Little Black Dress (Peter Macklin Novels)
Page 19
“I know that. I told you I watch TV.”
“You realize it’s against the law to lie to a police officer? Your husband may not be the only one who’s in trouble.”
“I’m pretty sure everyone in this country has a right to lie to anyone, as long as it’s not under oath. But I’m telling you the truth, Captain. May I ask where you’ve taken my husband? I need to notify our lawyer.”
“He’ll be able to call him in person. I’m sure he knows that, if the officers forget to tell him. Your husband’s a bad man, Mrs. Macklin. A gangster and a professional killer and I don’t know what else.”
“I thought your interest was armed robbery.”
One of the officers coughed into a fist. Prine thought he was covering a chuckle. He made a mental note of the name on his tag. “Maybe your mother can give me more information.”
“Don’t be too hard on her. She’s had a long day.”
Her concern seemed genuine. He wasn’t sure what to make of her.
“Ms. Ziegenthaler?”
“Mrs.,” the manager corrected. “My daughter’s legitimate. You’re Edgar Prine, aren’t you? Was this the Color Guard?”
He studied her pupils. She didn’t appear to be in shock. “I’m sorry about Mr. Grinnell. I don’t normally condone private citizens taking the law into their own hands, but he died courageously.”
“It was a surprise, I can tell you. I haven’t taken it in yet. If you ever met Benjamin, you’d have forgotten him five minutes later. He was a good man, but very ordinary. I’m afraid it’s my fault, what he did. He was showing off for me.”
She spoke rapidly, using her hands. He wouldn’t want to be near her when the adrenaline ran out. She reminded him of everyone’s ex-wife he’d ever met. For a moment he felt sorry for Ben Grinnell.
That didn’t last. He believed that criminals comprised a subhuman species, produced from a polluted gene pool. The practical thing to do was exterminate them, like euthanizing diseased cattle; but years of lobbying on his part had failed to overturn the state ban on the death penalty.
“Actually, I did meet him once,” he said. “But I wanted to ask you about the gun. Had you ever seen it before?”
“Would you happen to have a cigarette, Captain? These officers all live too healthy.”
“Sorry. I gave them up years ago.”
“So did I. I didn’t see the gun tonight, let alone any other time. I was on the floor with my daughter and son-in-law and didn’t get up until the shooting was over.”
“You were on the floor with your son-in-law?”
“And my daughter. He pulled me down. A very practical young man. Not so young, actually; he could be Laurie’s father. No foolish hero like—well, poor Benjamin. He was selfish at the end.”
“Macklin?”
“Benjamin. I suppose he saved some lives, but what will I do now?” Her chin trembled. It was the first crack in the dam, and Prine’s cue to put distance between them. But he pressed on.
“Macklin had a gun, too. He fired it at least once.”
“Who told you that?” She looked interested.
“We have a room full of eyewitnesses.”
“Oh, witnesses. Everyone I saw was running for their lives. Someone’s got it all turned around, Captain. Peter wouldn’t have the imagination for such a thing. He’s exactly the kind of man you always hope your daughter will marry. Prosperous and boring.”
“You said the same thing about Benjamin.”
Her forehead creased. He thought she was about to cry. “Do you know where Mr. Spain went?” she asked then. “I saw him and Miss Jacobetti in a crowd of policemen, but I didn’t get to talk to them. I’m going to report Heartland Protection to the regional manager. God rest that poor man’s soul, but he was certainly slow on the uptake when push came to shove.”
Prine’s jaw clenched until it creaked. The man had been an air marshal, a member of the law-enforcement community. The black man had shot him as if he were a road sign. “It’s a bodyguard’s duty to put his client’s life before his own. He did what he was hired to do.”
“Yes, yes. But what about Mr. Spain?”
“He’s at Toledo Express Airport, waiting for a flight. I put him and his publicist in the backseat of a state police unit personally.”
“Like common criminals.”
“All the common criminals in this case are dead,” he snapped. “Or in custody.”
She bent and brushed dust off the hem of her skirt. “Well, I don’t suppose he’d have come back anyway.” She looked up. “You have the experience in these things. Do you think it would be appropriate if I sent him a basket of some kind?”
Someone touched his arm. He looked at a tired trooper with his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He had his helmet under one arm.
“Captain, I’ve been interviewing the female hostage. She knew the man who grabbed her.”
“Thank you, Miss Chesswick. These officers will take you home.” He smiled down at the redheaded cashier, who nodded without looking up. She looked tiny with a trooper’s coat across her shoulders.
Wild Bill. He shook his head and rejoined the police chief, who told him he had an unmarked unit waiting at the back door.
“I didn’t think you wanted to talk to the press yet,” the chief said. “They’re crawling all over the parking lot.”
Prine thanked him, and in the act moved the chief several notches up on his personal list. He gave him the card containing his business and home numbers and went out through the cluttered storage room. A city officer was waiting beside a gray Chrysler. He saluted smartly, impressing the captain, and opened the door to the backseat.
“Where can I take you, sir?”
“Mercy Hospital.” He put a foot inside.
“Captain Prine!”
He looked past the officer. A young woman he hadn’t seen stepped forward from the Dumpster behind the bookstore. Her hair, cut in bangs to her eyebrows, was dyed deep cranberry and she had more metal in her face than the car he was climbing into. A laminated press card dangled from a clothespin clamped to the neck of her green tank top. Her bare arms were purple with tattoos. He looked at the officer, who stepped between her and Prine.
“No comment. I’ll announce a press conference tomorrow.” He sank back into the upholstery.
“I don’t want to ask any questions—yet. I wanted to thank you for the police credentials.” She craned her neck to smile at him over the officer’s shoulder, holding up the card and waggling it. Prine saw the state seal.
He made a backhand wave. The officer frowned and stepped aside.
“What’s your name?” He studied the young woman, who looked as if she belonged behind the counter of a coffee shop. He was sure they’d never met.
“Tasha Wilkes. I’m with the Bowling Green Blast. Actually, I am the Blast. Me and PageMaker.”
A tired smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “‘Hue Crew Screws Blues.’”
Her cheeks colored, an interesting contrast with all that steel. “I wrote that. I write everything, including the advertisements, when I can get them. I built the Web site, too. I’m majoring in Journalism and Computer Design.”
“Minoring in Breaking and Entering?”
“Oh, Officer Alfiero told you about the music store. I wasn’t breaking in. I tried the doorknob to see if it was locked.” The smile evaporated. “I’m sorry about Lieutenant McCormick. I heard about it on the scanner.”
“Thank you.” He suppressed a sigh. Girl reporters and lady cops; the order of the universe was in serious disarray. “Where do you stand on convict rehabilitation?”
Her face went flat. “I’m not the one to ask.”
“Why not?”
“My sister was raped and beaten by a man twelve hours after he was released from a three-year sentence for rape. I think violent felons should be locked up for life.”
He slid over and patted the vacant seat. “Get in.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
> George Tiplady had fought very hard for the corner office after Phil Forrestal retired. During the fight he’d blackened the reputations of two other attorneys with several years’ seniority over him and earned their enmity for life, but it had been worth it. He himself didn’t care about the view it offered of sparkling Lake Erie and the skyscrapers of downtown Toledo, but the subliminal promise of freedom that came with it had landed him some fabulous clients, mostly women whose husbands could be depended upon to pay all his fees and court costs when the divorce papers came through.
At age thirty-four, Tiplady was the youngest partner in the firm of Voorhaven, Forrestal, and Steeb, with a parking spot two down from old Grover Voorhaven’s and a thirty-foot cabin cruiser berthed at the Maumee Yacht Club named Love on the Rocks. He’d joined the best health club in town, lost the forty pounds of fat he’d been lugging around since high school, and spent fifteen thousand dollars on hair plugs. His was the first male face many attractive and dissatisfied women saw once they’d made the decision to leave, and the more pleasing it was, the better his chances of recruiting a topless deckhand for the weekend. Toledo magazine had named him one of the city’s Ten Most Eligible Bachelors three years running. He was referred to as “the lady-tipper” in places where he no longer took his clients.
When his three o’clock came, he made a business of getting up, taking his jacket off the back of his chair, and shrugging into it as he came around the desk to take her hand; a quaint old-world touch he’d picked up from Voorhaven, whom no woman had seen in his shirtsleeves since Pearl Harbor. Women warmed to it, whether they noticed it on a conscious level or not, and although this one showed no reaction, he very much hoped it worked. She was the best-looking blonde he’d had in the office, elegantly dressed in a cashmere jacket over a simple white top and slacks with a razor crease. Clear-painted toenails showed through the open weave of her pumps. He was a connoisseur of female feet; women who took care of them seldom argued over expenses.
“Mrs. Macklin. I hope you won’t think me disingenuous when I offer condolences.”
She smiled tightly. She had a strong grip; hand weights, he guessed. Her breasts would be firm as well. “I’d like to get started.”
“Of course.” He showed her to the leather chair.
She declined refreshment and he sat down behind the big glass-topped desk that supported only a telephone-intercom and a green suede Levenger’s pad. He asked her on what grounds she was seeking divorce.
“What’ve you got?”
“In this state, adultery, bigamy, separation or absence, extreme cruelty, impotency, alcohol addiction, felony conviction or imprisonment, nonsupport, insanity, mutual consent, fraud, force, and duress.” He counted them off on his fingertips.
Her lips moved slightly, repeating the list. “Fraud,” she said at last.
He wrote “F” on the pad. Details to come. “How long have you been married?”
“Next month will be a year.”
He clucked his tongue. Three was the magic number when it came to negotiating a settlement. But he’d played the accustomed-lifestyle card successfully on as little as six weeks. “Any children?”
“No.”
“Are you pregnant?”
“No.”
He smiled reassuringly. “Are you sure? I can arrange a physical examination. It’s best we know now.”
“I know.”
He clucked again, made a note. Then he asked the bonus question. “What does your husband do for a living?”
BOOKS BY LOREN D. ESTLEMAN
Kill Zone
Roses Are Dead
Any Man’s Death
Motor City Blue
Angel Eyes
The Midnight Man
The Glass Highway
Sugartown
Every Brilliant Eye
Lady Yesterday
Downriver
Silent Thunder
Sweet Women Lie
Never Street
The Witchfinder
The Hours of the Virgin
A Smile on the Face of the Tiger
City of Widows*
The High Rocks*
Billy Gashade*
Stamping Ground*
Aces & Eights*
Journey of the Dead*
Jitterbug*
Thunder City*
The Rocky Mountain Moving Picture Association*
The Master Executioner*
White Desert*
Sinister Heights*
Something Borrowed, Something Black*
Port Hazard*
Poison Blonde*
Retro*
Little Black Dress*
*A Forge Book
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Loren D. Estleman, author of the acclaimed Amos Walker private detective novels and the Detroit series, has won four Shamus Awards from the Private Eye Writers of America, four Golden Spur Awards from the Western Writers of America, and three Western Heritage Awards from the National Cowboy Hall of Fame. He has been nominated for the Edgar Allan Poe Award, Britain’s Silver Dagger Award, and the National Book Award. His other novels include the Western historical classics Billy Gashade, Journey of the Dead, and The Master Executioner. Detroit hit man Peter Macklin made his return in Something Borrowed, Something Black (2002), having previously appeared in three novels: Kill Zone, Roses Are Dead, and Any Man’s Death. His most recent book is Retro, the latest Amos Walker novel. Estleman lives in Michigan with his wife, mystery author Deborah Morgan. Find out more at www.lorenestleman.com.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
LITTLE BLACK DRESS: A PETER MACKLIN NOVEL OF SUSPENSE
Copyright © 2005 by Loren D. Estleman
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
Edited by James Frenkel
A Forge Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Forge® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
eISBN 9781429911825
First eBook Edition : February 2011
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Estleman, Loren D.
Little black dress : a Peter Macklin novel of suspense / Loren D. Estleman.—1st ed. p. cm.
“A Tom Doherty Associates book.”
ISBN 0-765-30894-0 (acid-free paper)
EAN 978-0765-30894-8
1. Macklin, Peter (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Murder for hire—Fiction. 3. Mothers-in-law—Fiction. 4. Married people—Fiction. 5. Retirees—Fiction. 6. Robbery—Fiction. 7. Ohio—Fiction. I. Title. PS3555.S84L58 2005 813’.54—dc22
2004056448
First Edition: April 2005