Page 60 of One In Vermillion

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Skye Blue had an apartment in a building snazzy enough to have a doorman. In Manhattan, doormen were a unique breed, often passing the position down through the family. Technically, okay, doorperson. Whatever. I had no idea what they were like in Cincy.

This guy was at my door before I turned the engine off.

“Loading zone,” he said, indicating for me to move on.

I looked up and down the street. There was barely any traffic. It wasn’t like this was Park Avenue. It was Cincinnati with pretensions of, I don’t know, maybe Cleveland? I flashed my badge at him.

“That isn’t Cincy PD,” he said, proving he could read. “Who are you here to see?”

“Skye Blue.”

He half smirked. “Really?”

He was a terrible doorman and a jerk. I shoved open the Gladiator’s door, forcing him to stumble back a step. I locked the Gladiator as I walked in the lobby. The guy hustled to open the inner door, finally wising up.

I took the elevator up and rapped on her door and waited. It took a while. Then I heard her muffled voice on the other side of the door.

“What the fuck do you want?”

“I want to talk about Cleve Blue. Pete OneTree. Thomas Thacker. Cash Porter.”

I thought that was enough shots that one of them might entice her to open the door.

“Good for you,” she muttered. “Beat it.”

“Did you hear about your cousin Jimmy?”

There was a pause, and then she said, “What about Jimmy?”

“Somebody forced him off the road yesterday and into the ravine. He’s dead.”

There was the rattle of a chain, then two locks unbolted. When she swung the door open, she was pale, her eyes huge. She hadn’t known about Jimmy. “Who did it?”

“We don’t know yet. Maybe one of the Wolves.”

“No,” she said. “That’s not how they kill people. Why would they anyway?”

“Can I come in?”

She stepped back and I walked in.

She was dressed in lounge-around sweats, and though the place was a bit unkempt, it was six times the size of both my Big Chefs combined so her unkempt was spread around, which looked better than concentrated in a small area like mine was. She had a balcony with a view of the dark and bloody river.

“What was he doing?” she said. “Why would . . . ” Her voice trailed off.

“He had two hundred thousand dollars on his bike when he went over the edge.”

That got to her. Her face twisted, angry, but she didn’t say anything, so I decided to keep pushing.

“Why do you know so much about the Wolves?” I knew from gossip that she wasn’t Cleve’s biological daughter, so I said, “Is Pete OneTree your father?”

She looked annoyed. “He’s more my sperm donor. Cleve was my father.”

“How did Cleve feel about your sperm donor?”

She shook her head. “He didn’t throw Faye back to Over-the-Hill, and he didn’t disown me, as you can tell.” She indicated the apartment. “So he took it pretty well, I’d say. Who do you think hit Jimmy?”

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