The Halfway to Hell Club

by MARK J. McCRACKEN

  “Eat your toast. You’re evil, Inspector, and stop saying harsh words about my fellow brethren of the bar.”

  “You know, I keep forgetting that you too are a scumbag pettifogger. And by the way, pal, she’s your client. I don’t see you running in on a white horse and saving her.”

  “She’s not my client anymore. I am just an interested bystander. We’ll see if she needs saving first, all right?”

  Vinnie took his car and I drove the Ford to the hospital. We parked in the DOCTORS ONLY parking area and started looking over Connie’s Cadillac LaSalle. It felt great to get dirty looks from doctors coming to work. Yes, I am parked in your space. Drop dead.

  Vinnie looked in the jockey box; I looked under all the seats. We ran out hands between the front seat and the center console. Nothing. I checked the ashtray; there were Camels with red lipstick and English Ovals without the lipstick. Randall Morehouse was a Lucky smoker like me. I found it kind of strange that he didn’t have a deck of butts on him when he died.

  We opened the trunk. I lifted the rubber mat and lo and behold, we found a blue piece of paper. I had Vinnie put it in an evidence bag for future use. Just as we closed up the car and moved our rigs to the front of the hospital, out came two uniforms with Connie Morehouse in tow.

  The procession of cars headed to police headquarters. I met the group in an interrogation room. Dr. Constance Morehouse was looking pretty carefree about the whole thing. This was Vinnie’s show, but I knew I couldn’t keep my mush shut.

  I offered Connie a Lucky. She accepted and I lit it for her.

  “Sorry, I know it’s not your usual brand, English Ovals. Oh, sorry about that. You smoke Camels, Wheeler smokes the Ovals.”

  She gave me a dirty look, but she kept her mouth closed.

  Vinnie came in and got right after her. “Doctor Morehouse, what is your connection to Anthony Giovanni?”

  “Who?” she responded coolly.

  I cut in. “That’s Jonathan Wheeler’s real name.”

  “Oh. He is my late husband’s business partner.”

  A couple of uniforms came in, and a couple more inspectors joined the party. The extra cops made the room feel smaller and Connie more nervous. That was the idea.

  Vinnie was really good at this. He liked to keep suspects off balance by changing the questions around, and speeding up and slowing down the interview.

  “When did you find out your husband was dead?”

  “Yesterday when I got to the hospital,” she said softly.

  “Wow, four surgeries in one day. Your old man wasn’t even stiff yet and you were going about your business.”

  That got a rise out of her. “I guess that’s what separates doctors from the rest of us: that cool-under-pressure demeanor.”

  He looked through the file he had in his hands.

  “When did you last see your husband, Doctor?”

  “He left the house last Monday and I haven’t seen him since.”

  “Are you absolutely sure about that, Doctor?”

  “Of course I am.”

  He looked at me. “Hey, Sean, where were you last Wednesday afternoon?”

  “I spent the late morning and entire afternoon at Bay Meadows following Mr. Morehouse and Mr. Giovanni.”

  Vinnie was playing it up.

  “So the last time you saw your husband was Monday, and you didn’t see him any time after that, is that correct Doctor?”

  She was starting to steam. “How many different ways do you want me to say it, pal? No.”

  “Well, I don’t understand something, Doctor. How did this get in the trunk of your car?” Vinnie slid the piece of paper we found in her car trunk.

  “What is that? I’ve never seen it before. What is it?”

  Vinnie smiled and pointed to me. “It’s your turn, pal.”

  “That, Doctor Morehouse, is a betting slip from the last race on Wednesday at Bay Meadows Racetrack. Your husband placed a one-dollar bet on the final race, two-to-one odds, and won. The line was so long to collect that he put it in his hip pocket of his suit. How did a Wednesday betting slip end up in the trunk of your car when you hadn’t seen him since Monday?”

  She was holding together, but showing signs of cracking.

  “You hired me to find out what your husband was up to. It was gambling, not another woman. You wanted to know who held his debts. You used me to find out if there was anybody other than Wheeler. So you and that lowlife Giovanni cooked up a great deal. He kept him gambling and drinking, all the while you and he are splitting the sheets. I really felt sorry for your husband; he deserved a better deal than you for a wife.”

  “Screw you, O’Farrell.” She spit the words out with relish.

  I was all fired up and kept up the assault.

  “I’ll tell you exactly what happened to your husband. He was falling apart and you were tired of him. You had a new boyfriend, one with special skills. He got your husband alone, clubbed him, and threw him in the trunk of your car. Your husband came to and hid the betting ticket under the mat for a clue. My guess is Giovanni drove your old man’s Model A. It didn’t have a trunk, so he drove his car and you drove your husband to the Golden Gate Bridge. Giovanni clubbed him again. You kept watch for headlights, and when the coast was clear, he threw Randall Morehouse to his death. You make me want to puke, lady. You are one sick twist. I’ll bet you got wet hearing your husband scream all the way to his death.”

  She came out of the chair and flailed her hands at my face. I pushed her back into her seat, hard.

  “My, my, Miss Kitty has claws. You screwed up in a couple of areas, angel. First, Giovanni took the key for the Model A with him. Your husband had a set of keys on him, but it didn’t have the Model A key. Where did it go? Your husband was a chimney. He was always smoking. No butts on his person. Once again, Giovanni was nervous and took your husband’s smokes because he needed one. A man needs a smoke right after a quick murder. Giovanni is a crook, but that doesn’t mean he is smart enough for you. Right after you fired me, I broke into the offices of Morehouse and Wheeler. I found this little interesting piece of paper.”

  I threw a legal document on the table. “It’s a copy of the partnership agreement between Morehouse and Wheeler. A fifty-fifty partnership, how cozy, Morehouse does all the work, gambles and drinks, while Wheeler covers his backside. He was expecting a big cut. Giovanni knows how to murder little kids; he should have paid attention to learning how to read. In the event of Randall Morehouse’s death, it all goes to his widow, Doctor Constance Morehouse, and Giovanni and the Chicago boys get squat.

  “What a convenient time for his death. The final payment for his services in designing the Oakland Bay Bridge is coming now that the project is complete. Six hundred thousand dollars and it’s all yours, baby; you don’t have to share it with your boy toy.

  Connie looked trapped now. I kept pouring it on.

  “Everything was going great for you, until you fired me and I kept poking around. Wheeler got scared and brought in a chopper squad from Chicago to get rid of a loose end, and then you stood across the street and fingered me for the shooters. By the way, Connie, this is Inspector Vincent Castellano. It was his wife and daughter in the lobby when the shooting started. His little eight-year-old got hit in the leg. I am sure he would like to hit you, but he can’t. He would lose his job.

  I hauled off and backhanded her. “But, I can do anything I want. I’m a private guy. I have a rule about never hitting a woman. But I am breaking all the rules today.”

  I backhanded her again. She was steaming, but she kept her mouth shut.

  Vinnie took over. “We can’t stick you for the murder, but we got you for accessory to murder. Once we get your boyfriend in custody, we’ll get the whole picture.”

  The door opened and a couple of police matrons came into the room. “On your feet. Doc
tor Constance Morehouse. You are under arrest for accessory to murder.”

  The matrons cuffed her hands behind her back. Connie was keeping it together, but I was sick of her smug look.

  “Hey, Vinnie, do me a favor, will you. When you leave the room, turn out the lights. I want to save as much juice as we can, so there is plenty when they give blondie here the electric solution. Connie, still want me to rub your back and other parts for you?”

  She went completely insane. It took both of those matrons to haul her ass out of the room. She was screaming all the way.

  “O’Farrell, you asshole, I’ll kill you for this. I’ll take care of you, you’ll pay for this, you coldhearted bastard. Do you hear me, O’Farrell?”

  The door was still open, and we could hear her being dragged down the hall, kicking and screaming.

  Vinnie was impressed. “Nice going, Sean. The matrons are going to love you for this. She is going to be a handful until we get her in front of the judge. Couldn’t you keep your pie hole shut just this one time?”

  I smiled and ignored Vinnie. “Think she’ll make bail?”

  “Doctor, loads of cash, good looking, helps cops with bullets in them. She’ll get a mouthpiece that knows the score. She’ll arrive in court looking like a lost puppy. The judge will cry and she’ll walk on bail. But that will be tomorrow morning. For the time being she gets to sit in jail and meet all the nice hookers we grab up tonight.”

  “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer gal. Hey, Vinnie, do me a favor, will you?”

  “Sure, what’s that?”

  I took an envelope out of my suit coat jacket. “I need you opinion. Should I deliver her final bill down in Central Booking or should I just drop it in the mail?”

  Vinnie was laughing.

  “You really are a coldhearted bastard, aren’t you?”

  I lit a butt and threw the match in the ashtray. “Yes, I am.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  It was just like Vinnie called it. Connie Morehouse made bail the next morning. I sent my bill in the mail, and to my surprise a check for the entire amount arrived two weeks later.

  One Sunday after mass, Danny O’Day came up to me and filled me in on Connie’s case. It wasn’t a federal case, but he had talked to Mark Maple, the deputy district attorney who was assigned the case. He was sitting tight until they found Giovanni or Wheeler or whatever the hell his name was. I had to admit, the case against her was largely circumstantial. Wheeler could have used her car without her knowledge. She could have been a victim of this scumball just like her husband. It was strange; I had moments when I was convinced she was involved, and others when I just wasn’t quite sure. Time would tell.

  Kaitlin and I had the best time on Labor Day weekend. We went to a Seals game on Saturday, then dancing in the evening. On Sunday, I went to an early Mass with her family at their church, St. Brigid. We had started to go back and forth between my church, St. Peter and Paul, and St. Brigid. I was starting to like St. Brigid’s, just being a parishioner instead of running around and taking care of everything.

  We went for breakfast with her folks at the Top of the Mark; it was wonderful, the food and service was excellent. They could have served chipped beef on toast and I would have been happy, because I was with Kaitlin.

  The afternoon was beautiful, sunny and breezy. Kaitlin and I had been planning an outing for some time, and I put the top down on the Ford Model A. We drove across the Oakland Bay Bridge and went to Oaks Stadium for the last game of the regular season game between the Oaks and the Seals. The Seals lost, 11-9, but it was a great game.

  We drove across the bridge as the sun began to set. It was breathtaking. When we got back on our side of the bay, we drove to a little joint on Fisherman’s Wharf. We sat outside at a table and had clam chowder and fresh sourdough. The sun produced all of the colors you would expect: yellow, orange, red, blue and purple. We sat holding hands for over an hour. We chatted, but mostly we enjoyed the view and each other’s company.

  When it got dark, I put the top up and we drove over to Kaitlin’s. It was six forty-five, and the Jack Benny Show would be coming on in a few minutes. It was my job to make popcorn. As the kernels were popping away, Kaitlin got a couple of glasses with ice and two bottles of Coke from the refrigerator. A moment later, I put the popcorn in a big bowl and we sat on the couch just in time for Jack Benny.

  But it was not meant to be.

  I heard the siren from a distance; I could hear it coming up the hill. When the car turned into the driveway, it left no doubt that the police were here. Crap!

  I opened the door and walked to the driveway. Vinnie Castellano was leaning against the car door with one foot on the running board.

  “Come on, Vinnie. It’s Sunday.”

  “Get your hat, pal. Chin Wang was just murdered in his club.”

  I knew when not to barber. I got my hat and kissed Kaitlin, then got my .45 out of the trunk and put it on. I slipped my coat on. By this time, Shamus and Catherine were in the driveway. They said nothing, but there was concern in their eyes.

  I started to get in the prowl car when I changed my mind and walked over to Shamus. He was standing to the side; Kaitlin and her mother were talking separately.

  “Shamus, I can’t live like this anymore. I need to change things for myself, and more importantly for Kaitlin.”

  I didn’t wait for an answer or a response; it was more of a statement to Shamus and myself.

  The prowler peeled out and headed for Chinatown.

  “What do you know, Vinnie?”

  “Not a whole lot. All I know is Wang was sitting at his desk. He took a couple or more in the pump. The Chief assigned me this case because of my connection to you. He thinks you are a straight shooter, Sean; he thinks you might be able to help us out here since you worked a case for Wang. His people might be more cooperative with you involved.”

  We pulled up the Chinese American Club and it was like the circus had come to town. Six prowl cars, photographers everywhere, loads of reporters. But, surprisingly, not Madison Cooper. Maybe he had found a better story to write.

  We walked through the club. Right outside Wang’s office, the real show was underway. Chief Inspector O’Malley was already there and was verbally sparring with William Broadcreek. Ashwythe and Dunderbeck were standing behind them, looking out of place. Guess what they were arguing about?

  Broadcreek was in rare form. “This is an organized crime figure. We are currently investigating his organization. We are in charge of this investigation, period.”

  Gallatin jumped right in undeterred. “There is no evidence of anything right now. It’s simply a homicide. It’s our case, period.”

  These two just can’t play nice in the sandbox. I told Vinnie to pull his guys back and I would talk to the FBI guys.

  I grabbed Broadcreek’s arm and jerked him back to a corner. Ashwythe and Dunderbeck followed.

  “Look Mr. Broadcreek, you can’t get anywhere near this case. Not right now, anyway.”

  “Like hell. I have full authority over this case, and if—”

  I cut him off. “Think this over. You claim jurisdiction and every newshound in the area, including that little shit Cooper, will dig until they are in China. Imagine the headline: SENIOR DEPUTY ATTORNEY GENERAL SUSPECT IN CRIME BOSS DEATH.”

  “I had nothing to do with this and you know it.”

  “Of course I know that. I don’t know you real well, but I know you well enough that you would never do anything like this. But your only daughter is dating Wang’s only son. You have had a long antagonistic relationship with Wang, throw in the personal element, and you are served up fresh with hash browns by the press. The truth doesn’t mean anything to William Randolph Hearst; all he wants to do is sell newspapers. You don’t want to be the next Fatty Arbuckle, do you?”

  “Jesus” was all he could s
ay. The wheels were working in his head.

  “Vincent Castellano is a top-drawer inspector. You let the locals take the lead. Bill and Dave here will join in and be kept fully in the loop; they will be part of the investigation. But as far as the press is concerned, you guys are providing technical assistance and expertise. You are extending a handshake of cooperation and all that crap to the press. It keeps your name out of it. When the press dies down in a week, you can step in, and no one’s hair gets mussed. You duke it out with the locals, it will make you look petty. And if the press makes the connection with your daughter, it will look like you have something to hide.

  “You wanted the investigation so you could control it, because you were involved. GET IT? Plus, you will slow everything in the investigation down.”

  When emotion isn’t ruling him, Broadcreek is a smart guy.

  “Okay, Sean, work it out with the locals. We’ll play along.”

  Chief Gallatin was less than cooperative.

  “Like hell I will let them play on this one. Broadcreek can go screw.”

  “That’s not the smart play, Chief. If Broadcreek pushes and gets a federal judge to sign a writ, you will be standing out in front of this building with your dick in your hand. Then you will have to explain to all those newsies out there how you had the rug pulled out from under you in your own town by the FBI.”

  Chief Inspector O’Malley nodded. “It’s the smart political move, Chuck.”

  I kept going. “Vinnie here will head things up; Broadcreek’s guys will join in and help. You take the lion’s share of the credit. You and Broadcreek can walk out together and kiss each other’s ass in front of the press. You both put a positive face on both organizations and you look good doing it. Meanwhile, we get going and investigate and keep a lid on this thing.”

  Now Gallatin was nodding.

  “You are a smart one, O’Farrell. Vinnie, why isn’t this guy one of my inspectors?”

  I have to hand it to the Chief and Bill Broadcreek. They went out front and had a brilliant press conference. The Chief was smooth and thanked the FBI for their valuable assistance. Broadcreek told the press that this very well could be a federal case in the future, but the SFPD was handling the case so well that their role would be advisory. Broadcreek praised Inspector Vincent Castellano for his professionalism. Chief Gallatin praised Special Agents Ashwythe and Dunderbeck for their expertise and assistance. Both men shook hands and the flash bulbs popped.