The best man for hire was Stringer. He came at first request, needing money badly to repay some loans. No mob connections bound Stringer—he was a free agent drawn by the smell of money. Ridge had written the scenes when the nosy detective’s niece was kidnapped months earlier. He’d hoped it would keep the old lady busy and her mind off him. She was too damn smart. Worse, Bobby had always got in the way when Ridge was in a position to get rid of her.
Stringer played his part like a pro, even down to arranging all the business on the detective’s property. The phone line had them up to date on her movements, at least on the ones Ridge needed. He’d put one over her, making her wonder how things were done. Let her try and figure that out, he thought.
If only Hopkins hadn’t been killed in a traffic accident. The doc had been a useful player and would have been part of the final curtain. After that, Hopkins would have disappeared. Ridge’s way would have been much cleaner. He had learned to appreciate unmarred efficiency: a knife in the sternum, a bullet in the brain, or even simpler, apricot kernels in a vegetable salad. There was always an alibi for sale. Ridge Roberts knew his stuff.
He had a problem—the nurse on Ponder’s team. She knew about him; knew he was alert, knew he was capable of all things. What she lacked was proof, and so far the good doctor Ponder had diverted her away from Ridge’s room.
Doctor Ponder was aware of the three personalities in his patient and was excited by the presentation. Bobby, the child, Robert Dawson, the toilet salesman, and Ridge Roberts, the cunning, sly, and incredibly intelligent manipulator of the other two—all were at the fingertips of the physician. To have that experience, he would do whatever it took, even concealing a criminal from justice. A simple nurse offered not the slightest danger, nor was he concerned with ethics. His professional obligations to his patient came first, before all else. Except money, that really came first. He made quite the addition to 73’s team.
During the hot August evening, while Bill Page and Maude Rogers sat spooning on the back porch, waiting for the phone to ring, Stringer Malone was bored and bothered after surveilling the detective’s phone for hours at a time. In the past few days there hadn’t been a call, and he was getting antsy, a condition new to the blond young man with calm blue eyes. Working with the boss, Ridge Roberts, had Stringer walking a wire most of the time; that was the reason he had diversified, covering his bases. Keeping his balance was a bitch, for one false move and the convict would take him out, never mind what he had done up to then.
That’s the way it was with crazies. They blew without any warning, taking everything down with them. His old man had been that way—running and screaming through a bad section of town in Alabama. If it hadn’t been for Stringer chasing behind him each time, the old man might have reached at a bad end; as it was, the mental health workers showed up and hauled him downtown after the boy’s last phone call. Seemed it was his lot to follow nutjobs.
After another hour or so, Stringer was about ready to call it a night and head for a quiet bar where a prostitute with curly hair and small feet knew him by name. He had a thing for women with tiny feet. Bitsy, as she called herself, would be working the front bar that night, her black dress cut low over double Ds, tight across the nipples, enticing any man who would buy her a drink and had money in his pocket. Just as he was reaching toward the recorder to set the timer for an overnighter, the phone rang in the house. The woman’s voice on the phone was tinny, cheap, and uneducated. She spoke to the detective, the content of her message reassuring Stringer of what he must do.
He was surprised, for Lola Bankston had already pulled a healthy chunk of money to do a job, and keep her mouth shut, but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough with them. Women like her sucked up to a man the way a barnacle stuck to the keel of a fine boat. She was scum for sure, and the boss would want her gone. The bar she named was one Stringer knew, one he visited every now and then. He’d have to get there early, long before she did, be waiting for her, for the detective. It was time both of them were put down. Maybe still have time for Bitsy.
Chapter 20
Maude called the dispatch office to see if information had returned on Stringer Malone. She knew it probably wasn’t his real name, but hoped somewhere in his youth, the man she had been referring to as Buzzcut was arrested and listed with real name and aliases. As luck would have it, Alice was on swing shift and answered the phone. After a greeting and friendly reception, Maude learned that Stringer Malone was actually Horace Earl Malone, born thirty-one years earlier, a petty thief back in Mobile. He had served some jail time, and was listed as a suspicious person in an unsolved murder case from five years earlier. His recent whereabouts were unknown, and the district attorney requested any law enforcement agency with that information respond to Tom Harper, Mobile, Alabama.
Alice bid Maude goodnight, and returned to her desk, leaving several questions unanswered. Maude was puzzled about a couple things. How did Robert Dawson find Malone? Did Dawson commit the murder in Mobile along with Malone? That would have been unusual for him to pair with someone, for Dawson loved his work so much he would have difficulty sharing. Still, the thought was provocative.
The city car blended with the darkness, transporting Maude, Bill, and Lola to Chesters on Rio Avenue. A local hangout for blue-collar workers, the bar was sometimes loud, with the voices of men and women rising in raucous laughter or heartbreak, depending on the moods of the drinkers. Maude had been inside several times, but it was never the place she chose to drink. At one time Chesters had been a coffee house, where new bands played gigs to a caffeine-slogged evening crowd. After the new wore off, and all the ferns died, the owner leased the building as a bar, and it had survived for several years.
Entering through the side door, Maude and Bill finally spied Joe near the back of the bar, in a dark corner. Lola Bankston entered from the front and sat down on one of the bar’s high stools. She crossed her legs at the knees and accepted a drink from the bartender. Turning slightly when the side door opened, she caught Maude’s eye. Just as Lola turned away, the front door opened again, and a blond youngish man seated himself next to her, his gaze upon the bartender, and the mirror behind the bar. Finally satisfied there were no cops in the reflection, Stringer Malone turned toward Lola with a false smile.
“So you want money,” he said. “Don’t we all?” The bartender took his order and Stringer waited until he and Lola were alone. “Who do you think you’re messing with, Ms. Bankston?” The words were hissed, the air from the man’s mouth foul as he forced the words.
“I…just need some money to get away,” Bankston said, the wire on her chest where Joe had taped it itching more than she could stand. She reached up and scratched gently, as Joe had told her to do.
“What makes you think you can get more money? You had five hundred,” Stringer said quietly, and sipped Gray Goose over ice. “I warned you to not get greedy.”
“Yeah, I know, but that woman detective saw me at the cemetery. She didn’t get too close, but if she starts thinking about it, she’ll remember it might have been me on the train when that woman was killed. You got to help me. Sammy hasn’t been around, and his mama is threatening to throw me out.” Her voice was rising, playing the part, but Lola thinking it was all true and her life was a mess.
“Slow down. You’re drawing attention to yourself. I’ll take care of you,” Stringer said, his voice low.
“Yeah, maybe you will and maybe you won’t, but I know who hired me for that job on the train. It was you. I didn’t have nothing to do with that woman’s murder, and you know it. All I had to do was make them think I was her.”
Stringer was quiet for a minute, catching his breath. He wanted to strangle Lola, but it wasn’t the time.
“You talk and we all go to jail. She had it coming to her. She liked to talk too much.”
Lola cut her eyes sideways, staring at the pink scalp through his flattop haircut. Stringer scared her, him and his round glasses and little-boy
look. She believed him to be ruthless.
“I’m not going to talk, Stringer. I just need money. I know you paid me for the job, but I have responsibilities. A few hundred now would get me out of town and away from here.”
“Let me talk to the man. I’ll get the money. You stay out of sight for a while. I’ll call you tomorrow. Where will you be?”
“I…guess I’ll go back to the house. Maybe I can get by another night. But then that’s all. I can’t promise what will happen after that.”
“Be patient; it’ll be okay. I told you I’ll take care of you.” Stringer finished his drink and got up to leave, sad that the old woman detective was running late. He would get her another time.
Lola watched him leave, a shiver going down her back. She had no illusions about his words. He was going to try and kill her. The only things between her and a bullet were the detectives in the back of the bar.
Maude sidled up to the bar, the smell of booze ringing her bell, stirring the animal inside. She tried to ignore it, but it tore at her.
“Lola, you did good,” she said. “Let’s go.”
They hurriedly left the bar, headed to the street outside. Maude had parked away from the building, out of sight. Lola’s car was nearby, and Maude checked inside to make certain Stringer hadn’t hidden there, waiting for Lola to return.
“Wait for me to get to the car then go on to the house. We’ll follow you there. I expect your friend to show up, but we’ll be waiting for him.”
“Maude, he’s a cool customer,” Joe said. “He didn’t seem worried at all that she might outsmart him.”
“I wonder if he’s cool or such an egoist he believes, like his boss, that no one can get the best of him.”
“His kind is around everywhere,” Bill said. “But he’s slyer than some.”
“I’ll drive,” Joe said. “You two can blow kisses to each other.”
Following the woman was a simple task for Joe, but he kept watch on his side for the Acura, for Stringer Malone. They took a back road, one Maude had insisted Lola take to the house on Cardinal Street, Sammy Green’s current residence. When they arrived at the address, Joe parked the unmarked car down the road, tucked behind a beater on blocks. The three detectives skirted the street and circled behind the houses, coming to the back door of 2329. All was quiet inside, sometimes a false sign where police were concerned. They stood at the back door and knocked lightly, waiting for Lola to open the screen and let them inside. Before she had an opportunity to reach the door, shots rang out from the back bedroom, and Sammy ran screaming, waving a small pistol in front of him.
“If that doesn’t beat all,” Maude whispered. “Guess we should have figured Sammy into the equation. I’m going around and check the window. Maybe it’s open.”
The thin curtain was blowing on the bedroom window, and Maude could smell cigarette smoke coming through the screen. She apologized to Mrs. Martinez for cutting through the mesh then slid through the opening while Joe watched from the back door. Bill had taken a quick few steps, and circled around to the front door. He tried the lock and found it to be open.
Events happened quickly, with Sammy firing bullets wildly toward the back door, holding Lola in front of him as a shield. After popping another bullet toward the door, Sammy moved into the kitchen, pulling Lola along with him. Bill sneaked through the front door and slid along the wall, waiting for the right time to jump out and grab Sammy. About the time Maude showed up from the back bedroom, both of them jumped on Sammy, and threw him to the floor, where he landed in the cat’s litter box. Coughing and sputtering, the ex-con tried to get the gun out from under his body, but he was in such a panic, his finger pulled the trigger and the weapon fired. Sammy screamed and yelled.
“I’m dying, I’m dying. Hot damn, I’m dying.”
Bill stood to the side, watching, staying out of the fracas unless there was a need. He was a ride-along and knew it wasn’t smart for him to get involved in local police affairs. He didn’t intend to stand and let Maude get hurt, but it seemed to him she was taking care of business.
Maude grabbed the gun away and clamped a handcuff around Sammy’s right hand, then pulled the other out, and fastened both behind his back. Rolling the burglar over, she discovered Sammy had shot himself in the big toe.
Joe came in the back door to see what had transpired and tried hard to keep from laughing, but wasn’t quite successful.
“Damn, Sammy. You’re a lousy shot.”
Still yelling, only not quite so loudly, the shooter looked at his foot and started crying, sobbing such loud gasps the detectives could only stare.
“Sammy, you aren’t going to die from that wound, but if you don’t shut up, I’m going to strangle you,” Maude said. She directed Mrs. Martinez to her linen closet for a long strip of gauze then proceeded to wrap the shoe and the foot in a tight bandage.
“It’s safer to leave the shoe on. Might do more damage if we remove it. Sammy, they have a real good nurse at the county jail. I’ll make sure she looks at this foot. Meanwhile, you keep your mouth shut. Should only be a minute.”
Sammy’s mother began rocking him in her arms and shushing, but Maude didn’t trust the man to not give them away. She pulled another piece of gauze from the roll and gagged Sammy, telling him it was for his own good, to keep Stringer from shooting everybody in the house.
“You’ve got a lot against you already, Sammy. You tried to kill a police officer, and you burglarized my house so you could tap into my telephone. Don’t add anything else to it.”
Sammy’s mother looked at Maude and nodded as if to say, “I’ll keep him in line.”
Through all the shooting and the noise, Lola had been quiet, going along with her boyfriend, not believing the cops would shoot her. When she saw the danger had passed, she collapsed on the floor and began to weep.
“Enough of that, girl,” Maude said. “You have a job to do. Your buddy is going to show up here soon, and you have to be ready as though there’s nothing going on but your desire to blow this city. If anything gives you away, he’ll kill you outright before we can stop him. You have to get him to talk, to say enough that we can hang him. Anything else and he’ll be on you like a snake after a mouse. Do you understand?”
Lola sniffed and nodded a few times. “Uh-huh.”
“Then stand up and start pretending.”
Approximately a half-hour passed before a knock on the front door told them Stringer was there. Joe went out the back door and circled around, waiting at the side until the killer was in the house. He ran low, under the window, toward the door, ready to run inside quickly when he was needed. Dogs were barking in the neighborhood, and Joe was afraid Stringer would get wise. Mrs. Martinez was in one of the bedrooms with Sammy, keeping him quiet. Maude, along with Bill, waited in the darkness of the small bathroom.
Lola opened the door and managed to look surprised. “I thought you were going to call me first.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t see a need to go to trouble. Where’s everybody?”
“Who do you mean? The old lady? She’s out with her little boy, buying him some new clothes. Never mind them, where’s my money?”
Stringer relaxed, then moved toward Lola. “Well, see, there’s a problem. There isn’t going to be any money.”
“What do you mean, no money? I’ll talk, I swear, I’ll tell what I know about you killing that woman.”
“What do you know, Lola? Where were you when I sliced her open? Were you in the room, or were you lying in bed with Sammy?”
“I, well, I know you did it. You said you killed her.”
“Yes, Lola, I killed her, hit her in the head when she came in the door. Opened her up and let her bleed all across the floor of her house. Then I cut her heart out. How do you like that?” Stringer moved closer and reached out, ready to grab her.
“Get away from me, you murderer,” Lola screamed, just as he touched her arm, ready to pull her against him. In his hand he held a .45 automatic w
ith a silencer. “You never tried to get my money, did you?” Lola said, sidling away from the gun.
“No, I always intended to take care of you. Don’t you remember? I told you. You’re a liability and you have to go.”
The door flew open and Joe ran forward, reaching Stringer before he had time to pull the trigger. Using his fists, Joe slammed the bad guy in the side and grabbed him by the arm, lowering the trajectory of the gun away from Lola. He felt the heat of the bullet when it seared his thigh, the pain overwhelming, but he couldn’t give in to it. He continued holding his own against the gunman, until Maude stepped to Stringer’s side and put the barrel of her weapon against his ear.
“Put the gun down, Horace. Lay it down or I’ll take the buzzcut clean off the top of your head.” She wasn’t making an idle threat, and Stringer knew it. He leaned forward and laid the weapon down as Bill called 911 and reported two shootings at the residence. Maude covered Stringer, allowing Lola to back away then cuffed him to the chair. Maude pulled her radio from her pocket and called for assistance, stating that an officer was down at 2329 Cardinal Street, with a large bullet wound to the thigh.
Joe sat down on the floor, his leg bleeding badly above the knee. Yelling for Mrs. Martinez to bring the first-aid kit, Maude got down on the floor, ignoring the pain in her knees as she opened his pants leg with the scissors from the kit. The wound was bad, pouring blood as she grabbed a large handful of gauze and pressed it into the wound, holding it tight against him. Joe was fading in and out from the pain and blood loss; his face had paled, and his eyes were half closed with the pain.
The Maude Rogers Murder Collection Page 74