Coda

 Thanksgiving, 1935

The three of them sat at their usual booth, a slightly yellowed, freshly laundered, cloth draped across the table.  Outside a slurry of drizzle mixed with light snow fell on the quiet city streets.  The industrial corridor was typically absent of pedestrian foot traffic, but the holiday added a layer of tranquility on top of the otherwise laconic atmosphere.  Inside the diner, the atmosphere was anything but solemn.

"So your parents are ok that you're not coming home for Thanksgiving?" The smell of a brined and butter-soaked turkey wafting from the kitchen made Spinoza slightly more hopeful, slightly more irritable in every statement he issued.

Vera quaffed the remaining ounce of wine from her glass, nodding.  "Yup.  I told them I'd be home for Christmas when the school break's longer and that it's not worth spending the money now for such a short period.  I also told them, given all we've been through in recent times, I felt it appropriate to spend time with my new friends."

Spinoza colored at the oblique compliment.  It didn't go unnoticed by Vera.  "Are you blushing?  I'd expect that from ol' softy here," she jerked a thumb at Tannehill who was staring wistfully out the window at the wintery mix, "but not from a grizzled veteran such as yourself."  This observation made Spinoza blush harder.

The ensuing weeks hadn't done much - visibly - to shake the foundation of the city.  To the average citizen, the story read as depressingly familiar: corrupt policeman on the force attempted to strongarm his way into apportioning a share of stolen goods and, by pure happenstance, seemed to have been caught in the act before too many innocent people could've been harmed.  Beneath the veneer, however, things didn't remain in stasis.  The department heads realized that the potential murder of six individuals - thieves or not - by a sworn police officer in furtherance of another crime was a bridge too far.  Though introspection may have been too generous a term to describe the thought process behind their next steps, they did realize that the "Protect and Serve" portion of their oath didn't meet the appropriate accuracy standards for their purposes, so they began to root out the most corrupt actors and hire others true to the stated ideals of the city.  

Even more stunning was the realization that, in conjunction with the press, certain individuals - i.e. Novak - worked to pursue justice rather than cover the events up and allow the internal mechanisms of retribution to take control.  Murphy was due to face his literal day in court rather than receive a slap on the wrist or a bullet to the back of the head in an alley puddle as former department protocol may have merited. 

The department, recognizing Tannehill's inherent moral compass and eager to build upon past relationships, offered him a high ranking position in the brass with a substantial pay increase.  He promptly followed his moral compass and turned it down, aware that - for any well-meaning citizen installed at that level - the temptation could be too great.  Instead, he opted for a more modest consulting role that still allowed him to move into a larger apartment - one with a full bedroom and a kitchenette - and buy a used car to replace the one sitting at the bottom of the bay.  At the current pay scale, he'd never become rich, but given the hard times people were still facing across the country, he was counting his blessings.

And now, in the halcyon days of bliss in which Capital City was beginning to find itself, Vera found herself in charge of planning and assembling a Thanksgiving dinner for the three of them and all of the employees and immediate family of The Happy Hour Diner.  Immediate family being a very limited group as most of the employees were itinerants with the exception of Happy, who had a wife and two full-figured daughters around her Vera's own age who smiled in equal measures as much as Happy frowned.

She stood up from the booth and heard Happy muttering nearby about her choice of mashed sweet potatoes of all things!  What's wrong with normal mashed potatoes for Thanksgiving?  What's next? Sweet potato fries?!  His grumbling faded as she passed the counter and entered the kitchen, happy to be allowed a moment of solitary tranquility with the amiable din just out of reach.  She took a deep breath, fearing for the worst, before opening the oven door and inspecting the turkey, watching the fat pop and sizzle on the bottom of the pan.  It looked golden and crisp, juices running clear when she poked its sizable breast. 

"Need a hand?" Spinoza stood behind the counter just out of sight.

She stood up, smoothing her dress, "No thanks," she turned to him smiling contently, "everything's perfect."

FIN

[Author's Note: For my mother.  804 words. 56,322 words]

  

Chapter 51 - DC Al Coda

 "He's a regular Lothario.  He's got this whole side of town in an uproar."

Tannehill slouched back in his chair listening to the wide man across his desk imploring him to take his case.  It didn't surprise Tannehill that his wife was cheating on him.  He was as wide as he was tall - though he fell several inches short of Tannehill - and he had a special talent of somehow employing a personality that was equal parts grating, mean-spirited, and forgettable.  Five minutes into his pitch and Tannehill had already misplaced his name.

"If you already know that your wife is being unfaithful, what exactly do you need me for?"

"It's not to catch him in the act.  It's to punish them," the bullfrog of a man croaked out the last word with an irritable contempt.

"Because they should be at home preparing a Beef Stroganoff instead of cavorting around the city?"

"'xactly," Bullfrog mumbled out, missing the inherent sarcasm behind Tannehill's statement.  "It's not just me.  I've talked to three, four other guys who know he's messing around with their wives.  It's injurious to the moral fiber of the city."

"And these guys," Tannehill let the word roll around on his tongue, "all upstanding citizens like yourself?"

"'xactly." Tannehill was beginning to believe that Bullfrog didn't know the word started with an 'e' and had a congenital inability to appreciate an ironic turn of phrase.

"So, I'd be acting on behalf of a class action?"

"Yes!" Bullfrog's eyes lit up as though he'd help plan a grand strategic maneuver.

Tannehill's posture didn't change, but mentally, he sighed.  Since becoming a PI, this type of case was 'xactly what he expected.  He was happy to exchange the stress of walking the tightrope politics of a corrupt department and flirting with tragedy on a daily basis for the common grievances of the everyman, but he wished that every client who'd walked through his door hadn't so obviously and overwhelmingly contributed to his own tedious fate.  Finally, he croaked back at Bullfrog, "I'm still not entirely certain what you're expecting."

"Pictures, like usual." As though Bullfrog knew what was usual in this case - or maybe he did.  Maybe unfaithful paramours were a common occurrence.  "We need them for proof in court to ensure our fortunes remain intact."

"Ok." This time the sigh was audible, "how many of you are lining up for the class action?"

"So far?  Four of us.  This guy's a real work of art."  Tannehill envisioned four large, shapeless, inconsequential men sitting in a smoke-filled room airing their grievances while ignoring their wives' silent, consistent and reasonable pleas for attention.

"Tell you what I'll do," impossibly Tannehill slouched even further back in his chair, "as long as there are at least three of you, I'll charge each of you my standard rate, plus incidentals, minus a 10 percent discount for each of you."

The Bullfrog considered the terms momentarily and croaked his assent.

"And all you need are photographs of your wives with the," Tannehill paused looking for a word that would add dramatic flair that the Bullfrog so obviously craved, "assailant?"

"That's correct."

Tannehill nearly blurted out 'should be easy enough,' but caught himself, eager not to let the Bullfrog and his compatriots know how simple the task was likely to be.  Instead, he refrained "I believe it's a task I can manage assuredly for you."  The Bullfrog nodded in enthusiastic agreement.  

Tannehill stood from his chair, joints aching from being frozen in such a lackadaisical pose for so long, and extended his hand - "well, sir, I'll be in touch once I have the evidence you need. If you don't mind cutting me a check for my customary down payment prior to leaving." The Bullfrog pumped his hand excitedly and did as he was told before waddling toward the door, eager to let the others know that justice would soon be served.

10 minutes after the Bullfrog left, Tannehill heard another knock at the door - one somehow telegraphing bravado hinging on arrogance.  He opened the door to see a man, nattily dressed in a brown suit, thin mustache, and hair slicked back with pomade standing expectantly in front of him.  The man maneuvered his way around Tannehill and sat down comfortably in the seat opposite Tannehill's chair.  He extended his legs and leaned back, taking in the room.

"Can I help you?"

"While I'm certain you can, I'm here because I can help you, friend." The man spoke in profile to Tannehill - who was still standing at the door - not bothering to fully face the object of his conversation.  Tannehill closed the door and walked over to his desk.  He sat and placed his arms on his desk, leaning toward the man.

"I suppose I'm generally eager to accept help, but you'll have to color me skeptical in this case, because I'm not sure what I need help with." 

"Well, I can assist you with providing evidence for the gentleman - and his associates - who just graced your presence."

"I appreciate the offer, but this isn't a case that I expect will cause me too much difficulty."

"What if I told you that you could cash this paycheck without needing to lift a finger?"

"Oh?  How's that?"

"I can take the pictures for you.  You give me a reasonable percentage of your earnings, and you'll never have to leave your desk."

"Again, I appreciate your offer, but I don't need anything professional.  As long as the exposures aren't too blurry, they'll suffice."

"Oh, these won't be professional," the man grinned widely, a mixture of malevolence and mischief written into his lupine expression.

"Then I'm at a loss at what service you're providing me."

"Don't you get it, pal?  I'm the cad you're looking for.  The roustabout, the rake, the libertine."

Tannehill was silent for a moment, processing the statement.  "I see," though there was still confusion written across his face, "what? Why?"

"Well, I've just been having a bit of a lark with these women.  No expectations.  No strings attached.  And now, I've evidently been discovered.  If my adventures are ending, the least I can do is try to find myself a consolation prize." A wink accompanied the final statement.

"Aren't you worried about retribution?"

"You've met these men."

"Fair enough." Tannehill paused again.  Removing the drudgery of a day's worth of work chasing unfaithful spouses was likely worth the offer, "I'll cut you in for 10%."

The man scoffed.  "10%? I'm the one doing all the work here.  This would be a steal for you at 50%.  You don't have to do anything."

Tannehill snorted at the 'work' the man needed to perform, but his point was still valid.  "25%. Take it or leave it.  I have no problems performing the work myself if my terms aren't amenable."

The man grinned again.  "Deal." He reached a lengthy arm across Tannehill's desk to shake his hand."

"But don't get used to any type of this arrangement, Mr.?" 

"Snell.  It's Richard, but you can call me Dick." The man winked again, irritating Tannehill, who was thankful he wouldn't need to encounter this particular deplorable individual again once the case was concluded.

[Author's Note: ONE MORE CHAPTER.  Today's edition is 1200 words for a total of 55518 words.]

Chapter 50 - All's Well That Ends Well

After leading the police to the storage locker and ensuring everyone was safe, Vera walked purposefully back to the diner in a futile effort to combat the consistent throbbing in her head.  Upon entering the diner, Happy quickly moved from the kitchen to the change counter and began berating her over her two and a half missed shifts.  Vera yelled back that she had been taken hostage not once, but twice - including by a very well-armed, corrupt policeman - and she would've been happy to bring the machine gun into the diner as proof, but was denied the opportunity by a truculent but well-meaning former policeman.  Happy countered that was VERY LIKELY the worst excuse he'd ever heard and would've fired her on the spot if she weren't also the accountant and executive chef.  When Detective Novak and a few officers stopped by later to corroborate details from her kidnappings, Happy grudgingly decided to give her the rest of the day - and the two following days - off with pay.

The following morning, the three friends gathered at the diner.  They decided to wait until mid-morning so they could all rest appropriately to compare notes on recent events.

Vera was hunched over their normal booth, shoulders squeezed closely together.  She was still bleary-eyed from the previous days' activities and was enjoying the spirit of rejuvenation through the simple act of sipping her coffee.

"So, he killed both of them?  That seems a little excessive," she pondered aloud.

"Killing one of them would have been sufficient?" Spinoza countered.

"No," she drew the word out before pausing, "well, maybe.  I mean given the circumstances."

"Which murder would've made sense?" Spinoza perked up, eager to follow her logic into the dark corners of her mind.

"Certainly Bellucci.  He presented to the biggest risk to Murphy."

"But he wouldn't have needed to kill Bellucci if he hadn't killed Snell.  There would've been no need for a cover-up."

Vera took a long slow, sip of her coffee, as though she were percolating the concoction anew.  "Like I said, given the circumstances," she gave her already hunched shoulders a further shrug and sipped again.  "I'm still unclear - why did he kill Snell?"

Tannehill chimed in, "He thought that Snell had a change of heart about sharing the stolen property with him.  He also thought that Snell was toying with him by not telling him about his change of heart."

"Seems a bit impulsive."

Tannehill glared at her with a dull expression.  "This is a man who killed two people and was likely seconds away from killing four more."

"Fair point.  But what did exactly did Snell do to anger him and why did he think Snell was making a fool of him?"

"That's Otto's fault."

"Otto?"

"Yes, Otto of the instant headache.  Otto, who likes to lie in wait for his victim and brain them from behind."

"I'm still not sure that I follow."

"When Otto paid me a visit at my office, he ambushed me from behind my door and hit me over the head.  After I was able to subdue him, he started rambling about how Snell wouldn't tell him where their stolen items were.  But I don't think the issue was that Snell wouldn't tell him.  It's that he couldn't.  Otto had used the same technique to surprise Snell as he used on me, except I think he landed a much better blow on him, which knocked him silly."

"Oh," recognition dawned in Vera's eyes.

"Once Otto paid Snell a visit, Murphy followed shortly thereafter for his own têt-a-têt.  It's highly likely that Snell was still wandering around the room in a confused state.  Murphy - not the most forgiving judge of men's intentions even under the best of conditions - assumed that Snell was playing him for a fool rather than merely speaking nonsense.  The idea of losing out on a fortune and simultaneously being mocked for it drove Murphy over the edge."

"Pretty scary that he's got such a hair-trigger." 

"I'd say that mercifully for Snell, he probably never understood what was happening to him, so he didn't suffer much, even after the beatings he received from Otto and, presumably, Murphy."

At this point, Happy appeared at the booth with three plates of hamburgers in hand.  He distributed them curtly, making a point of letting the plates clatter on the tabletop as random fries scattered to freedom from their plates.  He walked away mumbling something along the lines of "it's too early in the day for hamburgers."  Vera thought about responding, but, instead reached for the bottle of ketchup abutting the window, happy to have someone simply grouse about her meal choice rather than try and kill her.

"And Bellucci?"

"It's like Murph said - he got Bellucci to take the fall for Snell's murder.  Bellucci probably assumed at first that Murphy would be able to get him off with a lesser charge, and his short time spent in prison would be worth the wait for his cut of the loot.  But, it must have dawned on him how egregious the crime actually was and what he was really facing.  His problem at that point was that he began to think out loud.  Capital City's police can be corrupt, but they can't permit an open admission of one of their own committing a murder in cold blood, so Murphy felt he needed to shut him up."

"What about Beederman?" A teardrop of ketchup smeared the corner of her mouth as she spoke, hungrily shoveling in fry after fry.  "I mean, what about the name Beederman?"

Spinoza swiped a fry from her plate and dipped it in a large dollop of ketchup.  Vera looked incredulously at the stack of fries on his plate and back at the dwindling supply on her own.  "Otto confirmed," he said, finishing his pilfered prize, "they chose the name because they thought they'd be able to play off the sympathies of Jewish buyers and up the price."

"Noble," Vera responded laconically, simultaneously annoyed at such a crass plan and her stolen food.  "What about our dear couple?  What happened to them?"

Spinoza began to dig into his own tranch of spuds, one hand carefully wrapped around the plate guarding it against potential retaliation.  "Considering they were mostly guilty of incompetence as far as the US government is concerned, they received some leniency.  The Feds are repatriating Emily back to England and letting Otto tag along so they can use them as low-level intelligence agents against their former employers."

"Can't wait to see the treasure trove of valuable information that will yield.  And the treasure itself?"

Spinoza sighed.  "There's no chance of repatriating the items to the rightful owners, so the police department is looking for local Jewish buyers to ensure that history doesn't stray too far from the community.  Proceeds will go to local soup kitchens."

"And the recovered cash?"

"Soup kitchens."

"That's surprisingly noble for any municipal entity of Capital City."

"Like I said," Tannehill croaked, "Novak may be a jackass, but he's got a strong sense of honor."

"All's well that ends well, I guess," Spinoza spoke quietly, more focused on his hamburger than on further details of the investigation.  The other two followed his lead in momentary silence.  Outside a light drizzle began to slicken the city's streets.

[Author's Note: The End?  Not quite.  Now I can definitely say there are still two more chapters left.  Today's chapter is 1227 words.  The book is still running at 54318 words.]

Chapter 49 - With Friends Like These

 "That's a pretty desperate bluff, CH.  So, now I assume I look over at the roof, and while distracted you rush and disarm me in some hope that you'll triumph in the outcome?"

"Desperate times call for desperate measures," Tannehill responded, apparently unconcerned that his gambit had failed and veered ever closer to infinite darkness.

Murphy snickered.  "What's next, you'll yell 'lookout behind you!' and try the same asinine maneuver?"

"Nah," Tannehill responded, "you'll find out what's behind you soon enough."

As Tannehill spoke these words, Murphy took an unconscious step backward.  He felt something hard press against the back of his skull.

"Probably better that you didn't look," Tannehill pondered, "Spinoza may have gotten spooked and blown half your face off before you were able to turn around."

"If you'd be so kind as to hand your weapon to Tannehill, we can dispense with any issues regarding my nervous trigger finger," the disembodied voice announced behind Murphy.  Murphy paused, weighing his options, wondering if it were better to inflict some final damage to Tannehill before feeling searing heat in the back of his head and experiencing extended silence.  He then considered his chances with the courts in Capital City and thought better of it.  He pointed the weapon toward the ground and yielded its stewardship to Tannehill.

Tannehill fished for some change in his pocket with his free hand and passed it to Vera.  ¨Go call the local precinct and ask to speak with Detective Novak.  Tell him what's happened and who's involved.  Make sure to tell him that the scene is secured and that I've temporarily taken Lieutenant Murphy into custody until he arrives."

Vera turned to leave but immediately wheeled on her heels, "can I bring the gu...?"

"No." With that response, she wheeled back in her initial direction to make her appointed phone call. 

Tannehill disassembled the machine gun, removing the magazine and the firing pin, and tossed the firearm over the railing of the walkway.  It clattered loudly in protest before resting in silence.

Tannehill patted Murphy down for additional weapons, but found only Murphy's service revolver. He gave it the same unceremonious treatment as he did to its more ostentatious cousin.  Spinoza produced a pair of handcuffs and shackled the police officer's hands behind him.

"Where did you get those?" Murphy asked in disbelief.

"What?" Spinoza's voice was thick with annoyance.  

"Those," Murphy did his best to gesture with his head toward his back.

"They're handcuffs, not battleships.  They're not too hard to obtain." Spinoza placed a hand on Murphy's shoulder and forced him to sit facing the storage area courtyard, legs straddling the railing of the walkway.

Tannehill leaned on the railing near Murphy, careful to keep his distance.  Spinoza kept an eye on Emily and Otto, though they seemed more invested in finding a spot to sleep off their hangovers than finding a way to evade capture.  Both of them slumped against the exterior wall of the storage unit, nodding drowsily.

"The problem with perpetuating systemic corruption," Tannehill opened pensively in the lieutenant's direction, "is that it breeds laziness.  Most of the time any unforeseen issues can be swept under the carpet, but, every once in a while, they require the skills an individual is supposed to be trained for rather than ones he simply claims by fiat."  He was silent for a moment.  "What's sad about you, Murph, is that you've always just been a thug with a badge.  Lord knows I've made my own egregious mistakes, but I didn't dive into the system with reckless abandon and begin to believe my own press.  It's what kept me sane.  Poor, but sane."

Murphy stared at the far end of the courtyard, unresponsive.  Tannehill took that as acquiescence to continue.  "While it's true that I don't have many friends left in this town, it's not a giant leap to assume that I probably would've had some back up with me, paid or otherwise.  If I were facing anyone other than you, I would've had to be more cautious.  But you," he wagged a finger in the direction Murphy was staring, "you came to believe that I was so incompetent, that I'd just rush headlong into your trap.  You were so cynical in your own relationships that you never recognized that friends who've had a falling out could reconcile and even risk their lives for one another when it matters." He stared down at his feet in an unspoken disappointment of his adversary's skills.  "One could say that I took a big gamble with such a simple plan, but I knew I was up against you, so there was no real gamble in such a simple strategy in the first place."

Murphy sneered with a glint of triumph remaining in the corner of his eye.  "When the whole," he paused for effect, "brigade" - he said the word with such flourish that his confidence in his outcome was all but guaranteed - "When your brigade arrives, why do you think anyone will believe you?"

Tannehill let the question echo through the courtyard.  "You mean, why do I have faith in the same corrupt department that will do almost anything to protect its own, even if it means damning ten innocent men for expediency's sake or one extra, paltry dime?"

"What are the chances that they'll believe you, CH - a disgraced laughingstock of a former officer who's actively despised by his former co-workers? And, even if they do, what makes you think they'll ignore their loyalty to the department?  And to me?  Loyalty goes a long way in this town, and it makes a lot of careers."

"That's where you're hemmed in by your own biases, though, Murph.  You can only see things through your own lens.  Not everyone sacrifices their moral compass for unencumbered ambition.  I've watched Novak.  He may be a jackass and he may be insufferable, but he's not corrupt.  He understands and accepts his station as a public servant and all of the sacrifices it entails.  I suspect it's what helps him sleep at night."

Murphy continued to sneer, "if Novak can't be bought, he can certainly be dealt with."

Tannehill sighed, "sadly, you're right.  That's why I had to come up with contingencies."

A glimmer of worry crept into Murphy's sneer.  "What contingencies?" He spat out the syllables of the word as though it were an epithet.

"Well, while I agree that loyalty is highly prized among the civic-minded leaders of our fair city, political cover and deniability is of equal import.  Spinoza's taken dozens of pictures even prior to your arrival at the bakery and made sure to transcribe every word you've said since we've arrived at the storage room.  It's why I waited until morning to move ahead with my little plan.  The flash from his camera would've been too obvious a tip-off that something fishy is going on - even for you." Tannehill cleared his throat for emphasis.  "There's no way the department will back you in this venture once the rest of the press gets a hold of it.  They'll claim that you acted alone and, for once, they won't be lying.  Of course, everyone will miss the subtext that you're a monster of their own creation that shouldn't have been allowed to roam in the first place, but one battle at a time, my friend.  They'll be more than happy to hang you from the highest gallows and then point in the direction of your corpse while they continue to pick the pockets of the city clean with noble largesse."

The two men fell silent, one reminiscing on the poor choices of his past, the other fearful for his future.  They remained quiet until Vera approached from the far end of the courtyard, a large complement of dark blue marching purposefully behind her.

[Author's Note: I went back and forth over the course of the novel determining who was going to murder whom and had several different scenarios.  I wasn't even certain who was going to remain alive at the end of the book.  I considered killing off Vera or Spinoza at one point to adhere closer to the noir spirit of the novel I had originally intended, but the story really didn't support it.  Today's version is 1310 words for a running total of 53091 words for the book.  If I had to guess, there will likely be two more chapters in this first draft.]

Chapter 48 - Honor Among Thieves

 "You, the aspiring Vaudeville actress, go in and turn on the light," Murphy motioned with his head in Vera's direction.  Vera, happy to put her arms down, complied as cheerfully as she could given the circumstances.  Murphy gestured for the other three to stand to the side of the door at a safe distance, so he could peer in at the inventory and keep an eye on his hostages.  

When the door opened, it swung inward into the storage space and to the left.  "Ok," he snapped at Vera, who answered his bark with a scowl, "go stand behind the door." She did as commanded.

"Now what?" her muffled voice retorted.

"Now come back so I can see you again."

"What was the point of that?"

"I just needed to be sure that no one was behind the door to ambush me." Murphy glanced over at Tannehill.  "I'm willing to bet you have more figured out than I'm giving you credit for, even though your clearance rate as a detective was pitiful, CH."  Tannehill creased his mouth and shrugged in an indication of lackadaisical acknowledgment.

"So, what's actually in the room?" Murphy addressed his question to the audience at large, causing everyone to remain quiet for an extended beat.

Vera broke the silence. "Several dozen priceless artifacts, German bonds, and a fairly sizeable chunk of US change."

"How much in cash and bonds?"

"About 2 million dollars, US currency," Emily responded curtly.  Murphy whistled, impressed with the haul.  "But," she continued, "we're willing to share, of course."

"You're willing to share?" A note of amused confusion crept into his voice.

"Certainly."

"And," he smacked his lips, "what makes you think I'm willing to share?" He swung the machine gun to face her directly.

Emily paused in shock at his response.  "Because," she stammered, "because you can't gun down four people and claim it was in self-defense."

Murphy cocked his eyes upward in a dramatic imitation of deep thought.  "You, know, you're right.  I can't gun down four people in self-defense, but," he let this last contraction linger in the air, "A reckless pair like yourself and Otto would certainly gun down two innocent people and then disappear with the most expedient goods, like a bundle of cash worth two million dollars.  When they don't find you, they'll just assume you've dashed away to some exotic local."

"So," Tannehill interjected, "has it always been your intention to gun down all of your associates, or was that just happenstance?"

Murphy jerked back in an exaggerated pantomime of shock, "I have a fairly strong sense of honor, CH.  I didn't plan to kill Snell.  He brought me into," he waved the gun in dramatic fashion toward the storage room, "this! And I was certainly grateful."

"He brought you in for protection?" It came out as a question but Tannehill intended it as a rhetorical one rather than an interrogative one.

"Of course," Murphy's tone matched Tannehill's in his own rhetorical response.  "It's easier to move this much merchandise knowing you've got someone to help handle the logistics.  He was going to give me a fairly substantial cut, even at the expense," he glanced over at Emily and Otto, "of our other partners."

"So why did you shoot him?"

"Because he decided to play me for a fool!"  Murphy's demeanor flashed to irritation immediately, recalling the night's events.

Tannehill was confused. "What do you mean?  What did he do to exacerbate any situation that would lead to his death?"

Murphy whined, irritation peaking.  "When I came to see him about visiting this room, he wouldn't respond to any of my questions in a coherent fashion.  He simply stopped cooperating and didn't have the decency to tell me why.  He simply played the role of an idiot and made me look foolish as a result."

"So you grew angry and shot him?"

"Yes!  He wasn't going to put one over on me in such a juvenile fashion.  He could've simply told me he had a change of heart and we could've negotiated.  Instead, he decided to act like a simpleton and pretend that he no idea what I was talking about."

Tannehill snorted derisively at this comment and glanced toward Otto, who was still trying to grasp the context around the confession.  He regained his composure and continued.  "Bellucci?"

"Well, Bellucci," Murphy grew pensive, "Bellucci just got a little too nervous.  He did the honorable thing and took the fall for Snell.  I promised him that I could arrange a lighter sentence for Snell's death - something along the lines of an accidental discharge of a firearm - and a larger cut of the goods for taking the fall, but he just got anxious.  He started worrying that others would ask too many questions and piece everything together and that we'd both end up at the end of a hangman's noose.  This after being an informant for the Capital City police department since prohibition.  When have we ever been unable to adjust a crime to fit the civic good?"

"Not too often," Tannehill mumbled in reply.

"And yet," Murphy continued without breaking stride, "he still wondered aloud - aloud and in direct conversation with me - if it were better to come clean and take whatever retribution was due.  So," he shrugged awkwardly, machine gun still in hand, in a what-can-you-do-but-strangle-someone-in-their-cell-and-blame-it-on-suicide type of gesture.

"That's the second time you've mentioned 'honor' and, in both cases, your confederates came away dead.  Seems like there's not a whole lot of pay-off in an honorable agreement with you."

"Frankly, CH, I'm a bit insulted at such a slight, but I can't argue that you have point." He stepped back leveling the gun.  Tannehill, who was in front of the others, including Vera, who'd exited the room to gather with the other hostages, stepped back a foot and motioned for those behind him to follow suit.

"A foot here or there isn't going to make a bit of difference, Tannehill.  Hell, even your noble efforts to shield the others won't do much either.  But, at least, we can both agree that, for once in your life, even if it's at the very end of it, you're doing something honorable."

"Oh, I agree nothing I'm doing will make much difference to your tommy gun," Tannehill continued backing his hapless group away from their would-be assassin inch by inch, "but it will give the sniper a much cleaner shot."

[Author's Note: Well, well, it looks like we may not be too far from wrapping this case up, in one blood-soaked fashion or another.  Today's chapter is 1074 words.  The novel continues to chug along at 51781 words.]

Chapter 47 - Say Hello To My Little Friend

 "I'm still unclear why we needed to wait until morning to show up at Loving's." Vera's voice was hoarse with three martinis and a shot of whisky.  The unaccommodating bumps in the road made her misery that much more acute.

"I'll explain it all in a bit."  Tannehill, aware that his plan could easily fall apart if he'd consumed too many martinis over the course of the night, prudently stopped at one.  Otto, who was driving, and Emily, seated next to him in the passenger's seat, hadn't and seemed to feel the bumps as viscerally as Vera.

"I also don't understand why Spinoza left this morning."

"I'll explain..."

"...it all in a bit.  Yeah, I've memorized that line already," Vera hiccupped.

Before leaving Emily's apartment, Tannehill had phoned ahead to the precinct, telling Lieutenant Murphy to bring a squad to the bakery to inventory and secure the stolen goods and arrest Snell's and Bellucci's murderers.

At 9 AM, the disheveled and groggy group arrived improbably, but exactly, on time, coming to rest in one of the many shallow potholes filled with the previous day's rainwater that dotted the building's crushed gravel driveway.

20 yards ahead, just in front of the entrance was a single, dark, unmarked government vehicle.  Lieutenant Murphy's head peering over the roof from behind the car at the approaching party in keen interest.

Tannehill watched carefully as Emily, Otto, and Vera exited in succession from their own vehicle and then followed slowly.  He'd drawn his revolver - which had been holstered for most of the trip over - before closing the door.  Upon seeing the lieutenant, he prominently indicated that he was securing his own weapon in his shoulder holster and posed no threat.  

"Mornin' Murph."

"Mornin' CH."

Tannehill glanced around in dramatic fashion at the lack of a police presence.  "Your back up's a little light.   Been paying too much overtime to the crew lately?"

Murphy chuckled mirthlessly and reached through the driver's side window before moving over to the hood of the car.  He leveled a Thompson submachine gun at the four hapless pedestrians.  "I think I can handle this on my own.  "If you don't mind, CH, stop where you're at and raise your hands and keep them where I can see them.  You've gone far enough."

Though the response was directed at CH, everyone stopped suddenly and did as commanded.  That is, with the exception of Emily, who doubled over briefly and, with a deftness and violence that surprised her, vomited. The act was due less to the shock of what was unfolding in front of them than from the gin heavy martinis she'd been guzzling since the previous afternoon and the sudden change in equilibrium from exiting the moving vehicle.  She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.  "Excuse me," she belched quietly before staring back at the weapon pointed at her and raising her arms belatedly.

"I agree, Murph," Tannehill continued, ignoring Emily's act of social transgression, "don't want to go too far."

Vera looked down at the splattered expectorant on the crushed gravel and then back at the tall man pointing a machine gun at them, "if this is a performance art piece, I don't get it."

"You don't look too surprised at this turn of events that we're facing on this fine morning, CH."

Tannehill shrugged, "I suppose it's not out of the question that someone on the force decides to participate in extracurricular activities.  In my experience, it's better to follow orders and keep your head down in hopes of getting out alive.  But, no, I didn't expect you'd be pointing a machine gun at me."

Due to the distance between the two men, they had to shout in order to make themselves heard, but there was no danger of anyone hearing their conversation.  The area was equally as deserted at the start of the workday as it had been on the previous visits.  Only the rats were aware of the ignominious acts now occurring.

Murphy clucked his tongue and yelled back, "that's good advice to follow, CH." 

"Yup," Tannehill drawled.

"Then I suggest we don't waste time and get started.  You'll have to excuse me.  While I'm aware of what we're looking for, I'm not quite sure where it is, so you'll have to lead the way."

"We're headed to the storage rooms behind the building."

"Fine by me," Murphy motioned with the weapon for everyone to walk in front of him.  "Though I don't believe that it bears a reminder, I'll say it anyway - no sudden moves, or I fear that the last meal Miss Brunner ejected will have been her - and your - last."

Vera briefly considered pointing out that the group of them hadn't previously dined on Emily's vomit collectively, but thought better of it, given the serious expression on everyone's faces.

"Who is this man and how does he know Miss Brunner's name?" Otto whispered over the crunching gravel beneath their feet.

"He's your silent partner." Tannehill made no effort to lower his volume in response.

Murphy chuckled when he overheard Tannehill's quip, aware of what the German had likely asked and why he was also confused by the situation.  He decided to play along.

"You see, Otto...  It's Otto, right?" 

Otto stopped and turned, answering slowly in a steady state of confusion, "Yes." 

Murphy motioned with the Thompson to keep moving.  Otto complied.  "You see Otto, when you move the amount of, umm, merchandise," Murphy grinned widely though none of them could see it with their backs facing him, "that you have through our fair city here without notifying the proper authorities of its value, we tend to get a little agitated."

Murphy's sarcasm was lost on Otto.  "Why would I notify the police about stolen goods from Germany?"

Murphy continued without breaking character.  "The police department in Capital City functions a little differently than what you'd expect." He stopped and stood thoughtfully before resuming.  "Then again, where you're from, it shouldn't be all that unexpected," and guffawed at his own joke.

When they reached the storage lockers, Tannehill asked Vera which of the lockers was the one they were seeking.  She paused briefly, debating whether or not she should indicate the literal rats' nest as a decoy in hopes of finding a seam for bursting their current execrable situation open.  Tannehill caught the deliberation behind her pause and shook his head slowly and subtly to dissuade her from any heroics.  She stuck her arm out hesitantly and pointed toward the locked treasure trove she and Spinoza had uncovered days before.  The group shuffled across the rain-soaked courtyard, climbed the stairs to the entrance, and stopped.

"I'm going to reach slowly into my pants pocket and pull out the key, Murph.  I don't intend any funny business, but I can let you perform the honors if you'd prefer."

"It seems to me, CH, it'd be funnier business if I reached my own hand into your pants pocket rather than let you handle it." Feeling relaxed at reaching his goal, Murphy chortled again at his own unintended double entendre.  "Just make sure everything moves nice and slow."

Tannehill did as instructed and pulled the key from his pocket.  He inserted it and slowly turned the knob to open the door.

As the door began to swing open, Murphy continued, "See, the problem is CH, that you've been friendless for so long that, when given the opportunity to choose new friends, you chose poorly."  He paused for effect.  "With different choices, you could've been a very rich man."

Tannehill muttered lugubriously over the creaking door, "don't I know it."

[Author's Note: Today's post brings us across the finish line for the original goal. So, I'll pause for a few musings.  I never actually thought that I'd get very far, given my previous history of maintaining a blog for any consistent amount of time.  Although, to be honest with blogs, it's always a matter of wavering between a consistent topic and simply writing about what I fancy.  The former has a higher probability of making me money, whereas the latter is my desired state, so I tend to waffle and then neglect my writing.  But not in this case!  Currently, in standard font, this novel would come in at about 200 pages - short by novel standards, but certainly the longest-running piece - personal, academic, professional - that I've ever written.  And, I'm still not finished!  Not only am I amazed that I've hit my goal, I'm amazed that I did it in nearly the time allotted (1 year).  Technically, it's about 50% over estimate at 1 year and 5 months, but that's no different (and far better) than any major software project estimate.  I had no expectations to go back and edit the work in its entirety, but as I come closer to wrapping up, it seems like turning this into a polished work begins to make more sense, now that I've seen the characters take on their arcs.  But, first I've got to finish the rest of it.  Today's edition is 1274 words.  The running total is...50,707 words!]

Chapter 46 - The End

 All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play make Jack

[Author's Note: Kidding!  Though this gets me to 50000 words.  There are at least another 3 chapters to go (one of which I just finished the first draft of and will publish after my usual editing pass).]

Chapter 45 - We Didn't Have Enough Room for A Wrestling Ring

 "Are you OK, Vera?"  Tannehill could see his friend standing a few feet behind Emily Brunner, Vera's hands casually draped at her sides.  Behind her, Otto was stooped, dusting his suit off over what looked like a pile of broken furniture.  Though the composition of the picture in front of him was perfectly framed - each subject occupied a vertical third of his vision - the subject matter of what he was seeing bordered on the surreal or the chaotic.

"Well, did you bring any dry vermouth?"

"No." He was hesitant, as though the question was a previously agreed code phrase to indicate that real danger was still present but had not yet made itself known.

"Then I've been better." She shoved Emily abruptly, causing the latter woman to lose her balance and stumble to her right.  Vera took advantage of the opening to move past her and stop in front of Tannehill.  "Hi," she exhaled in a friendly, familiar grin.

He pointed the revolver toward the ground, still eminently confused.  Was she expecting a hug?  A grand, sweeping gesture?  "Hi."

She stuck her hand out toward him and flicked it swiftly to the right twice. After a brief pause, recognition filled his eyes and he moved aside, ready to act as a human shield on her behalf from her two attackers.  She exited the door and looked right, exclaiming "Hiya Phil!" to the figure obscured by the exterior wall of the apartment.  With the exception of Vera, all of the other players in the afternoon's drama remained motionless. The two outside the apartment were frozen in confusion.  The two inside, with a mild exception to be made in Otto's case - who continued to bat at the dust on his suit, were frozen in exasperation.

She moved to the next unit down the hall and knocked discreetly on the door.  After a brief exchange with a figure in the doorway, she returned to Emily's unit and squeezed politely past Tannehill again to move into the kitchen.  She was holding a bottle of dry vermouth.

"Who wants a martini?" She held up the bottle in triumph.  Otto looked up at her from his suit and raised a finger in eager acknowledgment.   Emily smirked in resigned disgust but signaled with her own weary digit.

"Are you drunk?" Tannehill stepped through the doorway into the apartment.  Spinoza followed, holstering his pistol in the process after determining there was no longer any immediate threat. 

"Not yet," Vera reached for the gin on the counter and began pulling cabinets open to find martini glasses.  Once she located them, she set them down neatly at equal spacing on the cramped kitchen counter.

Spinoza looked around at the wreckage of the room and quipped in Tannehill's direction, "you still concerned that she can't take care of herself?"  Tannehill looked askance back at his friend with equal parts confusion, amazement, and annoyance.  "What happened here?" Spinoza continued.

"We were trying to clear room for the bandstand, but things got out of hand," Vera had commandeered an ice pick and was chipping shards into a silver cocktail shaker.  Otto and Emily did nothing to confirm or deny her account.  They simply looked in Vera's direction in anticipation of a drink they each felt they deserved.

Following Spinoza's lead, Tannehill secured his own weapon in a shoulder holster, cocked his fedora back and wiped the remaining sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.  For a brief moment, only the sound of the shaker in Vera's hands was audible.  "You made a poor choice in abducting my friend.  Whatever bargaining power you have is now gone, and I'd just as soon as see you arrested for kidnapping as for murder, grand theft, and whatever charges accompany moving stolen goods across international boundaries."

"We didn't kidnap her.  It was simply a mix-up among well-meaning individuals.  She's obviously fine.  She's making martinis!" Emily sniffed indignantly as if to prove her case.

Vera briefly stopped shaking and glared at her.  "You're getting the martini with the bruised gin."  She resumed.

"Just because you botched the effort, doesn't mean it wasn't a kidnapping," Tannehill continued.  "The crime is in the intent not in the effectiveness.  Otherwise, the two of you wouldn't have to be concerned about serving a day of jail time."

"We'll share the proceeds of the Jewish items in the storage locker if you're willing to forget this little," Emily gestured around the room, the folds of her skirt following behind assertively, "incident."

Tannehill was silent again - as his plan was quickly becoming extraneous - and he had to adjust to absorb the information he was receiving.  Much of the plan had involved bargaining with Emily and Otto to keep Vera safe and convincing them that he and Spinoza could be bought with a cut of the proceeds from their allegedly stolen treasure.  Once they admitted they'd stolen the items, it was a matter - not necessarily foolproof - for them to admit that they'd murdered their two other accomplices.  With Emily admitting that she knew of the stolen items and attempting to bribe him them, and with the two of them caught in the act of kidnapping Vera, he decided to go for broke on the final crime.  "Why did you kill Snell and Bellucci?"

Otto's face reddened instantly to the same degree Emily's went pale.  He was about to unleash his pent up indignation in the form of a vehement denial before Vera interrupted - "They're not murderers." She strained her cloudy, chilled concoction of booze into each of the glasses.

Tannehill whipped around to face her, "how are you so sure?"  He didn't mean to sound accusatory, but the shock of her statement and his still heightened stress levels removed any sense of decorum from his thought.

Vera was unflappable as she moved between the three glasses, pouring equal measures into each.  Finally, she took a large chip of ice and plunked it into the middle glass, spilling a quarter of its contents onto the counter.  "That's yours." She glanced at Emily.  Then she turned toward Tannehill.  "Look at how this delightful," she paused, "afternoon has turned out.  I'm an ostensible kidnap victim making martinis for my abductors.  The only weapon I've seen them use is a novelty lighter.  Its greatest danger is that its flame may burn a little too impure.  As you just mentioned, these two seem to be incapable of carrying out anything more than a botched stick-up of a child's lemonade stand."

Both Otto and Emily nodded eagerly, attempting to confirm that yes, in fact, they were too incompetent to carry out such a nefarious plot.

"Besides," Otto chimed in helpfully, "it would have been impossible to have murdered Bellucci when he was in police custody.  He was their friend.  A - what is it - an irritant."

"Informant," Emily muttered out of the side of her mouth.

"Informant," Otto continued.  

Tannehill drew back, startled.  "Bellucci was an informant?"

"Yes.  Snell believed those connections with the police would prove useful during our little...adventure."  Otto capped his statement with a wry smile, proud of imparting new information that Tannehill hadn't been aware of previously.

Tannehill scratched his chin in thought and motioned Spinoza over toward the door.  The two of them whispered excitedly before realizing they could continue the conversation in the hallway without endangering Vera's safety or their plan to entrap their Nazi suspects.  As they moved toward the hallway, Vera pushed the martinis across the breakfast bar to her once-and-would-be captors, "Cheers!" She hoisted her glass, as they did the same.

A handful of minutes later, Tannehill re-entered the apartment without Spinoza.

"Where's Phil?" Vera took another swig of her martini.

"On an errand.  He'll be back in an hour or two."

"In an hour or two?  How long are we planning on staying here?"

"All night.  We'll be heading to Loving's tomorrow at 9 AM.  For now though, we'll need to sit tight and make sure no one's," he glanced over at Emily and Otto, "up to any funny business.  Spinoza will come back to help make sure no one gets any ideas about leaving before then.  So we can all settle in for one long, slumber party."

Vera accepted the abrupt and unannounced plan with good cheer.  She had suddenly moved from captive to captor.  "Well then.  Martini?"

Tannehill nodded in acceptance.

[Author's Note: Hopefully the characters won't be too drunk for the denouement.  Today's edition is 1394 words.  The running total is 49433 (so close!).]

Chapter 44 - The Roller Coaster That Is Capital City

 30 minutes earlier...

"Can you drive a little faster?"  The constant drizzle so prevalent in Capital City had turned into a mid-afternoon downpour, thickening Spinoza's windshield with rain as his car plowed through flooded streets, parting water from the macadam and depositing on the sidewalks.

Spinoza squinted through the windshield as the rain beat angrily on the car's roof and thought he heard thunder (Thunder! - a sound not common in precipitation events west of the Rockies) in the distance.  "If you don't like my driving, you can always take the bus."

"Can you at least drive like there's some urgency attached to our task?"

"Why are you anxious all of a sudden?  Fifteen minutes ago, you seemed unflappable in your confidence."

"Maybe it's the sense of motion, however retarded that may be.  Or the realization that an innocent bystander's been kidnapped by murderers."

"If it's the sense of motion, going faster will only heighten your sense of anxiety, so I'm doing you a favor by slowing down."

"I'm worried about Vera."

"Me too, but getting us killed won't improve her situation any.  Besides, she's resourceful enough as long as neither one of her kidnappers turns into a giant rat."

"Otto can be unpredictable."

"Yes, but, like you pointed out, not very bright.  Without having met him or Emily Brunner, I'd still place my bets on Vera in a battle of wits."

"She can be a bit acerbic, and I'm worried how they'll react if she goes too far."

"Look at the facts.  If she comes to any harm, they lose any bargaining chip they have, and they've exposed themselves as murderers and will have no treasure to show for it.  Stupid or not; impulsive or not; I'm sure that scenario's occurred to them."

"True."  The torrent stopped as suddenly as it started.  Or, rather, it reverted from being a cumbersome downpour to its usual steady trickle that caused the men of the city to fret about their suits puckering and the women to complain about the uselessness of spending any hard-earned money at a hair salon.  

With the change in road conditions, Spinoza's automobile climbed the city's hills at an accelerating rate and then descended cautiously while its operator pumped the brakes.  At the nadir of each urban cliff, both men began to feel nausea overtake them due to the constant stop and start motion.

"Why don't you just coast down the hill like a normal driver?" Tannehill burped in discomfort.

"The shocks on this car aren't exactly in the best shape.  One errant bump at high speed, and you and I will be sliding along the ground, steering wheel in hand, while the rest of the chassis rumbles behind us." 

As the car approached downtown, the terrain flattened a bit, and their nausea eased, the two men began to refine their plan to rescue Vera, force a confession of murder from the would-be international entrepreneurs and find a way to repatriate the stolen items.  Given that they had approximately five minutes before they sped through the central business district and reached Emily Brunner's waterfront apartment, much of that plan involved storming the lobby of the building, menacing any uncooperative doorman, and rushing up the elevator in order to negotiate with Otto and Emily at the point of a gun.

"What it lacks in Shakespearean complexity it makes up for in expediency," Spinoza noted.

"Do you have a firearm?" Tannehill asked, unphased by Spinoza's retort.

"In the glove compartment." Tannehill was more than a little surprised that not only was the answer "Yes," but also "and it's within easy reach of where you're sitting now."  Spinoza sensed this surprise and continued, "It's Capital City.  And I'm a crime reporter.  Who works mostly at night."  He emphasized the end of each sentence to accentuate the obviousness of his statement.  Satisfied with that logic, Tannehill pulled the pistol from its resting place and briefly inspected it before replacing it.

"Why are you concerned if I have a firearm?  We stopped by your office to pick up your own service revolver."

"It's Capital City.  We're chasing murderers.  You can't be too careful," Tannehill mirrored in Spinoza's previous tone.

Fortune - or the still dwindling number of serviceable cars, even on the plush streets of downtown, that could be attributed to the depression's slowly weakening grip - allowed them to park across from the building.  Spinoza reached across Tannehill to open the glove compartment and grab his pistol, performing his own cursory inspection before exiting the vehicle. They dodged a couple of hasty drivers on the waterfront highway who showed their support for the men's mission by saluting them with high-pitched wails from their horns and muffled insults from behind their windows as they sped precariously by.

Once inside the lobby, they encountered the same obstinate doorman who'd hindered Tannehill during his first visit to the building in the week prior.

Tannehill darted past him and the doorman's voice followed him with a resounding "HEY!".  Tannehill slid to a stop in front of the elevator bank and turned to face the doorman and Spinoza, who'd lagged a few steps behind.  "Keep him here," he said, addressing Spinoza.  "I don't want him to call up to Brunner's apartment and tip them off."  Spinoza turned to the doorman, who was now facing him in a mixture of confusion and indignation, and shrugged.

Tannehill hastened into the elevator bank and mashed the up arrow repeatedly.  After an excrutiating 15 seconds, the ding of the elevator alighting in the lobby became audible.  He rushed into the car and promptly forgot what floor Emily Brunner's apartment was located on.  He then sprinted to the mailroom across the way, swearing briefly in resignation as the door closed and the elevator began to climb ever higher.  Scanning the mailroom, he found her - Brunner, 802 - and ran back to the elevator bank, pressing the up arrow with even more impatience than his first attempt.  As he climbed in, he could hear the soft murmur of voices from the lobby and a chuckle as the doors closed around him.

Once, he reached the eighth floor, he stepped in the hallway and stopped, breathless.  He gulped down the stale air of the floor's entrance foyer and wiped the sweat from his brow in an effort to compose himself before confronting Vera's assailants.  A loud ding boomed behind him and he turned, watching Spinoza step breezily into the foyer behind him.

"I thought I told you to watch the doorman!," Tannehill barked.

"He's not going to do anything," Spinoza answered in a measured tone.

"How are you so sure?"

"I informed him that I'm a member of the press, and, if he helps us out on our little errand, I can get a prominent spot in any resulting story."

"And if he decides that's too thin of a promise to keep him from changing his mind before we reach the door?"

Spinoza rubbed his nose.  "I thought of that."

"And?"

"I informed him that I'm a member of the press and, if he doesn't help, I can find enough dirt on him to bury him in any resulting story."

Tannehill smiled and drew in one more deep breath before heading toward Emily Brunner's apartment and exhaling.  He motioned for Spinoza to stay a few steps behind and out of sight as he drew his revolver.  They reached the front door of apartment 802, and Tannehill knocked nonchalantly, but with purpose, leveling the revolver at waist height.

From his vantage point a few steps down the hallway, Spinoza watched the door open and heard a familiar voice from the interior of the unit, "Oh, thank God!  Tannehill.  Did you bring any dry vermouth?"

[Author's Note: Well, unless I get extremely ambitious in the next four days, I'm not likely to finish the novel by the end of November - which was a long shot anyway.  But there's a good chance the first draft will be done in conjunction with the long, strange year that 2020 has been. This chapter is 1285 words.  The grand total is 48039 words.]

Chapter 43 - Thanks, But It Just Isn't the Same Without an Olive

 "I'd like a martini," Vera studied her nails and repeated her request before adding "please" along with a toothy but insincere grin.

"We're out of dry vermouth," Otto countered, no hint of irony in his voice, as though he were taking the order seriously.  

The abduction had not gone the way Emily planned.  She had flashed a small, silver firearm in Vera's direction while instructing Otto to leave a note for Tannehill and escorted her captive out of the diner.  She expected that Vera hadn't made a peep while leaving, because she was too frightened by the shock of the events.  She assumed that Vera's facade would crack, once the three of them were barrelling down the city streets toward downtown - a mix of screams, hysterics, tears, and pleading in a snot covered blur of a face begging for her life.

Instead, Vera rested her hands in her lap and her head against the back window and hummed.  She took advantage of staring down from the summit every time they climbed one of the city's famous hills.  She remained in this state of serene meditation the entire ride.  The. Entire. Ride.  Now, back at Emily's flat, she sat calmly in one of the high-backed, armless dining chairs at the head of the table, her white smile matching the impeccable leather of the chair and somehow accentuating the hideous lime green uniform she wore, asking for a martini.

"A manhattan, then."

"Actually," Otto pursed his lips thoughtfully, "we're out of vermouth, full stop."

"Bourbon, neat, please, with just a couple of drops of water."

Otto rounded the breakfast bar, pulled a bottle of bourbon from the counter, and began opening cabinet drawers searching for a tumbler.  "Glass?"

"Drawer to the right of the sink," Emily responded.

Otto finished the order and returned to the dining area.  He motioned for Vera to slide away from the table and she obliged, re-orienting herself in the chair after backing up.  Otto placed the drink on the table, out of her reach.  He sat on the edge of the dining room table and faced Vera.  Emily, disappointed in the cavalier use of her furniture - much of what she had was rented, while she still waited to settle in, but her dining set was brand new - bit her lip and grimaced. "Now, tell me what the notebook says, and you can have your drink," Otto continued.

"I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?" he hissed.

"Have you seen the notebook?  The notes in it are incomprehensible."

"Yes, but" he began to blubber, "but it's your notebook!"

"What gives you that assumption?  That it was in my possession?  That I'm a woman and must be a secretary?"

"Yes," he exhaled, as if the answer to all three of those questions were self-evident.

"Wouldn't it make more sense to give me the notebook for safe-keeping?  Isn't it more likely that you'd go after Tannehill to get the information you needed?"

"No. Well, yes, but, you have the notebook."

"Otto," Emily interjected, worried that Otto may start an argument with himself.  His face, wide-eyed in confusion, turned toward her.  "Even if she doesn't know what's in the notebook, it's highly likely that she has at least some of the information we seek."

This seemed to inspire a swift change of demeanor in Otto, who swiftly walked over to Vera.  Red-faced with eyes blazing flecks of gold he grabbed her by her hair, yanking her head back over the chair.  She winced with pain.  "WHERE ARE OUR ITEMS?"  He waited briefly for a response before throwing her head unceremoniously against her chest.  He began to turn back toward his previous position at the table to further cement his menace and wait for Vera to come to her senses.

Before doing so, Vera grabbed him by the wrist gently and stood up to face him.  Eyes brimming lightly with tears from such a violent jolt to her sinuses, she smiled thin-lipped and meekly at him.  He smiled back.  Then she slugged him in the solar plexus.

He doubled over, emitting a combination cough and noiseless howl before staggering over to the table and pressing all of his weight on another chair, causing one of its legs to snap.

Emily, more enraged by the demolition of her dining room set than by the assault on her partner, moved across the room and slapped Vera.  Vera, undeterred, kicked Emily in the shin.  This caused Emily to tumble backward and trip over Otto.  Otto, Emily, and the newly wounded chair collapsed to the floor in concert.

There was a slight shifting of forms audible through the wall and a quick muffled exchange of concerned voices.  A few seconds later there was a click of an exterior door and then a polite knock on Emily's own.  While Otto, Emily, and the chair were still tangled together, Vera took the opportunity to answer the door.  She opened it wide to a diminutive man with thinning brown hair dressed in an oversized cerulian cardigan.  

"Excuse me, Miss...," he paused in surprise, "oh, you're not Miss Brunner."

"No," Vera paused as though realizing she was not, in fact, Miss Brunner, "I'm a guest of hers."

"Oh, sorry!" the diminutive man exclaimed, "I'm Mr. Sugarbaker from next door," he paused to gather himself.  "My wife and I heard a commotion.  Is everything alright?"

"Yes, certainly.  We were just a little excited at the realization that we're unable to make martinis for our soiree."

From behind, Emily began to stand apart from what appeared to have been the world's most uncoordinated spider.  "That's correct," she smoothed her skirt as Otto groaned below her, "we have no dry vermouth."

"Oh," another brief pause, "oh," Sugarbaker glanced toward his unit and hitchhiked a thumb in its direction, "it's no problem.  I can..." he stammered.

Vera waved him off.  "No need." She walked over to the table and swallowed two fingers of bourbon in a single gulp.  She coughed, pounded her chest, and continued hoarsely, "we were able to improvise."

"Yes, improvise," Emily affirmed.  "Mr. Sugarbaker, please close the door on your way out, if you don't mind."

"Certainly," and he did, as the two women watched the door seal the view of the exterior hallway.

When Vera turned to face her would-be abductors, she noticed that Otto had closed the distance between the two of them and had Emily's small, silver revolver pointed in her direction.  "What are you going to do with that?" She puffed out her cheeks and blew exasperatedly.  

"If you don't sit down and behave, I intend to kill you."

"No," she glanced at the barrel of the gun and back at Otto, "you don't."

"Yes," he stopped to match her previous pause, "I do."

"No," she kept the cadence up, "you don't."

"And how do you know this to be true?"

"Well, for starters, that pistol barrel isn't bored, so it would be exceedingly difficult to fire a projectile at me.  And, to cap it off, I saw that pistol lying on the end table of the sofa earlier once Emily dropped it there, after our road trip.  It's a cigarette lighter.  So, unless you intend to set me on fire, I don't believe you intend to kill me."

With that explanation, Otto let the gun swing around his finger by the trigger guard and replaced it on the end table in a demonstrable 'what can you do?' manner.

Another knock sounded at the door, sterner than the first.

Emily elbowed Vera out of the way in her haste to open it before Vera decided to play hostess again.  "Mr. Sugarbaker, I told you, we don't need any..." the door swung wide and Tannehill was plainly visible holding a revolver leveled at Emily Brunner.  A real one.

[Author's Note: I've been thinking about this chapter since at least the middle of the book.  What happens to Vera when she's kidnapped?  Does she wilt?  Does she face a couple of psychopaths and barely make it out alive.  Then I remembered that in addition to film noir, another popular genre of the 30s was the screwball comedy, and I was able to pick a scene that matched the current tone of the book.  I didn't want to waste her character development as a damsel in distress, but I needed her to get kidnapped to move the "plot" along.  Today's edition is 1303 words.  The novel's total is 46754 words.]

Chapter 42 - Is It Accusative or Nominative Case?

The trio decided to rest for a day and contemplate the best way to willingly get two suspects to admit to murder.  Tannehill and Spinoza walked into The Happy Hour the following afternoon at the beginning of Vera's shift, eager to swap theories on the best way to catch a criminal.  Seeing that she hadn't arrived yet, they glanced around for a comfortable booth to commandeer, as their usual one was occupied.  They stood frozen briefly in the no man's land between the counter and the booths, heads moving mechanically to assess other possibilities - that booth had a jagged spring that didn't quite protrude from the seat leather; another one had a table that looked sticky with a spray of spilled salt jutting across its landscape; another hadn't been cleared at all.  They considered sitting at the counter, but the round swivel stools seemed to be placed too close too one another, and they felt that they'd be knocking knees over the duration of their discourse.

"Bill, hey Bill!" A raspy voice croaked behind them from the counter, breaking into the rhythm of their seating despair.  They paid no mind, looking for either Vera or a clean booth.  "Bill!" It insisted with more urgency.  They turned to look toward the voice and saw Flo, The Happy Hour's second-best server, staring directly at Spinoza.

A confused minute passed before he could respond.  "Me?" He mouthed at her.  She nodded enthusiastically with a hint of frustration that, of course she was referring to him.  He adjusted his volume.  "I'm sorry you must have me mixed up with someone else.  My name's not Bill."

Now it was Flo's turn to look confused.  "I says to Vera," she started as though already minutes deep into a particular juicy anecdote, "I says 'Who are those two fellas you been hanging out with lately?'  She says to me 'The one who looks like William Powell and the other one?' I says 'Yeah.'  She says, "Funny enough, that one's name is Bill, which is short for William, and the other is Claude Mulvihill."  She paused and pointed a finger at Spinoza, "So, you must be Bill."

The two men grinned at each other in the realization of Flo's likely mischaracterization of her conversation with Vera.  They also decided that correcting her would be a wasted afternoon for all, so Bill, for the time being, he was.

"Is Vera late?  We wanted to chat with her before her shift got too busy."  Aside from their normal booth near the door, which was currently inhabited by two gentlemen arguing vehemently in Russian, one other booth and a stool at the counter had occupants.  The counter occupant coughed briefly as if to signal that his occupancy was equally as important as his boothmates.

"Vera's not here," Flo stated, confirming their observation with a sober obviousness.  "But a little fella stopped by with a note about an hour ago.  He said to give it to Vera's friends when they stopped by."

Tannehill cocked an eyebrow in interest.  "Do you have the note?"

"I do."  Though Flo answered in the affirmative, she made no move to follow up on remediary actions.

"I think, as you've vividly described in your fascinating conversations, that it's safe to assume that we're the friends of Vera that the gentleman was referring to, correct?"

"Right!" Flo still made no indication of movement.

"Would you mind giving us the letter then, as we are the aforementioned friends?" Tannehill's tone was cloyed to avoid betraying the acidness he wanted to direct toward this daft woman.

Flo reached slowly in a large patch pocket of her uniform, her face initially a blank mask, morphing into one of confusion with a protruding tongue as she rummaged through a pocket so deep its very inward boundaries appeared to defy the laws of physics that its outward boundaries hinted at.  Eventually, she pulled a 3x3 white envelope from its maw and handed it to Tannehill.  He had to tug gently to remove it from her grip.

"Thank you," he responded in the same cloying tone.  She abruptly turned and left with her previous blank stair re-affixed.  While curiosity may have a deadly influence over the cat, it had little pull with Flo.

"Nothing addressed on the outside," Spinoza remarked.  It seemed like a poorly mannered letter if it was meant to be an invitation.  No indication of an RSVP and no fancy calligraphy harkened them to a social event.

Tannehill opened the envelope with a stubby index finger and slid out the thick card stock inside.  Again, nothing on the front of the card to give its intentions away.  He flipped it open:

We have das Mädchen.

Call the number I gave you for next steps.

-O

"Huh," Tannehill clucked his tongue.  He casually handed the card to Spinoza.

"So what now?"

"Why do you think he used the German version of 'girl'?"

Spinoza's eyes bulged in mild disbelief and suspicion of Tannehill's reaction. "That's an unusual first question to ask when you've just learned that a friend of yours has been kidnapped by a pair of double murderers."

Tannehill continued undeterred, "I wonder if he did so to pepper the message with additional menace.  Do you know if das Mädchen is a nominative or accusative case?"

"What is wrong with you?!"

"I guess it doesn't matter.  We know it means girl, so the grammar's not important." He sucked his teeth briefly.  "To answer your question - much that we've discovered over time, but in this particular case, nothing.  We now have leverage on the them.  Before, we could only suppose that they'd committed a crime.  Now they're actually in the middle of that commission.  More importantly, he's telling me to call the number he gave me before."

"And what does that mean?" Spinoza was at a loss.

"Well, the number he gave me before was the number to Brunner's apartment.  Even if they're not keeping Vera there, someone has to be manning the phone.  That means, unless they're all camped across the street observing us, we can ambush or follow at least one of them to get the drop on Vera's location.  But I suspect she'll be at the apartment."

"Why do you suspect that?"

"Because Otto's not smart enough to come up with a better plan."

[Author's Note: This was one of those chapters that I expected was only going to be a few words - a note gets delivered and the men take action. Then I realized setting a scene for it sounded a bit more delightful and got to 860 words.  Then, on editing, I wanted to see if I could get to the usual thousand word mark, and, voilà, we're at 1056 for this chapter.  The running total is 45451 words.  With at least another four chapters planned, and only a scant 4549 words to cover, it looks like my July 2019 goal will be a reality soon.]

Chapter 41 - How Much Do You Charge to Break Fingers?

 "What do I do now?"  Tannehill nonchalantly pulled the string of cheddar connecting his mouth and cheeseburger from its bovine substrate and chewed thoughtfully on his rhetorical statement.  Spinoza, unaware that the question was rhetorical, shrugged.  They'd been meeting for lunch frequently in the weeks since Tannehill's disciplinary hearing and dismissal.  Though he claimed outwardly it was solely due to Tannehill's lack of an income, Spinoza could admit to himself that it was a slipshod attempt at atonement.

"I suppose I could return to engineering.  We're in a state that's seeing enormous growth potential and the opportunities should be plentiful."

"That seems regressive, since you've been out of practice for some time." Spinoza was still unaware that he was an audience to the conversation rather than a participant.

Tannehill's voice grew more distant in thought, "but I am a bit rusty." Belatedly, he realized he was being summoned from his haze by someone else.  "Sorry," he picked up a thick fry and munched on it purposefully, "what did you say?"

"I said that returning to engineering likely isn't your best alternative."

Tannehill continued to crunch down on his fry, caught halfway between his own thoughts and Spinoza's observation.  "Yeah, you're probably right."  He sighed less out of resignation or regret and more out of simple exasperation for his dearth of ideas.  To wit, he had thought of exactly one idea for a career change since his expulsion from the police force - returning to his engineering degree.

"You could be a private investigator.  It wouldn't require a drastic change in your career path."

Tannehill starting chewing again in contemplation.  "I'm not certain that would work out well.  My name's been plastered all over the paper -" Spinoza colored at this statement even though Tannehill was talking distractedly rather than taking aim, " - and I don't think people would appreciate the notoriety."

Spinoza scoffed and jerked back in mild disbelief.  "This is Capital City.  Voters don't trust politicians who are too clean.  They assume the candidates are either hiding something so insidious it can't come to light or they'll be eaten alive once they're in office.  I don't think that kind of citizenry is going to mind your type of publicity.  Besides, as a PI, you're expected to be a bit scummy."

With Spinoza's rousing encouragement ringing in his ears the following days, Tannehill decided to set up shop.  His application for a private investigator's license encompassed nothing more than an affirmative response to a follow-up question about his previous employment:

"So, says here you used to be a former cop."

"Yup, I was previously a detective.  Do you need to check any references?"

"No, we just need the filing fee of $10."

Tannehill fished a crumpled bill out of his pocket, smoothed it, and laid it on the counter, smiling for effect.  He wondered if, had he put down "former chief of police" or "former president of the United States," the interlocution would have been more rigorous.  He decided it wouldn't have.

His next order of business was to find office space.  He decided to stay near his old precinct, as he felt he knew the neighborhood better and would be able to operate with some degree of comfort in getting his business off the ground.  The realtor he talked to offered him a twenty-foot by twenty-foot office in a shared office corridor that had been damaged by water.  The realtor also swore that the water damage was due to a previously busted water main and not the notoriously fickle ocean located a convenient two blocks away.  Traces of salinity on the water damaged walls were slight and the office air smelled more of mildew than seafood, so Tannehill took the realtor at his word and put down a security deposit.

The artist who appeared to complete the signage on the office's frosted window had lenses that hinted at severe myopia.  His conversation with Tannehill about the contents of the signage was mumbled and mostly conducted in a foreign language.

"Tannehill - two 'n's two 'l's," Tannehill spoke slowly, suspicious of his commissioned artist's comprehension skills.  Upon completion, the sign read "CH Tanehilll, Licensed Private Investigator."  Tannehill considered it a win, since the number of letters within his name remained consistent with his own preferred spelling.

Office space rented and PI license in hand, his final order of business was to drum up clients.  Spinoza's guilt played a big part here as well - his position as the lead crime reporter at The Daily Courier allowed him to offer Tannehill two weeks' worth of ad space in the classified section of the paper.  And, Spinoza wasn't entirely immune to the politics of Capital City either.  He was able to weave a few deft references to the up-and-coming PI businesses in the city - specifically near the city's South Docks neighborhood - for matters that the police were simply too overwhelmed or indifferent to handle. 

It took fewer than 24 hours for calls to begin flooding Tannehill's desk.  Many of the calls involved spouses' or lovers' inquests about potential infidelity.  Others about neighbors' suspected misdeeds.  A few requested help for misplaced or presumably stolen items.  Some hinted heavily about help with protection rackets - both in forming them and busting them up.  Spinoza had been correct about the citizenry's tolerance for notoriety.  Many of Tannehill's prospective clients shamelessly referenced his perceived vigilantism and the need for more people who were "willing to clean up the streets."  What his willingness to clean up the streets had to do with a glut of unfaithful paramours, Tannehill hadn't a clue, but he was fine playing the role in order to score a paycheck. 

After Tannehill's first full week of re-employment, Spinoza visited the office with a house warming offering.

"Thanks, but it wasn't necessary," he grasped the outstretched bottle of muddied brown liquid thrust in his direction.

"It's not really a gift, it's simply me trying to diminish my inventory.  Alcohol is still prohibited after all."

"So, it is," Tannehill muttered, turning the bottle over in his hands.  He stopped and squinted at the label.  "Was this produced prior to Prohibition?"

"Indeed it was."

"I didn't even know they made bourbon in Nebraska," he exclaimed, placing the bottle in his bottom drawer next to his former service revolver.  He reached for his coat, then the light.  "I'm hungry.  The usual?"

[Author's Note: Today's edition is 1058 words.  I'm hoping to strike a nice coup de grâce and finish the first draft during Nation Novel Writing Month, since it was an exercise for NaNoWriMo that kicked off this whole venture, but let's not get ahead of ourselves.  The running total is 44395.]

Chapter 40 - The Four-Fingered Plot

 "So, you were knowing partners with a criminal?"

"Yes," Tannehill slid down into the booth and cocked an elbow to rest on the top of the backrest.  His two companions remained silent in non-response. "What?" He pulled his elbows from the rest.

"You were ok with that?" Vera continued.

"I'm surprised you're that naive.  Policemen have confidential informants and PIs aren't exactly hobnobbing with the cream of society.  If he'd have done something egregious, I would've turned him in."

"Like grand theft?"

"I didn't know that he was in a scheme that ultimately got him killed.  He ran low-level bunko scams, not international crime syndicates.  And, this is Capital City.  If you're part of a robbery ring that's bilking people 6,000 miles away, you're probably more likely to be beatified than arrested.  Plus, his extra-curricular activities led to enough capers that generated business, and, if you've been able to guess from my choice of attire and high-end dining selections, I can't afford to be picky."

"He's got a point," Spinoza chimed in helpfully.

Vera polished off her coffee, "I'm going to get more cream," and pushed purposefully away from the table.  She returned a minute later with cream and a chocolate chip cookie.

Nibbling one of the chocolate chips from its doughy resting place, she forged on.  "So, you suppose that Bellucci met Otto and Brunner through Snell?"

"In a roundabout way, yeah."

"They just show up at the port of entry to Capital City and there's Snell, holding a sign reading 'need help committing a felony, I'm your man!'?"

"Not so much a sign as a sandwich board.  I'm sure he didn't want to get lost in the shuffle."

"Was it scripted in Romanesque or Gothic?"

Tannehill paused when he couldn't retort.  "Look, Brunner's father is a diplomat, so he probably knows other Germans stationed throughout the world.  I'm assuming some of those Germans, especially under the current administration, aren't exactly following the letter of law in the lands of their diplomatic assignments.  I'd even be willing to assume that they'd double-cross their own goose-stepping masters if it meant a big payday."  He took a large swig of his now cooled coffee and continued.  "Snell would likely know the most morally dubious Nazis and would be able to use those connections to arrange the party we've been discussing forthwith."

"So, Bellucci, Snell, Brunner, and Otto are now all connected.  Otto and Brunner want to dump their stolen items, Snell has a safe place to store them, and Bellucci?  Bellucci does what?"

"He's probably the fence.  If he was a rumrunner, he would've had connections to gangs throughout the city and would've met people that can help dispose of items that were obtained via less than honorable means."

"And why the whole Beederman Bellucci conundrum?"

"Depravity."  Spinoza started into his coffee while speaking, stirring a non-existent creamer into a deep, bitter vortex with his spoon.

"It's depraved to assume another identity?" Tannehill asked.

"You said that Bellucci was short and darkly-complected with dark hair correct?"

"Yup."

"And, if you didn't know his name was Bellucci, would it have been much of a stretch for him to actually have been 'Harry Beederman'?"

"No."

"Beederman is a Jewish surname." Spinoza paused, collecting the points around his theory before putting it into further words.  "All of the artifacts we found," he swept his arm across the table in a grand gesture, "are of great import to Jewish heritage.  The dollar value of those items is likely extremely high based on historical value alone.  But add in the sentimental or cultural aspect and the dollar value skyrockets even more."

"So, you think he took on the persona of Harry Beederman to invoke a sense of collective guilt or tug at the heartstrings of Jews in the area in order to up the sale prices," Vera asked, head bowed and scribbling intently on her pad.

"I'd frame it a bit differently.  Given the precarious way in which these objects were vacated from their rightful owners, I'd be willing to bet that Jews in the area would be desperate to keep our history from being ripped away from us.  Harry Beederman would just make that desperation that much more poignant.  Especially if he's panicked that time is of the essence before the artifacts are confiscated and returned to the Germans or dispersed to the highest bidder by the state authorities at the conclusion of any criminal investigation."

"You're right," Tannehill sat up straight in the booth, "that is pretty depraved."

"No more depraved than stealing from an authoritarian group of thugs, who in turn, stole these artifacts from honest citizens and then committed two murders in the further continuance of that crime."

"So, let's pause again to sum up what we've surmised," Tannehill began to count the points on each finger.  "We know that two Germans absconded with treasure earmarked for Nazi coffers and shipped it to the west coast of the USA."

"Why the west coast and not the east coast?  The journey would've been much shorter," Vera asked.

Tannehill stopped briefly, holding on to point one of his index finger.  "I'd wager that they were trying to put some time and distance between themselves and their victims," - Spinoza scoffed at Tannehill's choice of vocabulary for the Nazis - "victims only in the purely technical sense, as their victims would likely resort to extra-legal coercion in order to recover their assets.  In addition, the Nazis, if they knew the treasure was headed for America, would likely look on the east coast first.  It's more heavily populated and, therefore, a better area to dispense of the goods. And, it's a much shorter journey as you pointed out."

Vera and Spinoza nodded in accordance with this theory.  Tannehill extended his middle finger to stand alongside its indexed brethren, "point two - they use their government connections to find Snell.  Snell, likely eager to assist, informs them of a place to store their goods and offers to assist them with finding someone who can offload them."

Vera and Spinoza remained silent in further tacit acknowledgment.  His ring finger appeared, "third, Snell opts not to tell them where the treasure is housed, and, when he's failed to be persuaded of revealing its location, he's killed for that failure - whether it's out of frustration or over-zealous techniques of persuasion."

The house continued to remain silent.  He bent his pinky finger back, "finally, for motives unknown, Bellucci/Beederman takes the fall for Snell's murder.  And, possibly because he's seen as a weak link in the whole scheme, he's murdered as well."  

Vera piped up after completing her final note, "ok, now what?"

"Now, we trade what they want - a storehouse full of stolen goods - for what we want - an acknowledgment that they murdered my partner.  Since this particular crime involves the transportation of goods across international boundaries, the Feds are likely to get involved if we can get anything to stick to them."

"Meaning?" 

Spinoza interjected, "meaning it's not left up to Capital City's finest to further justice, so justice has a better chance of being furthered."

"Can I see the notes you've taken so far?" Tannehill extended his hand toward Vera and her note pad.

She shrugged, "sure," and slid the notepad across the booth to him.

His brow furrowed in frustration and incomprehensibility after staring at the page for 30 seconds, "I can't read a word of this!"  He slid the pad to Spinoza, whose face affected the same countenance.

She shrugged again.  "It's my own shorthand.  I like to call it High Gothic Romanesque." While the two men sat with fixed looks of exasperation glued to their faces, she calmy reclaimed the notepad and exited the booth for a refill on cookies and a glass of milk.

[Author's Note: Today's part of the Whodunit weighs in at 1297 words.  It occurred to me while writing this chapter that, while I had a strong sketch of the crime and its particulars, the details and plan for catching the criminals were a little lacking.  Well, that's what you get when your primary goal is to write 50000 words come hell or high water.  I guess we'll figure it out along with the rest of the gang.  The grand total now stands at 43377 words.]

Chapter 39 - And...?

The next day they reconvened at the same booth, three piping-hot, buttery egg sandwiches and a full pot of coffee distributed equally among them.

Vera had, reluctantly, taken on the role of the scribe when the two men demurred.  Initially, they attempted to justify their laziness through flattery insisting that as a waitress and a student, she'd be best equipped to take quick, copious notes in the clearest hand.

"Aren't you a crime reporter?"

Spinoza mumbled back something in acquiescence that made it sound like it was more of an enthusiastic hobby than a full-time job.

"And aren't you a PI and former police detective?  I'd assume you'd need to take copious notes for both positions?"

Tannehill quietly trailed off about his frequent reliance on his camera and strong memory.

"So, I'm stuck with an amateur voyeur into the macabre and a pervert who goes around photographing or remembering every intimate detail he sees."

They both began to strenuously object in a rising tenor indicating how much note-taking they did during their working hours and how this would just be an extra burden on top of that.

"Aren't we both solving a crime and, ultimately, reporting on the details and outcome of that investigation?"

The tenor stopped.  There was an awkward detente.

She sighed, "fine I'll do it.  For two fellas that know an awful lot about the writing style of people who've been dead for seven centuries, your literacy skills seem to be lacking." The bitterness still rising she added, "I suppose you want egg sandwiches too?"

The men looked sheepishly at one another and then pleadingly at her.

The absurdity of the additional extravagant request and her own hunger made her cave.  15 minutes, and a therapeutic session involving the unnecessary clatter of multiple pots and pans, later they'd reconvened to focus on the investigation.

"So what did you find out after our meeting yesterday?"

Tannehill sipped the scalding coffee carefully and started, "I'm fortunate enough to retain a few friends in the department.  They weren't able to pull anything on Emily Brunner or anyone answering Otto's description, but they did find something on Harry Beederman.  Or rather they didn't find anything when they pulled the rap sheet for that name, but they did find a few hits for the last name Bellucci, and one of them - a Rico Bellucci - had a mugshot that matched our dearly departed friend."

Vera scribbled away, "go on."

"He's a petty criminal.  He assisted with some small-time operations during Prohibition and got picked up a few times for grifting, running numbers, and some penny-anty theft, but nothing to indicate he spearheaded a vast international conspiracy."

"I may have something there," Spinoza blew on his coffee, willing it to cool down.

Vera stopped scribbling, "a vast international conspiracy?"  She took advantage of the break in the conversation to dump cream and a generous spoonfall of sugar into her own coffee.  She stirred it briefly and then gulped down the first swallow.

"Not so much on the conspiracy part, but more so on the international part."

"And...?" Vera could never tell if the histrionics that surrounded these two men were part of an audition for an as yet unrevealed omniscient director or if they were simply trying to keep her interest piqued in the most dramatic fashion possible.

Spinoza sipped his coffee carefully.  "I got in touch with my newspaper friends in Europe and found a similar rap sheet for Otto Hoffman.  Nothing particularly garish, just a lot of petty crimes.  He did serve the role of resident thugs for local Nazi parties when the role occasioned it though, so anything that he could've conceivably served time for was dismissed.  He has gotten himself in a bit more hot water as of late though."

"How did you know to search for Otto Hoffman, if we only knew him as 'Otto'?"  Tannehill took equally delicate sips of his coffee.

Spinoza raised his finger and shook it gently while pursing his lips in a sign of drawn-out exposition.  Vera wondered silently if he was preparing to recite a soliloquy from Hamlet before illustrating his point.

"Well, I asked around about Emily Brunner.  Her father is a mid-level German government bureaucrat - important enough to have connections, but not important enough to warrant any particular name recognition.  Turns out that he had a driver assigned to him for diplomatic duties and that driver was - "

"Let me guess," Vera interrupted, "one Otto Hoffman answering to the description of our resident Otto."

"Yes," Spinoza took another infinitesimal sip.

"And this recent hot water he's found himself in?"

Spinoza paused and Vera sighed, "I was getting to that." 

Sip.

"C'mon Mary Pickford!  Enough with the dramatic pauses.  I've got a life to live here after we're done."

"Turns out," sip, "that he'd been in charge of routing certain government confiscated property to various warehouses around Berlin, and -"

"And that property never made it to its intended location?  Right, got it.  I think we can safely assume that Emily probably knew her father's chauffeur fairly well and was more than happy to participate in a scheme that would increase her personal wealth."

A sip of acknowledgment followed.

Vera scribbled a final note and put her pencil down. "So let's recap.  We have two petty criminals and a low-level diplomat's daughter embarking on some scheme to sell stolen Nazi treasure, which itself appears to be stolen from prominent Jewish households.  We can deduce, based on the information at hand, that two of them knew each other beforehand.  We can't yet deduce how they know," she paused and looked at her pad for confirmation, "Bellucci."

"Or Snell," Tannehill chipped in.

"Or Snell."

Tannehill and Spinoza sipped simultaneously to indicate agreement in her presentation of the facts so far.

She quaffed another gulp of her own sweet concoction, "you two are going to need to start drinking that joe faster if you want to fire up your brain cells and solve this thing anytime before the decade closes." 

Tannehill delicately stuck a pinkie into his cup and tested the temperature.  Determining that it was on the right side of scalding, he slurped loudly and cleared his throat.  "Well, I can imagine that introduction was likely made via Snell.  He may not have been much in the way of a detective, but he did have a comprehensive catalog of every two-bit con artist and small-time crook up and down the entire coast."

Vera began scribbling again as the session continued.

[Author's Note: Today's edition is 1084 words.  The running total for the novel is 42080.  I have seven more chapters planned and at a rough average of 1000 words per chapter and a penchant for underestimating my number of chapters, it looks like I'll be able to coast to 50000 words without having to resort to some silly trope like the discovery of Snell's unfinished and unpublished fantasy novella.]