag queens in my club since the day it opened. No matter how good they were, I could always tell the difference.”

  “Well, I guess this one fooled even you.”

  “But it’s just so…impossible. I can’t—I can’t—” And then, all at once, Farnum’s expression altered dramatically. He laughed.

  This was even more perplexing than everything else that had happened tonight. “I’m sorry,” Morelli said, “is something funny?”

  “It’s all just so…so…” Farnum wiped away the tears crystallizing in the corners of his eyes. “No, not funny exactly. More like ironic.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

  “Irony. The juxtaposition of unexpected circumstances—”

  “I know what irony is,” Morelli growled. “What I don’t understand is why it’s ironic that your girlfriend turns out to be a man.”

  With a quick, fluid motion, Farnum untucked his shirt and pulled it up, exposing the tight binding wrapped around his upper abdomen. “Because I’m really a woman.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, Morelli cradled a foam cup filled with hot black coffee while the forensic teams did their work. There was something comforting about the feel of the coffee. It might not be much, but at least you knew what it was. Exactly what you thought it was.

  Baxter came in and poured herself a cup. “What’s the word from headquarters?”

  “DeCarlo flat out denied that he ordered Bartello to make the hit,” Morelli replied.

  “Does that surprise you?”

  “Actually it does. I thought he would call his lawyer and refuse to talk.”

  “Apparently he fired his mouthpiece. Maybe you should send over that lawyer buddy of yours.”

  “No point. Ever since his wife had those twin girls, he can’t finish a sentence that doesn’t have ‘goo-goo’ in it.” Morelli held the coffee under his nose, drawing in the rich Kona aroma. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. Prescott is picking up Bartello and bringing him here. My informants tell me DeCarlo had a big falling-out with Bart the Dart earlier this week. Don’t know why, but DeCarlo totally cut him off. Bart’s been coming around to his place every night, trying to worm his way back into favor. But so far, no luck.”

  “So even if DeCarlo was behind the hit, he wouldn’t have used the Dartman.”

  “Looks that way.”

  “I still want to talk to him.”

  “Figured as much. But aren’t you forgetting something?”

  “What’s that?”

  “You said it yourself—if DeCarlo was out to get Farnum, he would’ve gone after Farnum. He wouldn’t have gone after Farnum’s girlfriend. Boyfriend. Whatever.”

  “That’s a problem.” He polished off his coffee. “Thanks for the background info. I can always count on you to come up with the goods.”

  “Should I be reading in between the lines here?”

  “No. Just saying I know I can count on you. That’s why I like having you for a…partner.”

  “I thought it was my stunning good looks.”

  “That, too.”

  * * *

  A few minutes later, Morelli’s nemesis-in-homicide, Major Prescott, arrived at the penthouse apartment bearing Ernie Bartello, aka Bart the Dart. Prescott had a grudge against Morelli that went back years. Prescott had been removed from a high-profile murder investigation and Morelli had taken over. Worse, he’d had the audacity to solve the case. Prescott had never forgiven him.

  They put Bartello in a separate bedroom, away from Farnum and the crime scene. Prescott motioned Morelli aside for a few preinterrogation words.

  “So lemme see if I’ve got this straight,” Prescott said. “Masters was really a man, all dolled up like a woman.”

  “Right.”

  “And he-she was sleeping with Farnum, who was a woman made up like a man.”

  “So it seems.”

  “And neither one knew that their love mate was not what they looked to be.”

  “That also appears to be the case.”

  “They were both pretending to be what the other one really was.”

  “By George, I think you’ve got it.”

  “What the hell did they do with each other?”

  Morelli didn’t know if Prescott was being rhetorical, or if he really expected an answer. “I think…they loved one another. Very much.”

  “Jeez, what is the world coming to?” Prescott muttered. “Disgusting.”

  “It’s not disgusting,” Morelli replied. “It’s sad.”

  “Sad? Those sick perverts?” Prescott grimaced. “I think you must be sick, too.”

  Morelli did not reply. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a suspect to interrogate.”

  * * *

  Bartello was a thin man, wiry and tough, exactly the sort of person no one would want to meet alone unless they were packing a two-megaton rocket launcher. Probably not even then. The Grim Reaper tattoo on his forearm and the small but discernible scar on the left side of his face lent two strong clues to his chosen profession.

  Morelli was the good cop while Prescott played the bad. Typecasting, Morelli thought, although Prescott might not see it that way.

  “What do you know about this murder, Bartello?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “Did you hit Kim Masters?”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Did DeCarlo order you to do it?”

  “DeCarlo? Who’s that?”

  Morelli tried not to clench his teeth. “I want the truth.”

  “Call the psychic hotline.”

  “This job looks like your handiwork.”

  Bartello shrugged. “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.”

  Prescott lurched forward and grabbed the man’s collar. “Don’t screw with us, Bartello. Or so help me—”

  Morelli shook his head. Prescott was so bad at this. Like the man was going to be scared enough to break after twenty seconds of softball questions. “Let’s calm down, everybody. We’re just having a conversation, okay?” He nudged Prescott out of the way. “Bartello, did you know your buddy DeCarlo was bearing a half-million-dollar grudge?”

  “DeCarlo ain’t my buddy. I don’t work for him no more.”

  “You know, I heard a rumor to that effect. What’d you do to tick off the boss man?”

  “I didn’t do nothin’. He’s got no business treatin’ me like this.”

  “There must’ve been something.”

  “It was just one date.”

  Morelli eased back. “One date with whom?”

  Bartello’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Sophia.”

  “Sophia DeCarlo? The boss’s daughter?”

  “And what’s wrong with that? It ain’t like I forced her or nothin’. Hell, all I did was kiss her good-night.”

  “The boss caught you sucking face with his only daughter and he didn’t like it. So he sent you away before things got out of control.”

  “The man was not rational.”

  “Because he didn’t want his pride an
d joy hooked up with a two-bit hit man? Imagine.”

  “He’s happy enough to have me around when he needs work done.”

  “You just don’t get it, do you, Bartello? That’s how all the DeCarlos in this world are. When they can use you, they’ll use you. But it doesn’t mean they like you. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean you have the slightest chance of making it with his daughter.”

  “May I go now?”

  “What happened tonight when you went to DeCarlo’s place?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “Did he give you an assignment?”

  “No.”

  Unfortunately, Morelli got the distinct impression he was telling the truth. “Did he mention Terry Farnum?”

  Bartello answered with a shoulder shrug. “Yeah. He was ravin’. Shoutin’. On and on. Talkin’ about how Farnum had taken his money and wasn’t payin’ him back. ‘This woman has made me a laughingstock,’ he kept sayin’. ‘I won’t tolerate this. I’m Albert DeCarlo!’ But he didn’t ask me to do it. No, he wouldn’t lower himself to deal with the likes of me anymore.”

  “So you were—” Morelli snapped his fingers. “Becket.”

  Prescott’s head swiveled around. “What?”

  “Thomas Becket. The Archbishop of Canterbury. Buddied around with Henry II.”

  “Look, Jeopardy boy, show off some other—”

  “Henry and Becket had a falling-out. Classic conflicts between church and state, each trying to maintain as much power as possible. Henry couldn’t have the Archbishop of Canterbury axed, so he endured the aggravation. One night, though, when he’d had a bit too much mead, he cried out, ‘Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?’ He was probably just blowing off steam. But four of his knights heard the remark and decided to get in the king’s good graces by offing the archbishop. Which they did. On hallowed ground.”

  “And this has something to do with Albert DeCarlo?” Prescott asked.

  “Of course. DeCarlo didn’t lie. He didn’t order Bartello or anyone else to make the hit. But when he screamed, ‘This woman has made me a laughingstock,’ a lot of people were listening.” He turned his head. “Including Bart here, who was desperate to worm his way back into his boss’s favor.”

  “But you said DeCarlo wouldn’t go after Farnum’s girlfriend.”

  “Don’t you see? Terry can be a man or a woman’s name. So can Kim. DeCarlo had known Farnum for years. He knew Farnum was really a she. But Bart didn’t. So he came over here to kill ‘this woman—’”

  “And he thought Kim Masters was the woman?”

  Morelli bent down eye level to his suspect. “You screwed it up, Bartello. DeCarlo wanted Farnum done, not Masters. Farnum will go under police protection now. You screwed up the hit, incriminated your boss and pretty much guaranteed DeCarlo will never be able to get to Farnum. I don’t think your boss will be too pleased about this. You can forget about Sophia. You can forget about everything.”

  Bartello’s skin turned icy white. “Oh, my God,” he said, and his face told Morelli more than all the confessions in the world. “Oh, my God.”

  * * *

  By the time the sun rose, the various forensic teams had finished their work. The newest member of the trace evidence squad found a latent thumbprint on the outer terrace door that appeared to match Bartello’s. The pieces were coming together.

  Not a bad night’s work, Morelli thought, for Tulsa after hours.

  Two women from Barkley’s office carefully lifted the broken body of Kim Masters onto a stretcher. Morelli and Prescott watched as the silent parade crisscrossed the penthouse apartment and disappeared.

  “Sick,” Prescott said. “And there you were blabbing on about how sad it was, how beautiful she was.”

  “Is she any less beautiful,” Morelli asked, “because she turned out to be a he?”

  “As a matter of fact, yeah. The whole thing’s revolting. Dressing up, trying to fool people.”

  “I don’t think Kim Masters was trying to fool anyone. The first night they were together, Farnum said he kept asking, ‘Why can’t people just let us be who we are?’” Morelli shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “I think he was just doing what he could to find solace. They both were.”

  Prescott pivoted at the door. “You know what I hate most about you, Morelli?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I think you’re just as disgusted by this as I am. But you won’t admit it. You’ve got to be the sophisticated enlightened right-thinking liberal. You’ve got to pretend you aren’t repulsed—even when you are.”

  “Prescott—”

  “Just tell me this, Morelli. And for once—be honest. You were all so upset when you saw that poor pretty girl, cut down in the prime of her life. When you found out she was really some…freak…running around pretending to be something he wasn’t, didn’t you feel just a little relieved?”

  “No.” Morelli pulled his trench coat belt tight and buttoned all the buttons. “I felt worse.”

  * * *

  A cool and welcome morning wind caressed Morelli’s brow. Baxter joined him on the terrace.

  “Crime scene is locked up tight. Lab work should be finished in a few hours.” She stood close, but not too close, to him. “Wanna get breakfast? Village Inn is always open.”

  “We could do that.” He turned slightly toward her. “Or we could drive to Arkansas.”

  “Got a hankering for a hot spring?”

  “Might be a nice drive. Leaves are turning. Weather is cool.” He paused. “And we could be married by noon.”

  “What?”

  “No waiting period. No blood test. Eureka Springs has lots of ambience, if you like that sort of thing.”

  “What has gotten into you?”

  Her took her by the hands and looked straight into her eyes. “Look, we love each other. Even more importantly, we like being together. We’re good friends. People who belong together shouldn’t have to hide in a closet. No one should.”

  “One of us would have to quit their job.”

  “I’ll transfer to the suburbs. Jenks has been trying to get me for years. The point is, we don’t go on wasting time we could spend together.”

  “But I haven’t planned—”

  “We’re not kids, Kate. We don’t need a big ceremony with forty-seven bridesmaids and a Vera Wang dress. We just need to do it.”

  He felt her arms relax. “Are you serious about this?”

  “Everyone is entitled to a small measure of happiness. Aren’t they?” He led her toward the door. “Let’s get some pancakes. Long drives always make me hungry.”

  * * * * *

  AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY

  WILLIAM BERNHARDT is the nationally bestselling author of twenty-five novels, including the world-renowned Ben Kincaid series of mystery-thrillers—Primary Justice, Capitol Betrayal. Library Journal dubbed him the “master of the courtroom thriller.” Other Bernhardt novels include Nemesis: The Final Case of Eliot Ness, Double Jeopardy, and the critically acclaimed Dark Eye. He has received the H. Louise Cobb Distinguished Author Award (Oklahoma State University) the Royden B. Davis Distinguished Author Award (University of Pennsylvania), and the Southern Writer’s Guild’s Gold Medal Award. In addition to his novels, he has edited two anthologies as fundraisers for charitable causes, written two books for children, published essays, short stories and poems, constructed crossword puzzles for the New York Times, and written the book, music and lyrics for a musical. He is also one of the nation’s most in-demand writing instructors. His renowned small group writing seminars have produced several bestselling authors over the past decade. His instructional DVDs, The Fundamentals of Fiction, are used by writing programs across the nation. You can learn more about him at www.williambernhardt.com, or you can email him at [email protected].


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  Lock the doors, draw the shades, pull up the covers and be prepared for these stories to keep you up all night.

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