Ransom Beach (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 2)

by Lawrence Kelter

  Tully was the happy go lucky type. Somehow the impact of grizzly crime scenes never seemed to get him down. I attribute that to his wonderful spirit, that and an endless appetite for pot. I pretended to sniff his shirt. "You smell like a ganja factory."

  Tully grinned and put his finger up to his lips. "Shush." He looked around to see if anyone else was in earshot—just Lido, grinning at my remark. Tully blushed. "Same old Cha-lee-see."

  The boys shook hands.

  Diaz was lying on the floor by the window.

  "I had to move him," Tully said. "He was lying against the radiator, getting crispy."

  I snapped on a pair of gloves and kneeled to inspect the body. There was a small, blood stained hole in Diaz' sweatshirt—middle of the chest. "One bullet?"

  "Mon, dat's all it takes," Tully replied. "Hit the bull's eye."

  "What'ya think went down?"

  Tully motioned toward the kitchen table, upon which rested a small lock box. "Have a look, mon."

  "Sure thing, mon." I smiled at Tully and walked over to the table. It was the box that Diaz had used to store a gun. It contained rags, a cleaning rod, and solvent. I didn't have to examine the bottle to know—the odor of the solvent was still strong on the rags. I turned back to Tully. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

  "Somebody killed him with his own gun," Tully said. "No question, mon."

  "Find the slug?" Lido asked.

  "No exit wound," Tully replied. "It's still inside."

  "He was having a drink with a friend, someone he thought of as a friend anyway. No sign of a struggle," I said.

  "No, no struggle," Lido said.

  "A gun will sometimes preempt one. Who found the body?"

  Tully tapped the window. An elderly man was sitting outside on the front steps, shivering, looking like a lost soul.

  "Who's that?"

  "Isadore Roth, the landlord," Tully said. "I told him he could wait in here, but he didn't want to."

  "I'll go get him," Lido said. "The man looks shaken." Lido buttoned his jacket and left the apartment.

  "What do we know about the victim?" Tully asked.

  Pulled his sheet on the way over. "Did some time, armed robbery, about ten years ago—clean ever since."

  "Unlicensed gun, mon, maybe he wasn't as clean as we think."

  "Maybe, but most hoods don't keep their pieces in a lock box. Could have been an insurance policy—you never quite sleep the same after you've done time."

  "Always an eye open, huh, Chal-lee-see."

  I looked down at Diaz' body. His once tan Latino skin was now a grayish white, the color of skim milk. God, I hate skim milk. It has that putrid color and taste. The only thing worse is soymilk—now what's that all about? Diaz seemed to be resting. I had the sense his life had always been a struggle. "Exactly so, my man. Exactly so."

  I'm a big proponent of gun control, but an illegal gun doesn't mean diddly unless you use it. "How long?"

  "Twenty-four hours give or take—full rigor. The landlord found him about 6:00 AM. Anyting else, Chal-lee-see."

  "No, my man, thanks." Tully went back to inspecting the crime scene.

  Lido returned with Isadore Roth. The man looked ill, frozen from the cold, horrified from finding Gilberto Diaz dead. What a morning.

  "Mr. Roth, I'm Detective Chalice. Why don't we sit down?"

  Roth nodded but didn't reply with spoken word. He followed me to a small sofa and sat down. The sofa was worn plaid, stained; something one of the tenants had thrown out. Lido took the chair opposite us.

  "Terrible day," Roth said. "Terrible."

  "Yes, terrible," I concurred. "I understand you found the body early this morning."

  "Please, he had a name. Gilberto, call him Gilberto." Roth was still wearing his gloves. He took them off and pushed up his sleeve until black tattooed numbers were visible on his arm. "He was a good fellow. He deserves respect."

  "You're a survivor," I said. A survivor: the common universal phrase that immediately identified any individual that had survived the nightmare of a Hitler concentration camp.

  "Dachau," Roth replied solemnly. "Mine wife and daughter died at Bergen-Belsen. Names, please—bodies, numbers, a man lived...he died. He had a name. He's entitled to that much, no?"

  It was the job, of course. I had come to think of the dead in generic terms: the deceased, the victim, the remains...the body. I had not meant to hurt Isadore Roth with my callousness or trifle the existence of a man that had died before his time. He was right, Gilberto Diaz was dead, but he deserved to be remembered. It was the least I could do. "My apology, Mr. Roth. I understand you found Gilberto's body when you arrived early this morning."

  "Yeah, I'm an old man, I don't sleep. I come by every Friday to give him his pay." Roth reached inside his coat and pulled out an envelope. "Who do I give this to now?" Roth looked forlorn, lost.

  Lido and I turned to each other. Lido shrugged.

  "Did you know his immediate family, Mr. Roth? Perhaps—"

  "I don't know her. Gilberto had a sister but I never met her." He tried to hand me the envelope. "Please, see that she gets this. Isadore Roth is a man that honors his obligations."

  I pushed the envelope back into his hands. "We'll get her name and address for you, Mr. Roth. You can give it to her yourself."

  "Please, find out," he said. "You won't forget?"

  "I'll get you the information right away."

  "It's the right thing to do, no?"

  "Of course."

  "How long did Gilberto work for you?"

  Roth thought for a moment and then he looked up when he remembered. "I recall exactly. It will be four years this coming April."

  "You never had any problems with him?"

  "No, I told you, he was a good fellow. He worked hard. He kept the building clean. He was polite, honest."

  I didn't want to ask the next question, but I knew I had to. "Mr. Roth, did you know that Gilberto had a criminal record?"

  "Criminal, what's criminal?" Roth scolded. "He was a boy. What, you never made a mistake?" He turned to Lido. "You?"

  "I'm just asking. So, he told you?"

  "Sure, he told me. Not at first, but soon afterward. He was very honest. He had a conscience."

  "Anyone you can think of that might want to do Gilberto harm?"

  Roth shook his head. "No one, all the tenants liked him."

  "Did you know that he owned a gun?" Lido asked.

  "Yes, he wanted to make sure it was okay to have in the apartment. 'Just in case,' he said."

  In case of what? Why exactly did Gilberto Diaz need the protection and security of a gun? Was it an old prison ghost that had come back to haunt him? A debt unpaid, old trouble that refused to go away? Or did it simply help him sleep better at night? I wondered if we'd ever find out.

  The tattoo was still exposed on Isadore Roth's forearm. I decided then and there that those who knew and loved Gilberto Diaz deserved to know what had become of him. I would not allow him to be remembered as a case number, a file that had gone unsolved. Diaz had survived the streets and the joint and had come up standing tall, someone Isadore Roth had called 'a good fellow.' He was holding down a job and surviving in the toughest city on earth, a city that had kicked many an ass. He was having drinks with a so-called friend, a friend that had taken his life simply because Diaz owned a gun. It was that simple sometimes—you have it, I need it—it was yours, now it's mine. It was something I just would not have. If Diaz had kept a gun to feel secure and to help him sleep through the night, he had indeed gotten more than he had bargained for.

  Four—STREET TALK

  A construction crew was setting up for work just in front of Roth's building. I stood on the boundary of the area they had taped off. I was eye level with Gil Diaz' window on the side of the building and had a few minutes to kill while Lido wrapped up with Tully inside. I figured I'd make a little small talk with the Con Ed guys—see if they'd noticed anything suspicious.

  The stre
et had been opened up. It didn't take long before one of the guys climbed out of the hole.

  "Hey there, got a minute?"

  The construction guy was wearing a knit hat under his hardhat and a quilted jacket. He turned his head at the sound of my voice.

  "What can I do you for?" he asked. Cute, he was one of the cute ones, a guy with moxie.

  I flashed the gold and blue shield. "Detective Chalice, can I ask you a question?"

  "Oh," he said, sounding clearly disappointed. "I thought you were one of those construction site groupies. You know, the kind that follow hardhats from one manhole to another."

  A construction groupie? Please, climb back into your hole, would ya? "Sorry, no backstage pass. How long have you guys been out here?"

  "Lady, I been here the whole goddamn week, freezing my butt off. Can't remember a December as cold as this one. It's freaking brutal out here. Now is there something you want or can I burrow back into the earth?"

  "You got a name, construction guy?"

  "Jack."

  "Really Jack or Jack as a euphemism for get lost?"

  "Really Jack. Jack with an aching back, Jack McKenna, cold, tired Jack McKenna, working Saturday OT so the old lady can spoil my three red headed darlings with more Christmas presents than I can ever possibly pay for."

  "'Tis the season."

  "Yeah...'tis."

  "I'm investigating a homicide, Jack." I pointed to Gil Diaz' window. "Right in there. Anything go on recently that you think I might need to know about?"

  "You're shitting me, the big PR?"

  "If by PR you mean Puerto Rican, then yes. Is there something you'd like to tell me?"

  "I saw him, big guy, filled the entire window. He was standing there, looking out, drinking booze."

  I already knew he was right. Tulley had identified ethanol traces on the glass fragments found near Diaz' body. That and the open bottle of Captain Morgan's spiced rum pretty much gave it away. "How did you know it was booze?"

  "You're kidding, right?"

  "Just asking, Jack."

  "I'm an Irishman, dearie," McKenna said, conjuring up a pretty exaggerated brogue. "I can tell by the way he held the glass and sipped at it. You tend to pick up on these things when you're out here freezing your nuts off and some lucky bastard is peeping at you from inside a nice, warm apartment sipping spirits. You don't sip club soda the way that PR was nursing his hooch."

  "It was rum."

  "Captain Morgan's?"

  "You're pretty good, Jack. You didn't notice anyone else did you—a guy with a gun perhaps?"

  Jack pressed his lips together and shook his head.

  "Didn't hear a gun go off?"

  Jack had a pair of noise attenuators hanging around his neck. I should have put two and two together on my own, but I was too busy listening to my teeth chatter. He grabbed one end in his gloved hand and pulled it out to show me. "Jackhammer. Noisy." He took them off and offered them to me. "Honestly, try these on, you won't hear jack shit."

  I held up my hand. "Wouldn't doubt it for a minute."

  One of Jack's buddies climbed out of the street hole. This guy was a real piece of work—I could tell at a glance. His front teeth were cracked. He was wearing sunglasses and a bandana. More than anything else, he had that unmistakable look about him—it was like a neon sign that read 'asshole.' Of course I could be wrong about these things, but it hasn't happened lately...or ever, now that I think about it. "Hey, leave him alone, he's married," the asshole said.

  "I'm guessing you're not?" I don't know why I asked, I just did. I should have just let him do his thing and go back in the hole. Why is it that I can't leave well enough alone?

  He swaggered over to me, his arms extended out from his sides like he owned the whole world. "Divorced three years and loving it—best move I ever made."

  I'm guessing your ex is walking on air. "Sorry to hear that." I held up my badge. "Say, you working here yesterday"

  "Me? No...called in sick."

  Big surprise on that one. "Thanks. Say, mind giving me and Jack a little privacy? We're discussing business."

  Tall, dark, and toothless shook his head, giving us his blessing to continue. It was a real blow to his ego, not being asked to hang around. He tried to make it look like he was sloughing it off, but didn't do a great job of it. I waited for him to locate some equipment and go back down below before resuming my conversation with Jack. "How about the peepers? They weren't covered up. You didn't see anyone creepy walking by, no one going in and out of the building that seemed like they might take a life?"

  Jack took a moment to reflect. I could see that he was giving it an honest effort. He shook his head. "No, I'm sorry." Then, as soon as he had ended his statement, he remembered something. "No, wait. There was this guy. I was taking my lunch break. He kept looking at me while I was drinking my coffee."

  "Can you give me a description?"

  "Yeah." Jack nodded as he spoke. "Not too tall, Spanish, a little past his prime if you know what I mean. Scruffy little goatee, knit hat, and a satin bomber jacket. Ugly little guy, kept looking at me like he was King Shit. Kind of guy you want to smack around just on general principles."

  "Lunch break—noon-ish?"

  Jack nodded.

  "Can you describe him to a sketch artist?"

  "Will it get me into your warm station house and out of the cold?"

  "It will at that."

  "Hell, lady, I'll paint you a fucking Rembrandt."

  "You got a foreman you need to check in with?"

  "Yeah."

  "Well, go advise him. I'll be back for you in ten minutes."

  "Cool. Sure you're not a groupie trying to lure an unsuspecting laborer into her sex lair?"

  I smiled. I knew he was playing. "Sorry, Jack, no—just a cop trying to pin a dirtbag for icing a hard working PR. You okay with that?"

  "Yeah, yeah, I'm good. Say, they got hot coffee down at the station?"

  "Donuts too."

  Jack laughed. "Okay, ten minutes—don't keep me waiting."

  The guy Jack had described could have been anyone or could have been our perp. There were two factors in our favor—time of day and proximity to the crime scene. It couldn't hurt to circulate this guy's sketch. I headed off to round up Lido.

  Five—COME INTO MY PARLOR SAID THE SPIDER TO THE FLY

  You don't realize how cold you really are until you hit the warm air. I saw Lido the second I entered the building—he was knocking on a neighbor's door.

  Lorelei Morris opened the door. She didn't pay attention to me as I walked up the hallway, stopping next to Lido just outside her apartment. It was so easy to read her mind—she had that hungry look, as if she hadn't had a good meal in years and Lido was a Kobe steak.

  Lorelei looked like a well-aged Veronica Lake. Her gray hair was dyed chestnut brown and fell in a long sweep across her left eye. She was in good shape for a woman that I guessed had pushed sixty about as far as it would go. She was wearing a navy Andrew Sister's skirt suit with notched lapels. A white apron was tied around her waist. She was looking at Lido with goo-goo eyes when she realized that she had come to the door wearing her apron. She yanked it off quickly and rolled it up into a ball. "Can I help you?" she asked hopefully.

  Lido and I had our badges hanging around our necks. "Sorry to disturb you, ma'am," Lido began. "I'm Detective Lido and this is my partner, Detective Chalice. We're investigating your neighbor's murder."

  Lorelei's mouth dropped precipitously. "Gil, dead?"

  No, all these police officers are here for the big mahjong game.

  I studied Lorelei's expression—she was shocked and upset, understandably so.

  "When?" she asked.

  "Sometime yesterday afternoon," Lido replied.

  She covered her mouth with her hand and then stepped into the corridor and looked around. "Oh my."

  Lorelei was just getting it—someone had murdered her neighbor, just down the hall—I could tell she had just gotten
hit with that creepy feeling.

  "May we come in?" I asked.

  Lorelei was lost in space. My request brought her back. "Where are my manners?" She smiled sweetly. "Of course, come in, won't you?"

  Lorelei tossed her apron into the kitchen as she passed it on her way into the dining room.

  "I hope we're not disturbing you, Ms. Morris."

  "Oh, no, I'm here alone." She pulled out two of the dining room chairs. "Please have a seat." I felt as if I were invisible as I walked past her and sat down. Her eyes were all over Lido.

  "Are you married, Ms. Morris?" I asked.

  Lorelei waited until Lido was in his seat and then turned to face yours truly, the invisible woman. "My husband's an OB-GYN. He had to run over to the hospital."

  "Delivery?" Lido asked.

  Lorelei nodded unhappily. "Worst job in the world."

  I did a quick sweep of the table—silver chafing dishes and fine crystal. The chandelier was spectacular and the table was definitely not veneer. Pays well though, doesn't it? I couldn't help wondering why a New York physician was still living in the ground floor apartment he was able to afford as a first year resident, but the neighborhood was safe, except for the homicide next door, of course. Doctor and Mrs. Morris had probably salted away a bundle.

  "His little pager goes off at all hours of the day and night." She plopped into the chair next to Lido, rested her head on thatched fingers, and gazed deeply into Lido's eyes. "I'm always alone."

  Oh you poor thing. Some women are so transparent.

  Lido saw me looking on unhappily. He gave me a quick smile. I winked back. I was far from shaken. Lorelei wasn't a bad looking older woman, but knowing Lido, I knew that he didn't have a fetish for menopausal socialites.

  "Would the two of you like something to eat?" She asked Lido and then turned to me out of obligation. "I just baked a chocolate soufflé."

  "We're fine," Lido replied.

  Lorelei crossed her legs. They were damn good for a senior citizen's. "Are you sure I can't tempt you?"

  Why you conniving old bitch!

  Lido didn't respond. I checked him out—goddamn it, he was definitely tempted. Lorelei began to smile.