by B A Black
“If you have any questions you think I should be asking, you can write them out for me,” Camden says, though he hasn't provided any paper. He's already sweating into his collar badly enough to wilt the starch. “Otherwise, try not to say anything. The stenographer needs to hear if this guy gives anything away.”
Houston glances at Sal, digging in his pocket for his notepad. His partner's professional face is on. He looks as clean and pressed as a good suit, and he's exercising his patience to the extreme to continue playing polite with Camden. Pretty good for a Monday morning.
“We understand,” Houston says, finding his pencil. He can hear the stenographer clacking away on his Master Model Four to keep up with the transcription of the pre-interview process.
“If he lies to me, I'd appreciate a tip that he's not being straight, when I come out on break,” Camden says, softening a little. He looks tired. “I know you both gave statements, but I ain't had time to read 'em. It's been a long weekend, and hell if I know if he's going to even give us anything now.”
It's not been a short weekend for any of them, but Houston doesn't point it out. Sal nods, one corner of his mouth quirking up at some internal irony.
“You got it,” is all he says, slouching down in his chair, arms crossed over his chest like a child doing their best to stave off a meltdown.
Camden leaves them. The light in the room goes out, and the stenographer turns on a very small light clipped to the back of the machine's stand. He doesn't seem like the sort that says anything, ever. A fixture of the room.
In the low light, it becomes possible to see through the 2-way glass and into the concrete block room on the other side. Houston's seen interrogation rooms before, and they all seem to be the same no matter what station in what precinct they were located in. Sweatboxes with harsh lighting. One chair bolted to the floor, sometimes at an angle so the suspect would slide uncomfortably without the reprieve of hand rests, the other chair across a metal table, normal and free standing for the detective.
There's unlikely to be anything groundbreaking revealed, Houston supposes. The interview, as it is colloquially called, is likely to be a barrage of directed questions and accusations.
Camden leads Winsome in on crutches, his leg in a big cast. He doesn't look all there, Houston thinks; both in pain and on painkillers. Doped up for his wound. Maybe that's part of the interview strategy. He's cuffed to each crutch, and Camden doesn't alleviate his discomfort any by offering to take the cuffs off when Arthur Jr. is seated, instead letting him shuffle the heavy wooden devices around himself. Arthur has to occupy both his hands with holding them up. Once seated, he takes in the room, looking owlishly up at the glass that Houston and Sal are sitting behind. The stenographer is silent until Camden works a switch by the door. In the other room, a bright light and a microphone turn on. The speaker in the corner of the observation room hisses to life, leaving a low static sound under the noises of settling from the other room.
“I want my lawyer,” is the first thing Arthur says, waiting for Camden to settle across the table from him in his movable chair.
“We are working with the court to obtain appointed legal representation for you.”
“I have a lawyer.” The stenographer's clicking keys dutifully record the words if not the slight desperation in Arthur's tone.
“He's not returning our calls on your behalf,” Camden answers, all calm and easy grease.
“You're a liar. You're trying to put one over. To screw me. I'm the head of Winsome Steel.”
“He didn't answer your calls, either, Mr. Winsome,” Camden says. He's an old hand at this, good at working the “good cop” angle. Houston wonders if this works better with Exeter playing the other side of the coin, helping to outline the honey being offered from Camden's palm.
“I'm not answering anything until I get legal representation,” Arthur repeats. He looks away into the corner as if declaring the conversation officially over.
“Funny you should mention. We're having some trouble sorting out your finances. ” Camden leans forward over the table, hands folded together, hunching his shoulders up like a mantling hawk. “Your wife called up this morning and said her checks were bouncing.”
Arthur's expression only hardens. If his hands were free, he'd probably cross them over his barrel-like chest, emulating a petulant child. The cuffs won't relent, leaving him in a less defensible position. Intentional.
“She layed into me for freezing your accounts,” Camden explains. “Only, I had to tell her I hadn't done that. We'd had no reason to suspect the money was dirty. Mostly 'cause there ain't any.”
He pauses, leaning forward over the table even further, invading Arthur's space. “Is the money dirty, Mr. Winsome? Did you get rid of it to hide something?”
“Go to hell,” Arthur says.
Houston sees the stenographer dutifully record his blasphemy, and it makes him almost chuckle though the situation is hardly funny on the other side of the glass.
“Sure,” Camden says, agreeably. “I'll go to hell. I'll take the slow train. But while I do, you're in General Population at county lockup until we figure out if you can afford your own lawyer.”
Arthur goes quiet again, tense.
“Was it the money, Arthur?” Camden asks, dropping his formal tone and sitting up again. “Is that why you did it? Huh? You were all out of dough?”
His tone of voice is cajoling now, a taunting sort of understanding that is intended to goad a response off-guard.
“What's it matter to you?” Arthur fires back. “I did some of your job for you. Last I checked, we still got laws against sodomy.”
Sal tenses up, sitting straighter in his chair suddenly.
“Two men are dead,” Camden says. “That's on you, since your brother went and got himself shot up. Looking like a real strong case on a third and fourth. That's serial murder, pal. That's why it matters to me.”
“They were fairies,” Arthur spits, rattling his handcuffs in ineffective rage. “They should be dead.”
The Steno rattles on in Camden's stunned silence, marking the hateful words onto paper for all time—the first admissions to inklings of guilt.
“Are you one of them? That why you care?” Arthur continues. “You think a jury will? Get me my lawyer, you incompetent prick.”
Camden stands up abruptly. He looks ready to wind up and hit Arthur across the jaw, just for the implication. Houston knows what words have struck him; it's not the implication that he's incompetent. His heart sinks into his stomach, starting to painfully digest.
“You're a real piece of work,” Camden fires back, getting ahold of his temper by a hair’s-breadth.
He failed to keep up the facade, let Arthur in under his skin, and now that it's obvious he can be stung, it's Arthur who has the advantage. The interview won't go anywhere, not this session.
“The man you shot dead was a decent cop. Had a wife at home with tuberculosis. You and your brother dropped him in the frozen lake so his family won't even get him back until his fish-eaten body floats up from the damn bottom.”
That quiets Arthur some.
“You did the same damn thing to your own brother, all because you can't let the courts or the head-doctors do their job? You make me sick. Get up, you're going back to lockup.”
Houston gets up before the stenographer even finishes typing, only waiting until he sees Camden guide his prisoner past and out of sight before he lets himself out. He doesn’t trust himself to keep civil around Arthur. He strides out of the the precinct building without pause, weaving and ducking around the active crowd inside.
Even guilty, even standing in the ashes of his empire, hands wet in blood, Arthur wears his contempt openly. A murderer condemning a crime that he saw as a greater one.
“Houston,” Sal calls after, as Houston rushes down the precinct steps into the cold slush on the sidewalk.
Huffing, Sal catches up to Houston as he stops on the curb.
“Are you
alright?” he asks, standing back still, obviously mindful of where they are, of the prying and ever present public eye.
Houston isn't. He should be, should have a thicker skin than this. The years have injured him enough to scar over, yet this slips in between the armor.
He takes a deep breath, shaking his head. “Just tired. Aching. Arm hurts.”
Sal doesn't reach for him. He can't reach for Sal.
“Go home, Mars,” Sal suggests. “This is a hard case. It's not likely to get any easier. You barely gave yourself time after you got shot. Take a break now, let the police take over. They can't ignore it anymore.”
Houston jams his hand into his pocket so that he doesn't do anything foolish with it. The other is bound up and slung against his chest.
“You just want the day off,” he accuses Sal, trying to regain normality. He takes a long, shaky breath.
“Guilty. I should put in an appearance at my apartment, anyway. Before they throw my stuff on the street and rent it to some other poor schmuck.”
He hesitates to give Houston a long look, trying to convey something without saying it.
Instead, Houston steps back, and Sal backs away in the other direction. They about face, heading for opposite intersections, walking away from each other with the words they didn't say ringing between them as loud as the ones Arthur spat out, creating a space—a growing emptiness that has to exist between them.
◆◆◆
Two days later, Houston gets to the office late. There is something in the back of his mind, something curious—a sensation that he's returned somewhere after being very far away. He kicks snow from his shoes and steps into the front hall of the building.
Inside, there is an almost resounding silence. None of the usual low lull of chatter that carries through the thin walls and into the hallways. It surprises him.
“Hey, Huey?” Miss Wentz calls from the switchboard alcove.
Houston leans in, glad to see another person. “Hey Miss Wentz. Slow day?”
“Sure,” she says, giving him a strange look. “I didn't figure I'd see anyone today. You must have a big case, huh?”
For a moment, Houston can't make heads or tails of the statement. Then, he takes in the rest. She’s wearing a nice skirt, the kind girls say are cut for dancing. Her sweater looks too form-fitting and fashionable to truly be for warmth, a cheery red color. Houston can smell her delicate, floral perfume.
“Got a hot date?” Houston asks.
Miss Wentz smiles at him, shaking her head. “No, but there is a big Christmas party. I'm only here until noon to take messages for that law firm on the second floor. I guess Christmas is a big time for civil suits.”
The note in her smile changes from cheerful to conspiratory, and Houston finds himself sharing the expression with her.
“Anything good come in for them?” Houston asks.
Miss Wentz's smile gets bigger. “Not a peep, Mr. Mars.”
He laughs. “How about for Sal and I?”
“Well, I have a couple from yesterday.” She reaches up into her neatly organized tray and pulls out several yellow slips of paper with her handwriting on them. “From newspapers, mostly. Reporters are dying for your slice of the Winsome case.”
Houston glances at the papers she hands him, then stuffs them into his pocket.
“Is my partner upstairs by any chance?” It's a long shot, Houston thinks, but maybe.
“Nobody's upstairs, Mr. Mars,” Miss Wentz says with a kind smile. She shrugs her shoulders prettily, giving Houston a long, slow look. “Nobody here but you and me.”
“Have a merry Christmas, Miss Wentz,” Houston tells her gently, and then he heads up the narrow stairs the three flights to his office. The letters on the door have been repainted, along with every door on this floor.
Houston Mars
Salvatore Costanzo
Private Investigators
He smiles to himself and steps inside, turning on the burner for the percolator and giving the radiator a crank before wandering into Sal's unoccupied office to turn on the phonograph. He takes the Bessie Smith record off the platter and turns it over to run Take it Right Back to the Place You Got it.
He whistles along to her slow, sad voice. The song is about a woman who's just had enough of her no-good man. His own rendition of the chorus is more cheerful than the recording.
He looks down at the snow-covered street below with a steaming mug of coffee in his hand, his injured arm slung up against his chest.
Things have changed, but the world is in an okay place for the moment. Some of it is the seasonal spirit, the one time of year it seems possible to put everything else aside.
Behind him, he hears the door swing open. Sal.
“Merry Christmas,” Houston says lifting his mug to his mouth to hide the reflection of his smile.
“Detective Mars?” a woman's voice asks. “It's only Christmas Eve.”
Two taps on high heels sound as she steps into his office. Houston turns around to find Mrs. Winsome standing hesitant and radiant in the doorway. She resolves herself visibly, gathering determination into her posture as she steps into his office.
“Mrs. Winsome,” Houston says, setting down his cup and trying to shuffle any signs of disappointment aside. “How can I help you?”
“The girl downstairs said you were in. I thought I'd just leave your check, but...” She pauses for a moment, looking up at Houston from across the space. She's wearing crimson, a vibrant, holiday color, like still-flowing blood. It's armor, Houston knows.
“I wanted to say thank you,” she says, “in person. I didn't want you to think that I wasn't grateful when...”
She hesitates again. Houston gestures for her to sit and be comfortable. When she does, it's on the very edge of the chair facing his desk, like a bird alighting momentarily before returning to the sky.
“It's bound to get complicated at trial,” Houston says. “I'm sure his lawyer will—“
“You don't have to worry about the lawyer, Mr. Mars. I have acquired the retainer for the family lawyer.”
Houston raises his eyebrows. Explains why he wasn’t returning Arthur’s calls. He sits down on the edge of his desk and pulls his cigarettes out of his pocket, in a bare, shamefaced pack instead of a case. He offers her one and she takes it.
“Winsome Steel is bankrupt, detective,” she says. “On the surface it's alive but the roots of the plant are rotting. Dead already. Arthur is not the manager that Arthur Sr. was. The demand for steel has dropped since the war ended, and he's stripped everything bare with his own expenses.”
It is not surprising news. The twenties seemed to promise that they would go on forever, rip-roaring parties and desperate excess. Now, it's all gone.
“How about you?” he asks, looking at the envelope she places on the desk without making any move to claim it.
“I'm alright. Charlie was good with money, all appearances to the contrary. They were after his shares. It was the only money left.”
Houston sighs, smoke curling out past his teeth. “And I thought it wasn't about all that.”
She looks up at him and shakes her head. “It wasn't only about money, and you know that too, don't you?”
“I suppose I do,” Houston says carefully. He steers the conversation away from the dangerous deep water. “What will you do now?”
“I'm leaving Chicago,” she says. “Selling the house. I think, for a time, I just want to go home. Back east.”
Houston can understand that. This city is no longer a safe place for her. No joy lives here.
She stands up, still smoking. “Thank you for not letting it go, detective. Charlie deserved resolution.”
Houston nods. She has so many pieces to the puzzle and Houston knows she's about to walk out the door with them. He'll be at the trial, but he may never know the rest. He thinks the money on the desk is so that he doesn't ask.
In his doorway, she pauses with her back still turned to him. Houston can he
ar the soft hiss of the record spinning on the turntable, the needle past the musical grooves.
“He was going to leave me,” she reveals. “That man you found in the ice was his...”
She trails off, shaking her head before she starts again. “He was tired of lying to live, and too foolish to see how dangerous the truth was. For both of them. But I suppose, for those moments, they were happy.”
“Happiness—the pursuit of it—can cause us to make stupid decisions,” Houston says. “Even a perfectly smart man will chase it into the lion's den if he thinks he's miserable enough.”
“Or maybe only the decisions that are dangerous can lead us to those true moments of happiness,” she says, in a tired and philosophical tone. “Don't live a safe lie, Detective Mars.”
She leaves the warning behind her with the thin trail of blue smoke and the memory of perfume.
Houston pulls the crystal ashtray to him across the desk, and stubs the cigarette out against the cool bottom, using the motion to steady himself. He gathers his thoughts while his eyes stop stinging.
Four men are dead for a lie and money, and a fifth because of his desire to cover it all over like a blanketing snow. The lie was the catalyst, Houston thinks. The excuse that gave Arthur Jr. a cause to consider fratricide, to justify it in his mind.
Houston doesn't believe it's their first murder. There are others that they covered or buried, masquerading as missing persons. Perhaps these will come to light in the trial, bobbing up like a corpse from the black depths.
He watches the Christmas Eve traffic down on the avenue. People come and go, in no particular hurry. One group goes caroling up one side of the street and down the other, dressed in fine clothes and singing about divine birth and seasonal cheer.
When they vanish from sight, a homeless man takes up the chorus instead, a drunken and broken rendition of the praise. Houston watches him sit in the cold and sing as if his life depends on it.
“Mr. Mars? Huey?” Miss Wentz Wentz's voice penetrates his thoughts.
“Yes?”
“I have to lock up the building now,” she says, smiling at him when he turns. “Are you going to go, too? I don’t think there’s going to be any other business today.”