Hunting Sweetie Rose : A Mystery (9781429950879) by Jack Fredrickson

way.”
    Her conditions were reasonable, and I did need to see the rope to be sure.
    â€œAs you suggested the last time we met, I think the rope was cut,” I said.
    â€œMurder?”
    â€œI have no idea who would have motive.”
    Our lunch came. Mine was four cabbage rolls, set on a pile of potato dumplings. Hers was a small cup of broth, clear enough to pack no threat to her exquisitely tailored khakis.
    We ate. I was hungry and diligent, and gave up after finishing only a quarter of what I’d been served.
    The waitress frowned as she took my plate away.
    â€œThe rope?” Jennifer Gale asked.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œI’ll be apprised, every step of the way?”
    â€œYes.”
    She smiled, victorious. “We’ll go right now.”
    The waitress came back with two square foam containers. I hadn’t told her to pack what she’d taken away.
    Jennifer leaned forward. “Open them.”
    Inside the first was what was left of my cabbage rolls and dumplings. The second contained a stuffed green pepper, some kind of sausage, two potato pancakes, and a thick slice of ham.
    â€œA sampling of what could be in my dowry.” She laughed, and we got up.
    At the cash register, I wanted to pay, but Jennifer would have none of it. She wanted to pay, but Mama would have none of that.
    â€œIt’s not going to work, Mama. His girlfriend is rich, real rich,” Jennifer said.
    Mama ignored her, turned to me. “You come back?”
    â€œThank you. I will.”
    Mama wagged a finger. “But not with any rich girlfriend.”
    Jennifer grabbed my arm and pulled me out of there.
    *   *   *
    I followed her south, to the police station I’d visited before. We walked in together. Fortunately, a different desk sergeant was on duty. He took our names, made a call. A minute later, another sergeant came for us.
    She was tall, over six feet, and as rail thin as some of the rich women I’d seen at Sweetie Fairbairn’s party. Clearly, she’d never dawdled over dumplings at Galecki’s.
    â€œJennifer Gale, it’s a pleasure,” she said, sticking out her hand.
    Jennifer introduced me simply as an associate, and we followed the sergeant down a tiled corridor to a dark-stained door that had a thick wire-mesh screen screwed behind its frosted glass. The sergeant opened the door, told us to wait by the counter just inside, and walked back between the rows of shelves. She came back holding a plastic tub.
    â€œThis lockup isn’t staffed full-time?” Jennifer asked.
    â€œWe don’t keep key evidence in here. Just the ancillary stuff.” The sergeant took the lid off the tub, withdrew a plastic bag big enough to hold a roast, and hefted it onto the counter. Inside the bag was a coiled rope.
    â€œThe rope stays in the bag,” the sergeant said.
    Jennifer looked over at me. I nodded that it was all right. I was confident that Leo’s calculations had been accurate enough to show that the rope had been shortened.
    I lifted the bag and held it up to the fluorescent lights. Though the bag was new and clear, I couldn’t make out the condition of the ends.
    â€œCould you open the bag enough to let me see inside?” I asked.
    The sergeant looked at Jennifer. “You do understand, we’re just talking a bad knot here?”
    â€œAccident, no doubt,” Jennifer said. “As I told you on the phone, there are rumors of people suing the owners of the building. For what I don’t know, but I want to be ready in case. I have a look at the rope, see for myself to make sure it isn’t frayed or anything, so I know, in case I need to know.” She shrugged.
    It was an effective performance. Jennifer had said nothing, but she’d said it in a Chicago neighborhood-speak so effortlessly that the sergeant had begun nodding along, in time with her cadence.
    The sergeant put on blue plastic gloves and opened the bag