Gardner must have seen the blood drain from my face. “What’s wrong, Wade?”
My mouth decided to imitate a drought and the pit of my stomach went on a vacation to my shoes. My voice suddenly sounded like a frog. “I know Aldridge. We have,” I said, pausing for the right word, “history.”
Gardner eyed me closely. “What kind of history?”
“From back on the force. But that doesn’t have any play here.” I felt like changing the subject fast. “So, the police are called out to Aldridge’s house on account of a burglary. They show up, but the thief hightails it out of there. Somewhere along the way, the chase makes its way to my client’s farm. He hears things, but nothing comes of it. A day or so later, he gets the order from the county that his birds have to be killed.” I tapped my finger on the map. “Why?”
Gardner said, “If the burglary was at the Aldridge place, was there a police report filed?”
“Don’t know,” Barr said. “Once the boss told me not to run the story, I stopped doing research.”
I gave Gardner a funny look. “Care for a ride to the station? Maybe we can find a copy of the police report.”
Gardner looked around the news room. Most of the reporters had their heads down, plying their trade. Across the room, Johnny Flynn sat at Gardner’s old desk, pounding away at his typewriter. Gardner sighed. “Ever since I got demoted, I ain’t even had a sniff at a juicy story. My editor has kept me far away from any investigative reporting. In fact, the owner might even fire me if I write one.”
“So, that’s a no?”
“Are you kidding? Let me get my hat.”
Chapter Seven
The Houston Police station was on Caroline Street just south of the main downtown area. It was built in 1923 and looked it. Low, squat, and without much room to operate on the inside, it was not for nothing that a fair number of cops preferred the heat on the street to the stifling heat inside. Getting assigned a desk job should have been covered with hazard pay.
Gardner and I strolled into the sauna and right up to the desk sergeant. It was a pleasure to take out hats off. The name on the man’s tag read Jones. He wasn’t one I knew. I deferred to Gardner to see if his magical reporter skills could gain us entrance.
“Gordon Gardner of the Post-Dispatch. We’re here to ask some questions about a burglary last week.”
Jones gave Gardner a skeptical eye. “Gardner? Ain’t you supposed to be hobnobbing with the fancy folks? I got tole I ain’t gotta talk to you. Besides, yer sniffin’ up the wrong tree. Ain’t nothin’ here you need.”
“It’s part of a society story. Involves Oliver Aldridge. All we want is to talk with someone who was at the scene last week. This was out west off 18th Street, northwest side, Meadowlark Lane.”
“Who’s this guy?” Jones turned his attention to me.
“I’m nobody,” I said, trying to keep the conversation going. “You don’t even see me.”
Jones, who wore horn-rimmed glasses, peered at me. “I see you, mister. You standing right there.”
Subtlety. The thing you can’t teach a good cop. “I’m just here for moral support. My friend here is going to write a story about the burglary last week and how numerous units were called out to chase the suspect.” I turned to Gardner. “If our sources are correct, I believe the suspect got away. Am I right?”
“Right as rain,” Gardner chimed in.
“Aren’t you looking to write a piece that is as fair and balanced as possible?” I looked directly at Gardner.
He held up his hands in a mock scale of justice. “The only way.”
I turned back to Jones. “But if we don’t have solid facts to ground the piece, I’m not sure if my friend here, honest a reporter as he is, can write a balanced piece. You see what I mean?”
Jones eyed me with a mixture of contempt and befuddlement. I pressed in on him. “All we need is the name of an officer at the scene. Or of the lead detective.”
Jones smiled, like he just got a joke told to him an hour ago. “I know just the person that can handle your request.” He stood. “Follow me.”
Gardner and I exchanged glances. He shrugged, I shrugged, but we carried our hats in our hands as we followed Jones from the main foyer into the heated heart of the police station.
Various detectives, officers, and beat cops looked up as we strolled through the open room. I got a few looks of recognition, a couple of mouth-breathers with hung jaws, and a few fingers pointed my way.
“I see you’re still loved around here,” Gardner said.
“They send me flowers every week.”
We rounded a familiar corner of the office and beelined it towards an office. I stopped dead in my tracks.
“What’s up?” Gardner said.
“It’s Burman.” I closed my eyes and shook my head. “He’s taking us to see Burman.”
Another voice spoke from behind me. “If you want to see me, Wade, all you gotta do is turn around.”
Gardner looked over my shoulder to see Police Captain Oscar Burman come up beside me and plant a burly arm around my shoulders. “Hello, Wade. What brings your carcass back to the station?”
I bit the inside of my lip to keep my mouth shut. There were any of a dozen words that I wanted to say in regard to Captain Burman, none of them polite. Burman wasn’t necessarily a bad guy, but if you got on his bad side, you’d better watch out because, sooner or later, he’d get you.
Back in my beat cop days, Burman got assigned to investigate me when the unpleasantness arose. He did his job, but he didn’t listen to any of my explanations, truthful as they were about the bigger picture. Burman only saw what he wanted to see: a cop whose behavior tainted the department. The only thing that would fix that would be to kick me off the force.
He did. Now I’m a shamus, trying to make my way in the world without a badge.
Gardner, of course, knew the entire story, and persuaded his editors to let him write the story even though everyone knew we were pals. He pulled a few punches, including the big one, but not many. Like he told me, wouldn’t you want an old friend to write the story that’s going to be written anyway? Sound familiar?
“Captain,” Gardner said, “how are you today?”
“I was better until I saw this guy.” He gave my shoulders a sharp tug then released me. “Don’t let his reputation taint your writing, Gardner.”
Again, the words bubbled up from inside me, but Gardner spoke before any of them could be uttered. “Captain, let’s not forget that Mr. Wade here helped foil that Nazi plot. I believe even the Army intelligence officers publicly thanked him. Cut him some slack.”
“I did. Back when he was a cop. He made himself a noose.”
I scowled at that, but set aside my rebuttal. “We’re looking into a burglary that happened last week.”
The captain shook out a cigarette from his rumpled pack and lit it. “We have lots of burglaries. Which one in particular?”
“Out on Meadowlark Lane.”
Burman cocked an eyebrow. Giving Jones his chin, Burman dismissed the young man. Jones quietly scooted away. “Look, I won’t even dignify your request with a trip to my office. There’s no crime out there. No police report filed. Nothing.”
“Really?” I gave Gardner a quick look, then glanced back to Burman. “We heard differently. We heard there was a whole police chase, two, three units all converging on the fancy house out there.”
Burman puffed his cheeks and shook his head. “Well, there might’ve been something you might’ve heard on the police band but it was ultimately nothing.” He hooked a thumb at Gardner. “I think your source was mistaken.”
I’d seen more obvious hints in poker games. Clearly, this wasn’t the route to take. “C’mon, Gardner, it’s getting a little hot in here. I need some fresh air.”
Gardner didn’t want to leave. He was ready to keep at Burman until he gave up the name, but a slight tilt of my head toward the exit delayed that outburst. He nodded and followed me o
ut. The eyes of the other officers and detectives all bore into me.
Once outside, Gardner said, “Why’d we just leave? There’s more to the story than he’s letting on. My reporter’s sense can feel that.”
“My detective sense feels it, too, but we ain’t gonna get anywhere with Burman. If the chief is the one that got your editor to kill the story, then Burman’s just the wall. We need to go around the wall.”
“The source?”
I smiled. “I told you I wanted some fresh air.”
Chapter Eight
The West 18th Street extension was an east-west street just northwest of downtown. On the east side, it ended in the Heights, a little suburb of Houston noted for—what else—its higher elevation. That wasn’t a stretch since Houston itself is pretty flat. On the west side, it ended at State Highway 6, the only way to get to Austin. In between, you had a funny mixture of farms and fancy houses of rich folks who liked the luxury of country life with the convenience of the nearby city.
It was off West 18th that both my client and Oliver Aldridge lived. Sitting in my car, Gardner and I looked at the close proximity of the two pieces of land. The Aldridge mansion was the last in a string of high-class homes with wide yards and trees. After it, poorer farm land started.
Gardner said, “It’s only a matter of time before the rich just take over that land. Maybe this is the first salvo.”
“Maybe.” I pointed across one of the fields. “That’s Smith’s house. Looks like he grows corn and raises chickens.” I pointed to the last house of a rich man. “And that’s Aldridge’s house. If a thief ran out the back, I can see where Smith’s farm would be the easy escape route.”
Gardner looked down at the map of the city and traced his finger along one of the lines. “According to this map, there’s another farm road back there. And there’s one on the west side of the Smith farm.” He looked up and back through the windshield. “If the cops never caught the thief but chased him all the way to Smith’s farm, I’m betting he stashed his car on that road and made a clean getaway.”
“Or that’s where the thief’s partner was.” I started the car.
“Where we going?”
I nodded to the Aldridge house. “Front door. Let’s be upfront and see what happens.”
To call this house was a mansion was doing the word a disservice. There was a nice line of larger-than-necessary homes on this stretch of road, but the Aldridge home had all the other ones beat. If my estimate was correct, the Aldridge property was, in fact, two lots joined into one. The circular drive was ready for a limo to cruise in there and not need any room to back up. The house itself was a three-story job, complete with a second-floor balcony. The entire structure was done up in a style of a Spanish villa, with ceramic tiles on the roof and stucco along the walls. That’s definitely one way to beat the Texas heat.
I rapped my knuckles on the door, then grasped the brass door knocker and repeated the entreaty. Footsteps were heard from inside the house. The door opened. Sure enough, a butler gazed out into the afternoon sun.
“May I help you?” His words and voice oozed out like smooth gin in a martini.
“Yes. My name is Wade. I’m a private investigator. I’m looking into the burglary that happened here last week, and I’d like to talk with the lady”—I checked my watch—”or the gentleman of the house, if they’re available.”
His eyes were perpetually half-lidded. “I’m sorry, sir, but they are both gone. Mr. Aldridge is at the office and Mrs. Aldridge is out.”
“She drive herself?”
“Beg pardon?”
“Does she drive her own car or is there a chauffeur?”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss Mrs. Aldridge’s driving habits.”
“Great, I’ll take that to mean she prefers to drive herself because she likes the freedom but her husband insists on a driver to make sure she’s safe. And, since the driver’s here, that means she’s probably inside, wishing she could just get in her car and drive away.”
The half-lidded eyes widened a bit.
I pushed ahead. “So, do we get to see Mrs. Aldridge or do we start hollering?” I jerked a thumb over my shoulder. “You suppose the neighbors will mind if I honked my horn?”
The distaste in the butler’s face was pronounced. “Sir, I’m not in the habit of being bullied at my place of employment.”
“That’s okay. I’m used to being ignored. But this guy’s not.” I indicated Gardner. “Know who he is? He’s a reporter with the Post. He’s writing a piece on the burglary. I know he’d really like to have actual facts for his story. We both know the Post runs quality journalism, but, well, you know. He also writes fiction. The pulps. You read those?”
“I do not, sir.” The butler’s temper was starting to sizzle.
“So, since you’re being an obstacle, we’ll just be on our way. C’mon, Gordon.” I said it louder than the butler wanted. I was rewarded with a grimace.
We moved backward toward my car when a female voice spoke from above us. “It’s okay, Randolph. I’ll see them.”
Gardner craned his neck to see who had spoken.
I just smiled.
Randolph, keeping his seething to a bare minimum, showed both Gardner and me into the upstairs solarium. It had windows on two sides. The sun steamed in and glistened off the ceramic tiles on the floor. In the middle of the room was an easel with a canvas. A still life, fruits in a bowl. Looked like Mrs. Aldridge fancied herself a painter. I could tell what I was looking at, but she was a far cry from good.
The woman herself was a specimen. Blond, thin, with curves that could send a man into vertigo just looking at them, Sarah Aldridge stood with the confident self-assurance of one who knew her place in society, knew that she looked good and had men ogling her all the time, and knew what she wanted and likely to get it. She stood in front of the easel, a painter’s palette hooked around one thumb and a brush in the other. She didn’t turn when we came into the room.
“Thank you, Randolph.” she dismissed him with her tone. The butler gave us a last stink eye and glided out of the room.
“I supposed you both want to know what happened last week.” Single-malt scotch was not as smooth as that voice. “Isn’t that why you threatened my butler?”
I stepped forward, angling to get a look at her face. She had yet to turn, but the hair was swept up in a gentle twist on her head, a few loose strands hanging down to her neck. I wanted to see if her face matched the figure. “My name’s Wade. I’m a private investigator. This is Gordon Gardner from the Post. Yes, we’re following up on the burglary last week.”
Still without turning, she said, “I understand why Mr. Gardner’s here, assuming he’s telling the truth.” She put the finishing touches on one of the oranges and placed the brush onto the table next to the easel. “What I want to know is why you’re here.”
She turned. Light from one of the windows caught her hair and made it glow. Stunning was too mild a word; it didn’t do Sarah Aldridge justice. The high cheek bones, the full lips, the gossamer skin were traits any woman would kill to have. She had them all, but she also had the coup de grace: her eyes. The light green eyes of the Caribbean Sea. You could get lost in them. I did right then.
Gardner caught me napping. “Sometimes Mr. Wade here likes to think before he speaks.” He nudged me.
Sarah smiled. “That’s a good habit to have. More men should have it.”
I cleared my throat. “I’m investigating the burglary last week.”
“Did my husband hire you?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t see why you’re here. If we didn’t hire you and we didn’t file a police report, how are you even on a case?”
The verbal slap was enough to jolt me back to my accustomed self. “I’ve been hired by one of your neighbors to look into the disturbance.”
She frowned, but still looked beautiful. “What business is it of theirs what goes on down here? We practically ow
n the street.”
I held my tongue, letting her stew a moment longer. “Were you here last week when the burglar broke in?”
“I’m afraid I can’t answer that.” She was playing with me now. “I still don’t know why you landed on my doorstep.”
I inhaled deeply and decided to be honest. “I’ve been hired by one of your neighbors on the other side to look into the events of last week.”
She screwed up her face in disgust. “One of them?” She seemed genuinely appalled. “How in the world can they afford it?”
I shrugged. “Be that as it may, my client raises chickens. A few days after the police chased your burglary suspect through his farm and chicken barnyard, he got an order that all his chickens have to be slaughtered. Now, we know there was a large police presence here last week. It was on the police band. It was going to be public knowledge in the newspaper before someone pulled rank and killed the story. Sure, it was just a police beat little write-up, but, still, it would have been in print. And now it’s not. So, tell me, Mrs. Aldridge, what was stolen here last week?”
She gazed at me, studying me, for what, I didn’t know. Maybe she was trying to figure me out. It’s usually not that hard. I’m a pretty straightforward guy. But she stared at me, and then through me, like I wasn’t even there.
“What did the police report say?”
Gardner frowned. “What police report?”
Sarah smiled. “Exactly. There is no police report, so there must not have been a crime.”
“But there were a half-dozen squad cars out here,” I said. “Surely there was something going on.”
Her shrug was a minimal gesture, like she didn’t even bother mustering up the energy for an honest-to-goodness shrug. “That’s all there is to it.”
“That’s your story, then?” I said.
“It is.”
“Then, if you don’t mind, why don’t you tell me what you heard or saw last week?”
She fingered one of her brushes. I watched her hands. They were model’s hands, the kind you’d see in a magazine ad. There were paint splotches on them but not many. It was like the paint decided it wasn’t worth the effort to blemish such unblemishable hands.
All Chickens Must Die: A Benjamin Wade Mystery Page 4