by Rick Polad
“No. She did not have any family that she talked about. No one ever called.”
“Hmm. That’s too bad. It’s nice to have family.”
Margaret nodded and wiped her eyes with a kleenex. “But there was someone with a key.”
“Oh? Who was that?”
“A few weeks ago Miss Brock hired a man to do work on the house. She gave him a key in case I was not here.”
“Did you meet the man?”
“Yes. He was a big man. See the cabinets? He was making them new.”
“Was he someone Miss Brock knew? A friend maybe?”
“Oh no,” Margaret said fervently. “She never knew him before.”
“Do you know where she met him?”
She looked down. “No. I do not ask such things.”
“I understand,” Rosie said gently. “Do you know his name?”
“Yes. Mr. Charles Lamb.”
“How many times did he come?”
“Oh, he came every day. He is still working.” She pointed to the cabinets. “See, the cabinets are not finished. He has more work to do.”
“Was he coming today?”
“I think. But I am not so sure.”
“What time did he start?”
“Usually nine o’clock. But he would come early. I saw him sometimes. He would go sit on the beach before he worked.”
“Did anything seem strange about Mr. Lamb?”
Margaret tried to think of something. She was sure Mr. Lamb had killed Miss Brock, but there was nothing she could think of. She shook her head. “I do not know.”
“He should be here soon,” said Rosie, glancing at her watch. Rosie knew he wouldn’t be able to get out to the beach. And, if he was expected and didn’t show up, that would be meaningful.
“Do you know if Miss Brock kept his phone number somewhere?”
“No. I think she didn’t know his phone number. She just knew his name.”
“How did they arrange when he would come?”
Margaret shrugged. “I do not know. He just came every day.”
Rosie leaned in closer to Margaret. “Doesn’t that seem strange to you, Margaret? Miss Brock hiring someone without even having his phone number?”
Margaret looked down. “What Miss Brock did was not my business.”
Rosie knew she wasn’t going to get any more out of Margaret even if she did know something.
Rosie folded her hands again and leaned towards Margaret. “Did Miss Brock work, Margaret?”
No answer.
“Do you not know?”
Margaret stared right through Rosie.
“It’s okay, you know. Some people don’t have to work. I wish I didn’t have to. I’m just wondering. Maybe someone she worked with would know something.”
Margaret looked thoughtful and brought her eyes back to Rosie. “How about Mr. Lamb?”
“Yes. That’s a good lead. We’ll talk to Mr. Lamb. Can you think of anything else that might help?”
Margaret said nothing, but looked like she was wrestling with something.
Rosie reached out and rested her hand on Margaret’s arm. “Is there something you want to tell me, Margaret?”
Margaret breathed shallowly and quickly and set her jaw. “Miss Brock did work.” She sat as solid as a rock.
“Where did she work, Margaret?”
“I do not know that.”
“What do you know?”
She gave up whatever struggle she was having and said, “I know what she did.” She looked right at Rosie. “She had dates. Very late.”
“Dates? What do you mean?”
“I mean she had dates—dates that men paid her for.”
Rosie wasn’t surprised. “Are you saying she was a prostitute?”
She gave Rosie a stern look. “I am not saying. It is not my business.”
“Okay. That’s okay, Margaret. But you are saying that Miss Brock was paid by men to go out with them.”
She nodded. It was obvious this was hard for her, and Rosie didn’t want to make it any harder. It was also obvious what Miss Brock did for a living.
The screen door slammed shut and Steele came back in. The cigar was nowhere in sight. “Everything is locked up. If somebody got in, they locked up on the way out.”
Rosie nodded.
Steele looked nervous, like he was waiting for orders. “Mind if I go back out? I’ll take a look at the beach.”
“Just a second. Martin, would you stay with Margaret and get her address and phone?”
Martin nodded and pulled a chair next to Margaret.
Rosie walked out in the hall with Steele. “We need to get ahold of Andrews and Spanell.”
“Why?”
“Guess what Miss Brock did for a living.”
“Yeah, those messages weren’t for music lessons. But, by the looks of this place, she didn’t play in the same league as our other ladies.”
“That’s for sure. Pretty high-end. Probably catering to corporate America. But nevertheless…”
“I’ll give them a call.”
“Right. Would you make a sweep of the beach? I had them tape off beyond the rocks to the north and down to the breakwall to the south. We’re missing a murder weapon. Those rocks might be a good drop spot. Or if it was thrown in the water, it may have washed up somewhere.”
“Who’d be that stupid?” asked Steele.
“We don’t deal with geniuses.”
Steele nodded.
Rosie started up the stairs, wondering if Miss Brock was killed in the early hours of Saturday or Sunday.
* * *
Doc Naggy was standing in front of the picture window looking out at the lake.
Rosie joined him.
“So peaceful,” he said. “Draw a line a mile offshore and you enter a world free of the human stench.”
Rosie was surprised. “Didn’t know you were a philosopher.”
He just took a deep breath.
“Why a mile?” she asked.
Still looking out as the sun moved behind a cloud, Doc said, “Just an arbitrary number. To some distance offshore, humans are using the lake to kill themselves or dump their violence. Coast Guard finds a bloated, floating body, or they wash ashore.” He shook his head.
Rosie had never had a conversation with Doc about anything besides autopsies and was surprised by this look into his personal world.
“What about the fish?” she asked.
“What about the fish?” he asked with a confused look.
She shrugged. “Pretty violent even without humans. Fish are being eaten by other fish all the time.”
“Survival, not mindless violence. Everything out there has a purpose.”
“I guess. But violence has a purpose, even if it’s mindless. You have a time of death?”
He gave her a disgusted look. “Why do you guys always do that to me? Drives me nuts. Of course I don’t have a time of death. Won’t have it till I do the autopsy.”
Back on familiar ground with the Doc, Rosie said, “Okay, semantics. You know what I mean. How about a window? It would help to know if it was Saturday or Sunday morning.”
“Early morning hours Saturday. I’d say between three and seven.”
So the timing fit—but the victim didn’t. Perhaps Friday had stepped up in the world.
* * *
Rosie returned to the kitchen. Martin and Margaret were again chatting.
“Margaret, did you take the bus today?” asked Rosie.
“Yes.”
“Are you okay taking the bus home?”
“Yes, I can walk to the stop.”
“Okay, I’ll walk you out.”
Margaret stood up. “I just have a purse in the dining room. I will get it.” Then she stopped and looked down at the floor and started shaking. “I do not have a job anymore.”
Rosie touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Margaret.”
Rosie held the screen door for Margaret who had stopped in the bathroom to f
reshen up a bit. On the way out, Rosie warned her about the crowd and told her just to ignore them. Margaret paused at the door and glanced behind her. Knowing she was thinking about Miss Brock, Rosie watched her face again fill with sorrow. But, in the few seconds it took to turn back to the door, Margaret was again composed and stern and ready for the crowd. She had known hardship, thought Rosie. And she also knew how to deal with it.
Chapter 62
Charles stood in partial sun and watched the house along with the rest of the crowd. He saw policemen and detectives come and go. One detective checked all the windows and the front door. Maybe it was a burglary, Charles thought. Someone must have known about all the money Amanda kept and broken in. He wondered if they found the money. He wanted to go in and ask Amanda if she needed help with anything, but stayed behind the tape. And every time a policeman came near, Charles turned his head.
At a little after nine, the door opened again and Charles watched as Margaret slowly walked out, stepping very carefully. She was followed by what must have been another detective, a lady. As they stepped down onto the driveway, the detective put her arm around Margaret’s shoulder. The detective asked one of the policemen to help clear a path through the crowd.
Trying to catch Margaret’s eye, Charles barely raised his hand to wave, but Margaret was looking down at the ground. He decided that when they were gone he would try to get in and talk to Amanda.
As Margaret reached the sidewalk she glanced up, looking almost directly at him. She was still about fifty feet away and he wondered if she saw him because she didn’t react right away. He smiled, and then knew that she recognized him. But the look on her face wasn’t very friendly. In fact, she looked terrified.
* * *
As she walked down the broken, concrete driveway, Margaret kept her head down, trying to ignore all the people in the street. She wanted to scream at them to go away and leave Miss Brock in peace. She found herself switching quickly between anger and sadness and was thankful for Detective Lonnigan. She let herself be guided down the driveway.
At the end of the driveway, they stepped into a patch of grass and Margaret almost lost her balance. She grabbed Rosie’s arm. As she looked up into the crowd, she looked straight into the face of Charles Lamb. A wave of terror immediately swept through her and she tightened her grip on Rosie. The sun was playing through the trees and the breeze was moving shadows across the faces. At first, she wasn’t entirely sure it was him. But after a few seconds she knew. It was Charles Lamb.
Margaret let go of Rosie and pointed and shouted, “That is Charles Lamb. That is the man who killed Miss Brock!”
* * *
Charles’ smile quickly turned into fear. What did she say? Amanda was dead—and Margaret was accusing him. He couldn’t believe what he had heard. Why would she say that? Miss Brock was the best thing that ever happened to him. It all seemed like it was moving in slow motion. But Margaret was still pointing at him, still glaring at him with a look of horror.
The lady with Margaret was looking where Margaret was pointing—in his direction, but not directly at him. He moved back, mixing with the crowd, and tried to move away, but the crowd had penned him in. Not able to afford the time to be polite, Charles started to push. People complained, but he ignored them. And since he was bigger than most of them, they started to clear a path and he was able to move faster. When he got to the edge of the crowd, he ran back to his car.
When he reached his car he was panting heavily. He fumbled with the keys, trying to unlock the door, then banged his head as he got in. What should have been an effortless job starting the car turned into horror. Charles panicked as his fingers took way too long to get the key into the ignition. Finally, the engine roared and he put the car in gear.
Sheridan was blocked by police cars in both directions, so Charles headed west on Glenlake. He had no idea why Margaret said what she did, but did know that the police would soon be after him.
Charles wouldn’t be able to remember exactly how many, but he had been arrested three times in the last five years, once for battery in a bar, and two for domestic abuse. Sarah had accused him of hurting her. He was never sure if he was guilty or not. Too much drinking had always left him with no memory of the things she accused him of, or the time she said he did it. But he had spent time in jail.
As he drove west, he decided to stop at the bar where he did his drinking and do some thinking. He hoped the police wouldn’t be able to find him. Miss Brock didn’t have his address.
The farther he got from Mandy’s house, the safer Charles felt. There were no sirens or red lights, no sign of anyone chasing him. As time went by, Charles calmed down and the panic subsided. A beer would help him think. The bar would be open by the time he got there.
* * *
The neon signs in the window of Lights Out came on as Charles drove up. He ordered a beer and took it to a table. He hadn’t seen the bartender before. He only came at night—and usually on the weekends.
The first beer was gone quickly, and he ordered another.
He thought of Miss Brock and his hands began to shake. Why would someone kill her? And why would Margaret think he did? It was unbelievable. Maybe she really wasn’t dead. Maybe he had misunderstood. But the police were there and an ambulance and all those people.
He thought about Margaret. Miss Brock had made him feel like part of the family, but Margaret had treated him like an intruder. She was never friendly, but Charles didn’t know why. He was always nice to her.
He struggled to remember the weekend. He had been out drinking Friday and Saturday night and had no memory of most of Saturday or Sunday.
Chapter 63
Laura sat on her bed with the shades drawn and thought about Florida; sunshine, warmth, her favorite beach, and the view of the bay out of her balcony window. She was tired of living in seclusion.
But she had put herself in this position and had to accept the consequences. It had not been an easy decision. For over a year, she had been asking questions on the street that some people might not want asked. And she was sure those people would have no qualms about getting her to stop. But she wasn’t afraid. She was sure the men around her could deal with any threats. There had been a few territory disputes and drunks who simply needed some persuasion. Stretch had wanted to deal with the drunks, but she had assured him she could handle them herself. She had a few rays of hope about what she was looking for, but nothing that led to any concrete results.
Laura actually looked forward to her evening walks. She was sure her team could deal with anything that happened. Spencer Manning was proof of that. But, other than trips to the store for food, that was the only time she got out. She was the one who had set this up, but having to call Stretch every time she wanted to go out at a time that wasn’t already arranged was getting old. She longed for the simple freedom of taking a walk down a Chicago street, much less on a hot beach in Florida.
Chapter 64
Rosie scanned the crowd and asked Margaret to point out Mr. Lamb, but he had disappeared. She asked Margaret to stand with an officer and keep looking. She called the station from the house and asked for information on Charles Lamb. A minute later, she had a phone number and an address on the south side of Chicago. Rosie filled in Lieutenant Powolski on the prostitute angle and Charles Lamb. Perhaps they just got lucky. Stosh agreed that she and Steele should head to Lamb’s address to question him. Detectives from Area South would meet her there.
“Okay,” said Rosie. “We’ll be a half hour at least.”
“Right. I’ll bring the captain up to speed.”
Steele was standing at the edge of the rocks.
“Put out the smoke, Steele. We’re heading south.”
He pushed the cigar onto a boulder and put it back in his mouth. “Nice day for a drive. Any special reason?”
“Margaret says the handyman killed Brock. She spotted him in the crowd and then he took off. Lives on the south side. South detectives are on their
way.”
* * *
Rosie and Steele drove along the lake to 35th Street and headed west. A half hour later they turned onto Grace and slowed, looking for a white Chevy Impala as they approached the address. It was not in sight, but an unmarked car was parked several houses down from Lamb’s. Rosie parked and walked over to the car.
“Morning. Lonnigan, 18th.”
The driver nodded. “Perry and Walsh. You got the lead on this?”
“Yes, we’d like to question him. He’s been ID’d by the housekeeper, but we have no evidence.”
“Right. Less paperwork I have to do the better. How’d she die?”
“Stabbed. Chest and eye.”
“Eye? Don’t see that much. Any ideas?”
“Nope. Like I said, we’ve got nothing. We’ll wait with you and see if he shows.”
Rosie returned to her Ford and told Steele the plan. They put ten bucks on a show-up time. She took after noon and Steele before. It was 10:15.
While they waited, they got a call with priors on Charles Lamb. Two arrests for domestic abuse and one for battery at a bar. He had attacked a woman he accused of being a prostitute.
Chapter 65
Steele spotted the white Chevy a little before eleven-thirty coming slowly down the street from the north. A man matching Lamb’s description was driving. The man turned into the driveway and stopped. Rosie radioed the station.
* * *
As Charles turned onto his street, he felt better because he didn’t see any police cars. He turned into the driveway and pulled up to the garage. He thought he should put his car in the garage in case someone had seen him leaving Glenlake. But as he opened the garage door, he remembered he had spent the last week cleaning out the basement and moving boxes to the garage. Sarah had recently given him a long list of chores to do and was nagging him to get rid of the boxes so she could pull her car in. But he had put it off. He didn’t care what Sarah wanted. It would take hours to move the boxes so he could pull his car in. But since he hadn’t seen any police, he felt safe leaving his car in the driveway.