Last Panda Standing Page 2

PANDINI TOWERS PENTHOUSE, 10:00 P.M.

  The elevator doors slid open at the penthouse, revealing a shaken and stirred crowd, equal parts offended and outraged that they were not permitted to leave. Beside the elevator doors was Bobby, the head of Pandini’s security detail, still struggling to contain the guests.

  “Thanks for holding all the potential witnesses,” said O’Malley, nodding his approval. “Backup will be here in a couple of minutes.”

  “Some of your boys already are,” said Bobby, pointing across the room to where a few members of the Platypus Police Squad were examining the area around the podium, as well as the large broken window directly behind it.

  “Please tell me we can let these folks go home.” Someone was approaching them. His name tag said “Irving Myers.” Pandini’s campaign chief, thought Zengo. Myers looked like he had just eaten a bucket of lemons.

  Zengo put a comforting hand on Myers’s shoulder. “Police work takes time. Our officers need to make sure that no stone is left unturned.”

  Myers deflated. Zengo almost felt sorry for him. Unhappy guests didn’t make donations, and disappointing Frank Pandini Jr. must have awful consequences. Pandini’s waitstaff was trying to cheer everyone up with free snacks and root beer, but that didn’t seem to be doing much.

  Zengo looked at the sea of angry faces. He had never seen so many powerful people in one place. Or so much bling. Every lady there was wearing as much jewelry as his mother probably had in her whole jewelry box. The scent of power in the room was very strong. Unless that was just the scent of strong perfume and cologne that Zengo was catching a whiff of. Each person in that room could probably buy and sell the city several times over. Clearly they were not used to being told what to do.

  Even though he was wearing his sweet leather jacket, Zengo still felt as if the crowd looked straight through him, as though he didn’t exist. O’Malley was always talking about the divide in the city between the Rich and the Rest. That kind of thing never interested Zengo. But tonight was different. Here, in the most exclusive room of the city, surrounded by its most privileged citizens, he could see what that difference really meant.

  One of the beat cops forced his way through the throng of tuxedos and dresses, and O’Malley gave him a nod.

  “Casella, what gives?”

  “Looks like we’ve got some sort of protester on our hands.” Casella pointed to the banner.

  Zengo read it aloud. “‘Quit or else!’ Hmph. Pretty direct, huh? We have any ID on the assailant?”

  Casella shook his head. “His identity, his motive, and his current whereabouts are all a total mystery. Guy threw his boomerang, grazing Mr. Pandini and smashing the window, and just disappeared, right out the hole he’d made. We searched the streets below and nobody has been found. We’re guessing whoever we’re looking for, he can fly, but multiple guests confirmed we aren’t dealing with any bird.”

  Zengo realized Irving Myers was hovering around them like a shadow, hanging on their every word. Normally, Zengo would have wanted their conversation to be private, but Myers was as close to Pandini’s inner circle as anyone. Maybe he could lead them to some valuable information.

  “We saw Pandini on his way to the ambulance,” said O’Malley. “He didn’t seem hurt too badly.”

  Casella shrugged. “Got his shoulder clipped. I’ve seen worse.”

  “We’ve all seen worse, Casella,” said Zengo. “But nobody’s ever taken a hit out on a mayoral candidate. We need to be on top of this. An assault on a mayoral candidate is an assault on the city itself.”

  “What are you, Pandini’s newest PR rep?” Casella asked. “We’re all doing our jobs here, rookie. O’Malley, I don’t have time for lectures from your pet here. You want to take statements from some of these guests or what?”

  Zengo opened his bill, but O’Malley put a hand on his shoulder. “Look, kid,” he whispered. “Why don’t you go check out the window. Talking to some of these rich types can take some finesse. I’ll meet you over there in a few minutes.”

  The young detective glared at them both. I’m just trying to do my job too, he thought, if you guys would let me. But he didn’t say anything, just stormed off toward where Pandini had been delivering his speech.

  The entire area surrounding the podium was blocked off with bright yellow caution tape. Zengo examined the scene, but the only thing out of the ordinary was the broken window, with its gaping hole open to the night sky. The wind blew hard this high up, and it whistled through the crack in the glass. Zengo snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and stepped over the barrier to take a closer look.

  “These people didn’t see much,” said O’Malley, coming up behind him. Casella was with him too. “And even if they did, I think they’re all a little too annoyed to tell us.”

  “Maybe you should have used a bit more of that finesse you were talking about,” said Zengo. He leaned over and took a piece of broken glass in his flipper. “I don’t think our assailant was trying to hit Pandini.”

  O’Malley ducked awkwardly under the caution tape. “Go on,” he said. Zengo’s partner actually seemed interested in his theory. For once, Zengo thought.

  “Look at the angle at which the glass was broken. The boomerang was traveling to the right and grazed Pandini’s left shoulder. If he was trying to hit him, he would have thrown on Pandini’s right side so that, if he missed, the boomerang would hit him on the return trip. Who do you think this guy was?”

  Myers stepped up to the caution tape, but stopped short of crossing it when all three cops barked at him to not take another step closer. “We don’t know his name,” Myers said. “But I can tell you he had a tail, and was wearing a mask.”

  “Pandini runs a tight ship,” said Zengo. “His security team is the best that money can buy. Whoever made it into this room armed with a concealed boomerang must have had help.”

  “Multiple witnesses told us that he was wearing the same uniform as the waitstaff,” said Casella. “He was here the entire night, washing the dishes in the kitchen. But we took a statement from the company manager and the head chef, and neither of them remembers hiring him.”

  “The catering company is on Pandini’s payroll,” said O’Malley, stuffing his bill with a few more mini hot dogs that he nabbed from a passing waiter. “I’d recognize this distinct flavor anywhere. Frank’s Franks.”

  “Well, I guess we won’t need to dust the mustard for fingerprints,” Zengo said. “Pandini claims to personally evaluate everyone who works for one of his companies. But if what you’re saying is true, this guy wasn’t actually an employee. And considering how many companies Pandini owns, criminals are bound to slip through the cracks.”

  “Or hop,” said O’Malley through a mouthful of food, referring to the perpetrator of an illegal fish ring the Platypus Police Squad had taken down months ago.

  “Let’s look around the kitchen,” said Zengo.

  “Best idea you’ve had yet, kid,” said O’Malley, wiping the corners of his bill. “Casella, once all the guests are on record, tell ’em they’re free to go. But the waitstaff—I don’t want them going anywhere.”

  Irving Myers led Detectives Zengo and O’Malley to the kitchen. It was a flurry of activity at the center of the penthouse. Everything was stainless steel and spotless—the kind of kitchen you see only on television shows. All except for the industrial-size sink, where dirty dishes teetered in a stack. Casella said, “We put all dishwashing on hold until we finish gathering evidence.”

  “Besides,” said Zengo, “the only dishwasher on the job just attacked Pandini and then flew out of the window of a skyscraper.”

  Irving Myers let out another sigh. “Couldn’t we do this all tomorrow?” he asked. “It’s been a long day.”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Zengo. “The longer we wait, the colder the trail.”

  “We’d like to ask the head chef a few questions,” said O’Malley.

  “Naturally,” said Myers, waving to a tall figure across the r
oom. “Jacques? Please come over here.”

  Jacques clopped over to the detectives. He wore a pristine white chef’s uniform, not a button askew—a remarkable feat considering how hectic this night must have been for him.

  “You’re the head chef at Black and White, aren’t you?” asked O’Malley.

  “I am, indeed,” said Jacques. “Have been since Pandini opened the restaurant.”

  “Well, congratulations,” said O’Malley. “Your joint is Kalamazoo’s only three-star restaurant, is that right?”

  Jacques nodded modestly.

  “The suspect was disguised as one of your employees, is that right?” O’Malley continued.

  “Yes, yes. Unfortunately, this is true,” Jacques said sheepishly. “He wore one of our white jackets, and had been washing dishes all night. But I’d never seen him before.”

  “And you didn’t think to ask who he was, or what he was doing in your kitchen?” asked O’Malley.

  “No, Detective, I didn’t. With this event coming up and things at Black and White continuing to heat up, we’d taken on a lot of new staff in recent weeks. I couldn’t keep track of everyone we’d hired.”

  “So, you think he must have . . . what? Snuck in with the catering trucks?” asked Zengo.

  Jacques locked eyes with Myers. “That would be my guess, yes—”

  “Excuse me, Detectives,” Myers interrupted, “it’s after ten p.m., and the waitstaff is growing restless. I’m afraid I must insist that they be allowed to go home.”

  O’Malley turned to Officer Casella. “Ask the staff if any of them spoke to the suspect, if they picked up anything that might be able to tell us who he is or where we could find him. After that, they’re free to go.”

  “You’ve got it.” Casella nodded and then gathered the other uniformed cops to wrap up the evening’s work.

  “Mr. Myers, I see that the penthouse is equipped with security cameras,” said O’Malley, pointing at the small lenses that dotted the ceiling. “We’d like the footage from tonight’s event sent over to PPS headquarters before you leave tonight.”

  “Certainly,” said the campaign manager.

  “Thank you. Now, I imagine you want to go get a good night’s rest. Tomorrow is going to be a busy day.”

  “It sure will be, Detective,” he said. “Thank you for your assistance.”

  On the way out of the penthouse, Zengo stopped and gazed out the wall of windows at the skyline of Kalamazoo City. No wonder Pandini walked around town like he owned the place. From up here, he must feel like the king of the world.

  “Heck of a view,” said Zengo.

  “It sure is,” said O’Malley, who was staring at a waiter carrying the last plate of Frank’s Franks.

  PLATYPUS POLICE SQUAD HEADQUARTERS, 8:55 A.M.

  It wasn’t even nine a.m. yet, and Zengo was already on his second cup of hot chocolate. O’Malley was pouring his fourth cup of coffee.

  Though they hadn’t slept over at the station the night before, they might as well have. Reporters, hungry for a comment, had followed Zengo and O’Malley back to headquarters after they had left Pandini Towers, and the detectives mulled over the evidence until after two in the morning, when the reporters gave up and it was safe to go outside. The few hours they slept in their own beds had not been nearly enough. At dawn they were wading back through the sea of reporters again to enter the station, and were now at the evidence board, trying to make sense of last night’s events.

  One thing had been established: they had no lead on figuring out who the mysterious assailant was. The only thing they knew—he was a flying squirrel.

  Zengo tapped at his wireless keyboard. Video footage of last evening’s fundraiser flashed up on the flat-screen monitor. “We don’t know this guy’s name. None of the catering crew has any clue who he is. We don’t even have a clear shot of his face. Pandini’s team had only one security camera installed in the kitchen, and it was locked on the grill.”

  “Makes sense. I’m sure Pandini was more worried about the quality of the food than the possibility of a criminal posing as a dishwasher,” commented O’Malley.

  “By the time the assailant stepped out of the kitchen in view of the penthouse cameras, he already had his ski mask on.” Zengo paused the video. “This blurry shot from the kitchen camera”—Zengo moved the footage forward three minutes—“and this one are the only images we have of his face before he put it on. And there’s no question that mustache he’s got is a fake.”

  O’Malley sipped his coffee. “What are we supposed to do? Drag every flying squirrel in the city into the station and hope one of them fesses up to the crime?”

  “I’ve already made a list of every costume shop in town that sells squirrel mustaches,” an unfamiliar voice called out from the back of the room.

  Zengo and O’Malley swiveled in their seats to find a woman in a sharp pantsuit. Her arms were crossed. She leaned against the wall as if she’d been standing there for a while.

  She walked to the evidence board. “Did you send screenshots of these two images to the forensic artists to create a composite of our guy here?”

  Our guy? thought Zengo. Who does this person think she is?

  That’s when Zengo caught a glimpse of the badge pinned to her pocket.

  “Darn those reporters!” Sergeant Plazinski burst through the door of the video bay and stopped short when he saw the stranger in the room. “Ah, gentlemen, I see that you’ve met the newest member of our team. Special Investigator Jo Cooper, I want you to meet Detectives Rick Zengo and Corey O’Malley. Two of our finest.”

  “Of course,” said Cooper. “The detectives who cracked the KC Dome case. Nice work, boys.”

  “That’s right.” Plazinski clapped a flipper on her shoulder. “Cooper here is a real superstar. She’s cut her teeth working for the state, but I persuaded her to bring her specialized training and expertise to KC. And just in time—we’ll need her help with the recent developments.”

  Zengo watched O’Malley mouth the word “Jo.” He could almost hear the gears turning in his partner’s head.

  “Nice to meet you,” said Zengo.

  “Welcome to the squad,” added O’Malley.

  “Thanks,” Cooper said, not taking her eyes off the evidence board.

  “Cooper’s last assignment was Atlantis City,” said Plazinski. “A second-rate police department has no business employing a first-rate special investigator like Cooper. I’ve been trying to get her to come work with us for a while now.”

  “The casinos run Atlantis City from top to bottom,” Cooper said. “I’m happy to be back in a city that’s still got some semblance of honor and justice.”

  “Cooper is Kalamazoo born and raised,” said the sergeant. “Quite the star of the field hockey team, if I remember.”

  “The state champion field hockey team.” Cooper smiled. Zengo remembered a field hockey team bringing a championship banner back to KC. He was in junior high then. If Cooper was older than he was, it wasn’t by much.

  “Sarge,” O’Malley began, “do you really think this is the kind of case to break in a new cop? I’ve got my hands full with Zengo already.”

  Zengo’s mouth fell open. “Thanks a lot, partner.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that—” O’Malley began, but Plazinski cut him off.

  “A candidate for mayor has been assaulted,” said the sergeant. “Frank Pandini Jr., no less. This is the highest-profile case we’ve seen in years, and the media is already going crazy out there. We need to wrap this up quick and clean. I think Cooper can help us out with that. And I don’t want to hear any more bill about it.”

  “Whenever you fellas are done,” said Cooper, taking her flipper out of her pocket and examining it, “maybe you could send those shots to forensics.”

  “Was just about to,” said O’Malley curtly.

  “Good,” said Cooper with a hard look. “While we wait for the image to come back, let’s divide up this list of costume shops
in town—”

  “One more thing before you do,” interrupted Plazinski. “I need to see all of you in my office. Diaz! Lucinni!” he barked suddenly. “I know you heard that!”

  “Yes, sir,” they said in unison. The two detectives slinked out from behind the door, where they’d been eavesdropping. Clowns indeed, thought Zengo.

  SERGEANT PLAZINSKI’S OFFICE, 9:35 A.M.

  “I don’t have to tell you all how important this case is,” said Sergeant Plazinski, pacing back and forth. He stopped in front of a photo of himself posing with Lieutenant Dailey, Zengo’s grandfather. “It’s been a long time since we’ve seen a case that has so shaken this city to its bones. And I need my best detectives working on it.”

  Zengo and O’Malley had taken the call last night to investigate the crime scene, which usually meant the case would be theirs, but Zengo had feared it wouldn’t be that simple this time around. Diaz and Lucinni were looking at everyone sideways, and Jo Cooper had her eyes locked on Plazinski. Zengo balled his flippers into fists. This was just the sort of case he needed to finally prove himself. And he knew he was ready.

  “I want the perp in custody YESTERDAY!” thundered Plazinski. He pulled up the window blinds and pointed at the sea of reporters still out on the precinct’s front lawn. “I don’t have to tell you all that the media is going to skewer us if we don’t bring swift justice. Whoever the next mayor is, I don’t want his first act to be shutting down the Platypus Police Squad.”

  “You got that right, Chief,” said O’Malley, nodding. All the other detectives nodded too.

  But who was going to get the case? The suspense was killing Zengo. The detectives snuck more glances at each other, then at Plazinski, who was looking down at his desk. The tapping of his pencil on the case file was the only sound in the room.

  Finally, the chief looked up. “The lead detectives on this are going to be O’Malley . . .”

  Zengo stood up and shot Diaz and Lucinni a look. In your face, he thought.