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Chase explained that most criminals of Mr. Friday’s level own many legal businesses, which they use as a front for their criminal activities, and also to launder some of that black money they make by selling drugs and other stuff.

Tyrone himself was a very nice guy of about Tex’s age, looking more like a favorite uncle than a drug kingpin.

“Oh, Mr. Kingsley!” he said the moment we set paw inside his place of business. “Come in, come in! What can I offer you?”

“I’m good, thanks,” said Chase, holding up a hand in defiance of the man’s hospitality. “I’m afraid we’re here on official police business, Tyrone.”

“Well, isn’t that too bad. I really was hoping this was a social call.”

The man had one of those round faces that was surrounded by a fringe of hair all around, and a sort of stripe in the middle that was his mustache. It made for a nicely symmetrical view, which is always pleasing to the eye.

“So what’s this about?” asked Tyrone, once we are all seated at his table. Well, the humans were seated, while Dooley and I remained with our paws firmly on the floor.

“Dylon Pipe,” said Chase curtly.

“Oh, terrible business,” said Tyrone, shaking his head. “Such a waste. He was a great talent. In fact I own several of his paintings.” He pointed to a painting that hung just above us. It was a beach scene, with many colorful umbrellas. It wasn’t much to look at, but then of course I’m not an expert. “An original Dylon Pipe,” said Tyrone proudly. “And of course, sad as it makes me to say this, it will probably increase in value now that the artist has died.” He spread his arms, palms upward. “But then I guess such is life.”

“You don’t think he killed Dylon just so he could make his paintings go up in value, do you, Max?” asked Dooley.

“I doubt it, Dooley. For one thing, I don’t think Dylon’s work is all that valuable to begin with. And a hundred percent increase of nothing is still nothing.”

“Rumor has it that Dylon was doing more for you than merely decorating your restaurant, Tyrone,” said Chase.

“Oh, that’s right. He worked the kitchen from time to time. Dishwasher, you know. The kid couldn’t cook, but he could wash a mean dish.” And he grinned widely, as if he’d just told the funniest joke.

“You know what I mean.”

Tyrone quickly sobered.“Look, Detective, suppose just for a moment that Dylon did work for me in the capacity I think you’re implying, now why would that be relevant to the way he died?”

“Because your line of business isn’t exactly without risk, is it, Tyrone?”

“The restaurant business?” he asked innocently. “No, I guess you could say there’s some risk attached to what I do. Plenty of competition and a fickle clientele.”

“Oh, cut the crap, Tyrone. You know perfectly well what I mean.”

The restaurateur smiled a fine smile.“Okay, so suppose I do know what you mean, now why would I be implicated in that young man’s death?”

“You tell me.”

“No, you tell me. Give me one good reason why I would want Dylon dead.”

“Maybe he owed you money?”

“And why would I murder a man who owed me money? Dead men don’t pay, Detective. So that would be a very stupid thing to do, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Okay, so maybe he stole from you? Took more than he was owed?”

“Once again, what would I gain by killing a man, even if he did steal from me? Wouldn’t it be a lot smarter to make him pay up?”

“You could be sending a message to some of your other… collaborators. To discourage them from doing the same thing?”

“Look, I know what you’re driving at, Detective,” said Tyrone, rubbing his rather rotund belly, “but I can assure you, this is no way to do business. At least it’s not the way I do business. If someone steals from me, I don’t go around bashing their brains in. It doesn’t work like that. Do I make sure they compensate me? Of course. But I do so in a civilized manner. Not with murder!” And he laughed, as if the mere notion was ludicrous, which perhaps it was to him.

He certainly didn’t look like a vicious killer. More like a fun Santa Claus.

“Look, I can see that you’re stuck, Detective,” said Tyrone finally. “Which is why you came to me. Because if you weren’t stuck, you’d know that I couldn’t possibly be involved in this nasty business. And now I hear a second man was murdered.” He shook his head. “Absolutely not mystyle. So I’m going to do you a favor. I’m going to give you the name of the person I think might be involved.” And he took a piece of paper and wrote down a name and slid it across the table.

“Bronson Shagreen?” asked Chase. “Who’s he?”

“An artist, like Dylon. And from what Dylon told me, not his biggest fan.”

CHAPTER 32

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We found Bronson Shagreen, the artist, at Town Hall, where he was instrumental in creating a unique work of art to enliven the main atrium, the place most citizens see when they pay a visit there for Town Hall business.