The Holy City Hustle: A Duke Dempsey Mystery

by Ron Plante Jr

  Charleston wasn’t called the Holy City for nothing. The southern city was founded on religious and traditional values. Visitors would be hard-pressed not to find a steeple on every other block. St. Patrick’s Cathedral happened to be the biggest in the city, and Mayor Swanson’s murder would have parishioners looking for answers.

  Detective Stampkin was trying to wrap up the crime scene at Marion Square. All the witnesses who hadn’t fled in terror were interviewed, and Mayor Swanson’s body was en route to the coroner’s office with Mickey. He’d had a long talk with Lenny from The Post once things settled down. He’d arranged to pick up copies of the photos once they were developed. Stampkin knew the photographer had been snapping shots the entire day, and was hoping to find something of value in them. He had reached his squad car when he heard a call come over his one-way radio.

  “Shot’s fired! All units respond to King and Wentworth!” the dispatcher on the radio said.

  “What the hell, now!” Stampkin yelled as he jumped in his car and started to head for the corner of King and Wentworth, also known as Charleston Police Headquarters.

  His siren was blaring, and he was ripping down King Street. The station was only a short drive, and he could already see multiple cars parked in front with red lights on. The roads of King and Wentworth were blocked off from normal traffic, and Johnny jumped out of his squad car with his revolver in hand, running for the entrance.

  He swung open the door, ready to open fire at the first sign of a threat. There was a swarm of cops standing in the lobby near the Desk Sergeant’s desk.

  “The suspect has been neutralized,” Sergeant Moody said as he saw Stampkin enter the station.

  “What the hell happened, Larry?”

  Sergeant Lawrence Moody and Stampkin were old academy buddies. They didn’t hang out much socially these days but had a pretty good history together.

  “The suspect from today got a hold of O’Meara’s gun. He blew a hole right in the rookie’s head before his partner was able to put him down,” Moody said.

  “You got to be kidding me. Who is his partner again?” Stampkin asked.

  “Mitchell Jackson. He’s fairly new and only transferred here a few months ago.”

  “Oh yeah, the big guy from up north. He ok?”

  “As far as I know, not a scratch on him. He got the bastard before the suspect could turn the gun on him. Slate has got him in an interrogation room, trying to find out what the hell happened.”

  “Thanks,” Johnny said as he headed for the interrogation rooms.

  Captain Slate came out as Detective Stampkin was nearing the door.

  “Jackson ok?” Stampkin asked.

  “Yeah. He’s in there now with Detective Wilson,” Slate said as he started to walk away.

  “Wilson? This is my case. Why the fuck is Wilson in there?” Stampkin said, showing his anger.

  Captain Slate stopped and turned back to Detective Stampkin.

  “Your case closed as soon as your suspect hit the ground. This is a new investigation and Wilson has got lead,” Slate said.

  “What the hell is this bullshit, Captain? I’m investigating the death of Mayor Swanson and unless I missed something, he’s still dead,” Stampkin said.

  “You insubordinate fuck. Take the day off and cool out before you piss me off. Today has been a dark day for this department, and the last thing I need to do is deal with your shit.”

  “Captain...” Stampkin was cut off before he could say another word.

  “GO HOME!”

  Chapter 5 – The Link

  Duke sat at his desk trying to finish up some case files, but the events of the day had his mind spinning. Mayor Swanson’s death would severely impact the city’s sense of security. If the people’s mayor wasn’t safe, how could anyone feel safe? There was some bad juju going around, and what killed Duke the most was he couldn’t do anything about it. He knew Stampkin was more than capable of handling the investigation, but that didn’t stop Duke from wanting in.

  Duke was about to leave for the day and meet Johnny at Doc Boone’s Tavern, when he heard the office door open.

  “I’m in here,” he called out.

  In walked a beautiful woman. She was about 5’5, with black hair and big black sunglasses. Her skin was an olive-brown and had a certain glow to it, and her white linen dress complimented her dark complexion. Duke could tell immediately that she was not a native to Charleston. The dame was downright heart-stopping and exotic.

  “Hello, miss?” Duke asked as he stood up and greeted the beautiful stranger.

  “Good evening, Mr. Dempsey. My name is Isabella Diaz and I come to you as my last hope,” she said in a thick Spanish accent. She took off her sunglasses, revealing her dark brown eyes. Duke was a taken man, but he couldn’t help but admire her beauty.

  “Please, have a seat, Miss Diaz. What can I do for you?” Duke asked.

  “Mr. Dempsey, I have nowhere else to turn. I have traveled a long distance to come to Charleston by way of a boat from Cuba. Now I fear I am in great danger.” Isabella was very distraught, and tears started to well up in her eyes.

  Duke got up and grabbed the box of tissues that Margo had placed there when she decorated the office. “Why are you in danger?” he asked.

  “I was there today at the park and saw you receive the award. Are you a good man?”

  Duke was very confused, but hearing that she’d been at Marion Square earlier started to put things into perspective. She’d come from Cuba to Charleston, and the first thing she’d seen was the mayor get assassinated in a public forum. Duke had seen a lot of death in his day, and he forgot how traumatizing some things were for the regular person.

  “I’m sorry you witnessed that today, but you are in no danger, ma’am. The killer has been arrested. It’s all over,” Duke said as he sat back down, hoping to calm her nerves.

  Isabella cleared her eyes and took a deep breath to compose herself. “No, Mr. Dempsey. It has just begun.”

  Something about the way she said that made the hair on the back of Duke’s neck stand up. There was a look of fear in her eyes and seriousness in her voice. She was afraid of something, and that something had just killed, Mayor Swanson.

  “What has just begun? Do you know something about the mayor’s death? If you know something, we need to go to the police right now,” Duke said, ready to drive her straight to the station.

  “Are you a good man? Mayor Swanson wanted to give you that award. You must be a good man.”

  The dame was scared and needed someone to trust, and Duke seemed to have drawn the lucky straw.

  “I’m far from a saint, but when it comes to right and wrong, I side with the good guys. I do know if you’re in fear for your life we need to go to the police,” Duke said, trying to coax her to go with him.

  “No! No policia!” she exclaimed. “I need you to help me. Mayor Swanson was going to help me and that’s why he is dead.”

  Duke wasn’t sure if the dame was one sandwich short of a picnic, or if she really knew something about the murder.

  “So, you think Mayor Swanson was killed because he was going to help you? What was he going to help you with?” Duke asked.

  “I have information of bad things. My husband in Cuba worked for a bad man. He was an American just like you, and came to Cuba for a better life and to get away from gangs in Chicago. When this bad man came to Havana, my husband was forced to work for him as his accountant,” she said as her eyes started to well up again.

  He didn’t interrupt, and just let her speak. The first rule in detective work was ‘if the witness or suspect starts talking, do not interrupt.’ He grabbed another tissue from the box and passed it to Isabella.

  “My husband was friends with Mr. Swanson when they both lived in Chicago together. He always said that Mr. Swanson was a very good man. When Mr. Swanson became mayor of Charleston, my husband found something that he needed to tell the mayor about the work he was doing in Cuba. He wrote Mr. Swanson
a letter explaining some of these things.”

  “You believe this information, or this letter, had something to do with Mayor Swanson’s death?” Duke asked. “Is your husband here in Charleston?”

  The connection Isabella had with the mayor was starting to sound interesting. Duke poured himself another Evan and offered one to Isabella. She declined, but continued with her story.

  “They found his body washed up on the beach in Havana. They say he died in a swimming accident, but I know that is a lie. My husband never knew how to swim, and he would never go in the ocean. He was killed.”

  “Who killed him?” Duke wasn’t trying to rush the conversation, but he wanted to get down to brass tacks. If the same person killed Mayor Swanson, then Duke needed a name.

  “It was his boss, Mr. Bertucci. My husband was not scared of much, and he was knew what Mr. Bertucci was capable of.”

  Duke’s mind started working overtime. The name sounded familiar, but he was trying to place it. The photographic Rolodex he called a brain started flickering through images, and one stuck out.

  Benny Bertucci was a name that had kept coming up during an old case he’d worked. Back when Duke had been on the force, he’d helped take down Hell Hole Swamp up in Berkley County. It had been Al Capone’s personal distillery during Prohibition, and Bertucci’s name had been only a few below Capone’s on the suspect tree. They couldn’t touch any of the major players, but they sure had hurt the pockets of Capone and company when they’d taken down Hell Hole.

  “So, you think this Bertucci had your husband and the mayor killed? It’s a nice story, but what proof do you have? Without proof, it’s nothing more than a theory.”

  “My husband brought a book home he hid underneath the floorboards of our house. He did not think I knew about it, but I saw him hide it there. When he was found dead, I came home to find our house in shambles. They went through all our things and destroyed everything, but did not find the secret place under the floor. I assumed that all this happened because of the book.”

  “Why didn’t you go to the police?” Duke asked as he lit up a cigarette. He wanted to immediately take her to the station, or at least to Johnny, but he had to put her at ease.

  “You do not understand. They own the police and the military in Cuba. I read it in the book,” she said.

  Duke couldn’t believe what he was hearing and needed to confirm it. “You read the book? What was in it?”

  “It had the names of people and money. I recognized the head of the police force in Cuba in it and other politicians.”

  The magnitude of what she was saying was almost overwhelming for Duke. He wondered if she realized just how big of a deal it was. The fact that she had made her way to Charleston told him she did.

  “Where is the book now?”

  “It is in a safe place, but I need to know I can trust you.”

  Duke took the last swig of his bourbon and put down the glass. He got up a walked to the other side of the desk where Isabella was sitting. He wasn’t much for making dramatic presentations, but he knew he needed to persuade her to go with him to the police with what she had. Duke crouched down so he was eye to eye with Isabella. “Since you are in my office, you realize the danger you are in. I need you to trust me and allow me to take you to the proper authorities. I’m just an old private eye and this is beyond my job description. My buddy is a detective and he can help.”

  Isabella looked Duke in the eyes and a single tear began to form in her left eye. The young Cuban widow grabbed his right hand tight with both of hers, squeezing it so hard it was if she was trying to reach his soul through the palm of his hand. “I want to, but I can’t, Mr. Dempsey. Charleston is in the book, too.”

  Duke’s stomach dropped like an elevator without a cable. Now he understood why this girl was petrified of going to the authorities. “You mean people from Charleston are in the book?”

  “Yes, I believe so. There is a section labeled Charleston,” she said, as she let go of Duke’s hand and wiped her tear.

  Duke stood up, trying to figure out his next move. He knew he needed to tell Stampkin, but this new revelation was huge. If he was still a cop, then this would be like a gift from God. Benny Bertucci handed to him on a silver platter. As a private detective, this information would only bring trouble. “Can I see the book?”

  “Only you. It will take some time to retrieve it, but it is very safe. I will meet you early in the morning and show you,” she said, looking relieved to finally have someone on her side.

  “Okay. Are you sure you’re going to be ok tonight?” Duke asked, concerned that she might not make it until morning.

  “Yes, I don’t believe anyone knows I am here. I did not tell anyone that I had the book or where I was going.”

  “You are positive the book is safe? You just got here. How did you find a safe place for it?”

  “It is very safe. It is in a place nobody would ever think to look, except maybe a fellow Cuban,” she said with a forced laugh.

  “Ok, you made it this far, so I can only trust you know what you are doing. Meet me here at 7 a.m. and I will help you the best I can. Once we get the book, then we can figure out the safest way to proceed,” Duke said, as he wrote on the back of his business card and handed it to her. “This number is to my home. Call me if you think you may be in trouble.”

  Isabella left the office a little less troubled than when she had entered. She had someone she hoped she could trust, and Duke knew he had to handle the situation delicately.

  When she left, Duke grabbed his hat and jacket and locked up. The walk to Doc’s usually took about 8 minutes but with his mind going in a thousand different directions, it seemed like hours. He was glad she had never made him promise not to tell the police, because he had no choice but to tell Johnny. The mayor was dead, and there was a good chance that Benny Bertucci was pulling the strings. Duke wasn’t positive how damning the book was, but to him, it sounded like a ledger. A ledger kept track of a lot of money coming and going, but the ledger of a notorious mob boss kept track of a lot of illegal money coming and going.

  Chapter 6 – Blank Canvas

  Surprisingly, Doc’s had a decent crowd, considering the events of the day. The old dive bar on King Street had survived Prohibition, but wasn’t exactly the toast of the town. It was about as blue-collar as you could get in the downtown posh district of Charleston. Duke walked in and immediately saw Johnny sitting at the end of the bar, already nursing a bourbon on the rocks.

  He passed by the crowd, making his way to the stool next to Johnny. Doc had Duke’s Evan Williams, with two ice cubes already melted to the perfect consistency, waiting for him. Doc Boone’s Tavern had become a second home to Duke over the years.

  Doc stood behind the bar wiping down a highball glass as Duke sat down. “Tough day for the city. Drinks are on the house tonight for nabbing that bastard.”

  “Thanks, but I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Anyone would’ve done it. It’s going to be a long night anyway, and you’re not going to want to fill the bill,” Duke said, as he finished his drink with one gulp.

  Doc grabbed the bottle of Evan from behind the bar and placed it in front of Duke. “Like I said, on the house,” he repeated as he walked away to attend to the other patrons.

  Johnny instantly grabbed the bottle and freshened his drink. “The bastard’s dead.”

  Duke stared at Stampkin with a look of confusion as he grabbed the bottle of Evan. “Really? I didn’t realize you had such a disdain for the new mayor.”

  “Not him. The punk you socked in the park. He’s dead.”

  “Well, how the hell did that happen? He was cuffed and headed to the station when I last saw.”

  “Apparently, he disarmed a rookie. Bastard took out the kid before taking two in the chest by Officer Jackson.”

  “Wait. He killed a cop while in custody?” Duke asked.

  “Yup, he’s dead and the case with it. Slate wouldn’t even let me in
terview Jackson. It’s a fucking shit show down there,” Johnny said as he stared straight ahead in a daze.

  Duke couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Three deaths in one day was starting to sound too familiar to him. By the looks of his old friend, the events of the day had seriously taken a toll on him. “So, what now? Did Jackson get anything before the shooting?”

  “I wouldn’t know because I wasn’t allowed to talk to him. Slate almost suspended me.”

  “What the hell? The mayor’s assassin gets killed while in custody, and you can’t interview the only witness? They trying to cover their ass or something?” Duke asked as he grabbed a smoke out of his pack and threw it on the bar.

  Johnny picked up the pack and took one himself. “They gave the shooting at the station to Wilson.”

  “Wilson? He couldn’t detect a fire if he was the one in flames,” Duke said with a smirk.

  “Wilson is investigating the officer shooting and the assassin is dead. No need for a trial, Case Closed,” Stampkin said as he slammed down his bourbon, causing it to splash whiskey on the bar.

  “Maybe the case isn’t dead just yet. How do we know the assassin was acting alone?”

  “In the world of celebrity detectives, theories and opinions might get you far, but in the world of police work we use facts and evidence,” Stampkin said in a sarcastic tone. “Our only lead is dead.”

  “What if I told you a new lead walked into my office about an hour ago?” Duke asked as he took a long dramatic drag of his cigarette.

  Stampkin snapped out of his aimlessly looking gaze and turned to Duke. “I’m listening.”

  Duke spent the next hour describing the conversation he’d had with Isabella Diaz, and how scared she was. Johnny had a tough time swallowing the pill, until Duke mentioned the ledger and the connection her husband had with Mayor Swanson. Stampkin’s demeanor changed, and he became actively engaged in the conversation. His juices were flowing, and he wanted to get his hands on the ledger and question Isabella immediately.

  “Therein lies the rub, Johnny,” Duke said. “She’s not talking to the police. She thinks everyone in a uniform is in on it.”