by Parnell Hall
“I told you. The fact you dragged me in here.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s not enough? What, are you telling me she’s alive? You want me to talk to the woman?”
“I’ve had enough of your lip.”
I shut up. That was not a question and required no answer, and if the man had had enough of my lip, anything I said was only going to make it worse. I stood there, waited for him to make his move.
“Let’s go over it again,” Belcher said. “What time were you in here last night?”
“It must have been close to four o’clock.”
“You were in here talking to the agent about the topless dancer?”
“That’s right.”
“She wouldn’t give you a phone number or address?”
“No, she wouldn’t.”
“Did she show you a picture?”
“Picture?”
“Yeah.”
“No, she didn’t. Why?”
“Did she offer to get in touch with the girl for you?”
“No, she didn’t.”
“You paid this woman a hundred bucks?”
“Yes, I did.”
“What for?”
“For information.”
“To tell you what she knew?”
“Right.”
“You paid her a hundred bucks to tell what she knew, and she wouldn’t tell you the girl’s phone number or address?”
“Sounds like hell when you put it like that.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Yeah, that’s a fact.”
“What time was it when you left here last night?”
“Around four-fifteen, four-thirty. Somewhere in there.”
“That’s the last time you saw this woman?”
“That’s right.”
Belcher nodded, jerked his thumb. “Okay. Let’s go.”
I followed Belcher upstairs to Shelly Daniels’ talent agency, steeling myself for the sight of her dead body.
Only it wasn’t there.
Shelly Daniels was not in the room.
Darren “Sandy” Carter was. The bartender was seated at the desk, leafing through a stack of eight-by-ten photos.
When he saw me, he stopped and said, “You.”
“What are you doing here?”
“What does it look like?” he said. “And hey, thanks a lot.”
“What?”
“For siccin’ the cops on me. I mean, thanks a heap.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Where’s Shelly Daniels?”
“Ah,” Belcher said. “Very good question. I was hoping you could help me out with that.”
“What?”
“Well, you gave me this address, but not her home address. And we can’t find it.”
“Huh?”
“Which is a little unusual. I mean, the woman has to live somewhere. You’d expect some record to exist.”
I put up my hands. “Wait a minute. You’re telling me she’s not dead?”
“Dead? Why did you think she was dead?”
I took a breath. “Maybe I read too many murder mysteries. I’m sorry, but I thought that was why you called me in here.”
“No, we called you in here ’cause we’re lookin’ for the woman. We can’t find her.” He shrugged. “Now, a business of this sort, it doesn’t necessarily have to open nine o’clock. When she didn’t show up then, we weren’t concerned. At ten we’re beginning to wonder. By eleven it’s a little much.” He looked at his watch. “It is now after twelve. Maybe the woman keeps strange hours, she could come walking in that door any minute. But as far as I’m concerned, she’s missing, and I’d like to know why.”
“You expect me to tell you?”
“Not at all.” He jerked his thumb. “I expect you to help your friend out with his task.”
“What’s that?”
“The dancer. You gave us two names. Marla Melons and Lucy Blaine. Neither are on the Rolodex. Which is not surprising—those listings appear to be mainly businesses. Unfortunately, if this agent has an address book she has it with her. Which leaves the files. They’re crammed with pictures. Resume photos. They’re somewhat in alphabetical order, but, again, there is no Marla Melons or Lucy Blaine. Of course, the girl might have worked under another name.”
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes.” Belcher nodded. “I would suggest you pull up a chair.” He jerked his thumb toward the file cabinets, which were bulging. “Could be a long afternoon.”
26.
MACAULLIF WASN’T SURPRISED TO see me.
“So,” he said, “what kept you?”
I flopped into the chair next to his desk, ran my hand over my face. “You wouldn’t believe.”
“I’m very gullible. I’ll believe anything.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, I happen to have spent the last four hours looking at pictures of girls with big tits.”
MacAullif shrugged. “So? I would imagine you do that almost every day. What’s so special this time? Someone pay you to do it?”
“Not so’s you could notice.”
“It have something to do with the case?”
“What case?”
“There was a murder yesterday. Tall drink of water. Went about six six.”
“That seems to ring a bell. As a matter of fact, I think I may have found the body.”
“Yeah, well don’t expect a lot of credit. A six six corpse is kind of hard to miss.”
“Even so. It’s all a matter of knowing where to look.”
“Yeah. But that’s not exactly the sort of thing one should be admitting now, is it?”
“Gee, MacAullif,” I said. “I’m surprised to find you got the time to fool around.”
“Oh, loads of time,” MacAullif said. “I’m stuck here another half hour waiting for a ballistics report, and I’m caught up on my paperwork. One of the perks of bein’ a sergeant is I can more or less do what I please.”
“I’m happy for you.”
“Yeah. You want to elaborate on your big tit comment, or was that merely a joke?”
“That’s the straight goods. The talent agent’s skipped out, and no one can find the topless dancer. The bartender and I spent the afternoon going through her files.”
“See anything you liked?”
“I didn’t see the girl. Which doesn’t mean she wasn’t there. I’m not great on faces. She puts a wig on, dyes her hair, or maybe even combs it different, I could have looked right at her and never had a clue.”
“Kind of tough for a private detective,” MacAullif said. “It’s lucky you have so many qualities to compensate.”
“I was wondering how long it would take to get around to a discussion of my qualifications.”
“You’re the one brought the matter up.”
“Guilty as charged. Anyway, I had no luck at all. And neither did the bartender.”
“What about the place where she works?”
“They hired her through the agent. Paid her through there.”
“The agent must have a bank account—what about that?”
“It’s a business account with a business address.”
“Tough luck.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You fuck his wife?”
“Huh?”
“The cop. Belcher. You two don’t look like best of friends.”
“You might say.”
“Care to fill me in?”
MacAullif leaned back in his chair, exhaled. “You know, I can’t win with you. I’m not involved with this case. I’ve done no work on this case. Aside from what you told me, I don’t know a thing about it. If I wasn’t your damn alibi witness, I’d be out of it altogether.”
“At least you seem to have gotten over being angry about that.”
“Well, you say you didn’t do it. Didn’t know he was dead when you came to me. While I wouldn’t put it past you, I wouldn’t expect you to flat out lie about it. So you tell me it didn’t happen, I gotta believe.”
>
“Uh-huh. Well,” I said, “we’ve talked about everything else. You wanna talk about the cop?”
“Patty Devlin.”
“Huh?”
“It happened over Patty Devlin.”
“You fought over a woman?”
MacAullif made a face. “Don’t be dumb. Patty Devlin was a hooker sold crack.”
“What?”
“Hell of a combination, huh? Anyway, Patty Devlin was a white broad hookin’ without a pimp. Not a particularly secure position for a young woman to find herself in. She got beat up a lot. She got busted a lot. Not that she wouldn’t have if she’d had a pimp. Still, there would have been a sense of stability in her life. She’d have known who was beating her up.”
“You’re a cynical son of a bitch, aren’t you?”
“Wait’ll you hear the story. Anyway, she’s a hooker getting busted on a regular basis. Turns out she’s getting knocked down for drugs as often as she is for sex. Anyway, she gets busted with two johns for a sex and drugs party. They’re smokin’ crack, and bangin’ her six ways from Sunday. Free for all, both at once, get high, pick a hole, and hop on.
“Well, the cops bust it up and drag everyone downtown. And who should one of the johns be but Eddie Martinez.”
“Who’s Eddie Martinez?”
“Eddie Martinez is the son of Alberto Martinez, and Alberto Martinez is a cop.”
“Aha,” I said.
“Yeah. Aha.”
“Would there be any connection between Alberto Martinez and Sergeant Belcher?”
“Good guess. At the time, Sergeant Belcher happened to be partnered with Alberto Martinez.”
“So what happened to the kid?”
“The charges were dropped. No big deal. Charges were often dropped. They were dropped against the other john, and the hooker too. The whole thing was thrown out.”
“How do you know this?”
“It got around. Story like that gets around. Cop’s son busted. Case disappears. Juicy bit of gossip.”
“I take it there’s more?”
“Oh, yeah. Kid gets busted again. Eddie Martinez. This time it’s a little worse. Catch him with a kilo of coke.”
“A kilo?”
“Sure. Just your average weekend toot, right? But that’s not the big problem. The big problem is, the guys making the bust aren’t your average everyday street cops; they’re narcs. And they’re not going to faint just ’cause Al Martinez says boo. They don’t, and Eddie Martinez gets arraigned.”
“So?”
“So now the kid’s on the hook for felony possession with intent to sell, and lookin’ at some hard time. Of course Alberto gets the kid an attorney, and the mouthpiece cuts the kid a deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
“What kind of deal do you think? He talks. He rolls over. He rats out his friends.”
“Yeah. So?”
“So guess who he rats out?”
“Patty Devlin?”
“Bingo, right on the button. So the cops drag Patty Devlin in, charge her with trafficking. She freaks. What, are they nuts? She’s a hooker. She don’t move weight. She didn’t sell to Eddie Martinez. Hell, he was selling to her.”
“The cops believe her?”
“Thing is, they did. ’Cause it made sense. A lot more sense than a penny ante hooker’s movin’ kilos. If she’s movin’ kilos, why’s she hookin’ and sellin’ hits of crack? So the narcs cut her a deal to testify against him.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Yeah. Only now she’s on the horns of a dilemma.” He cocked his head. “You ever have a horny dilemma?”
“Constantly.”
“Yeah, well, the minute she’s released, Patty Devlin comes to the realization the deal she’s just made is not exactly conducive to good health. She goes back to her apartment on West 45th Street, and what should she see but an unmarked car hanging out down the block. The girl is streetwise on the one hand, paranoid on the other—and with what’s comin’ down she’s got good reason—so she checks it out on the sly, and who should be waiting for her in the car but officers Belcher and Martinez, just about the last people on earth she would like to see.”
“So?”
“So, she is now in fear for her life. She hightails it out of there, and over on Eighth Avenue she spots a regular marked police car in front of a doughnut shop.”
“You?”
“No. Just couple of cops on radio patrol. But she don’t care who they are, just as long as they’re not Alberto Martinez. She goes to the cops, says take me downtown.”
“They do?”
“Yeah. She’s askin’ for the narcs. She’s askin’ for the ADA. The one who cut the deal. Of course, these people are not readily available, you cannot get to them just like that. So, who’s catchin’ at the time but yours truly.”
“They dump her with you?”
“Right. And she tells her story. Most of which I already know, because it’s common gossip. But I listen, and I don’t like what I hear. So I try to contact the ADA. Who is still not available.”
“Martinez and Belcher show up?”
“Sure do. Demanding the girl. Insisting I hand her over.”
“But you don’t.”
“Of course not. I’m holdin’ her for the ADA.” MacAullif shrugged. “They say, no, no. She’s a suspect, she’s a fugitive from justice, they’re taking her into custody.”
“You don’t budge.”
“No. Well, Martinez flips out. He damn near pulls his gun. If there are not other cops here at the time, they probably overpower me and take her away. But as it happens, they don’t. I got backup and I use it. And they wind up outside, and I wind up holding the girl for the ADA.”
“So the kid went down?”
MacAullif made a face. “Yeah, sure. Like in a storybook. The good guys win. Justice triumphs.” He snorted. “The minute the girl’s alone with the ADA, she says she’s sorry she lied, but she was scared she’d go to jail, so she made the whole thing up. Of course she wasn’t buyin’ from the kid, it was her kilo all along, she just gave it to him to hold.”
“Are you shitting me?”
“No, I’m not. And the end result is the motherfucker walks.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Not at all. All I’ve accomplished through my moral stand is to make two enemies for life. And the one thing a cop does not need is enemies on the force.”
“But, if the kid walked—”
“Hey,” MacAullif said. “And there’s the irony for you. I’m the one got the broad to the ADA so she could make that happen. But does that matter to them? Not at all. I turn the girl over to them, they beat the shit out of her till she changes her story, with the same result. Either way, the kid walks. All I did was keep them from beating her up. But to them, that’s enough. It’s us against them, pick a side. I’m the bad guy, didn’t go along.”
“When did all this happen?”
“Long time ago. Before I ever met you. But an officer never forgets. Cops and elephants. Long-term memory’s just fine.”
“I think the bit about elephants is a myth.”
“The point is, I can’t think of an officer I’d like less in charge of this investigation.”
“I see what you mean.”
“Do you? I was kidding before about being your alibi witness. Then I see who’s in charge, and suddenly it’s no joke.” MacAullif pointed. “This one’s right up your street. Your TV mentality. Good cops and bad cops. Belcher is what you would call a bad cop. A sadistic, rotten son of a bitch who harbors a grudge. How’s he been with you so far?”
“Pretty above board.”
“Not overtly hostile?”
“Nothing I could point to, no.”
“Well, it’s early on. The problem is, the guy would love nothing better than to get me. If he thinks you’re a friend of mine, he’ll be out to get you.”
“I stand warned.”
“Do you? Then let me give you a little advice
. Your client’s dead.. You got no stake in this no more. There’s no need for you to be messin’ around with this.”
“Yeah, well it’s a two-edged sword.”
“What do you mean?”
“If the guy’s out to get me, I gotta protect myself. And how can I do that if I don’t know the score?”
MacAullif winced, put up his hands. “No, no, no. You got it all screwed around. You’re not involved in this. You did a job, it’s done. And you told the cops everything you know. End of story. You leave it alone, and they leave it alone.”
I frowned. “Maybe. But you’re making a big assumption.”
“What’s that?”
“They leave it alone.”
27.
IT WAS A TWO-STORY house in Scarsdale on a pleasant, tree-lined lot. I pulled into the driveway, went up to the front door, and rang the bell.
And got no answer. Which was strange. It was nine o’clock in the morning, the garage door was closed, and I would have expected a young woman of independent means to be at home.
Of course, she might well be asleep. I rang the doorbell again.
A red sports car pulled into the driveway, parked behind mine. A knockout of a young blonde got out. She was dressed in a white tennis outfit and had obviously just come from the court. She confirmed this by retrieving a racket and a can of balls from the back seat. She had a slim athletic figure and a light graceful step, and as she came up the path it occurred to me she was one of those young women who was able to appear hot and sweaty and at the same time fresh and clean.
I gave her my best smile, said, “Amy Greenberg?”
She stopped about ten feet from me, held the tennis racket in front of her, not like a weapon, but definitely at the ready.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Stanley Hastings. I’m a private detective. I was hired by Cranston Pritchert.”
“Oh,” she said. “Then you’re the one.”
“Who found him? Yes, that’s right.”
“What do you want with me?”
“I have a few questions to ask you, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“I don’t mind, but, like, I don’t know anything.”
“Perhaps you’d be willing to listen to what I have to say.”
“I already spoke to the police.”
“I’m sure you did.”