by Ed Gorman
"And worked with them."
"Everybody came out okay," I said. "I collected a few dollars from the four players, and I laid off some of it where it would do the most good."
"Just to smooth things out."
"That's right."
"But you didn't lay off all of it."
"No," I said, "not quite all of it. Give me your hand. Here."
"What's this?"
"A finder's fee."
"Three hundred dollars?"
"Ten percent," I said.
"Gee," she said. "I didn't expect anything."
"What do you do when somebody gives you money?"
"I say thank you," she said, "and I put it someplace safe. This is great. You get them to tell the truth, and everybody gets paid. Do you have to go back to Syos-set right away? Because Chet Baker's at Mikell's tonight."
"We could go hear him," I said, "and then we could come back here. I told Anita I'd probably have to stay over."
"Oh, goodie," she said. "Do you suppose he'll sing 'Let's Get Lost?' "
"I wouldn't be surprised," I said. "Not if you ask him nice."
* * *
I don't remember if he sang it or not, but I heard it again just the other day on the radio. He'd ended abruptly, that aging boy with the sweet voice and sweeter horn. He went out a hotel-room window somewhere in Europe, and most people figured he'd had help. He'd crossed up a lot of people along the way and always got away with it, but then that's usually the way it works. You dodge all the bullets but the last one.
"Let's Get Lost." I heard the song, and not twenty-four hours later I picked up the Times and read an obit for a commodities trader named P. Gordon Fawcett, who'd succumbed to prostate cancer. The name rang a bell, but it took me hours to place it. He was the guy in the blazer, the man in whose apartment Phil Ryman stabbed himself.
Funny how things work out. It wasn't too long after that poker game that another incident precipitated my departure from the NYPD, and from my marriage. Elaine and I lost track of each other, and caught up with each other some years down the line, by which time I'd found a way to live without drinking. So we get lost and found— and now we're married. Who'd have guessed?
My life's vastly different these days, but I can imagine being called in on just that sort of emergency— a man dead on the carpet, a knife in his chest, in the company of four poker players who only wish he'd disappear. As I said, my life's different, and I suppose I'm different myself. So I'd almost certainly handle it differently now, and what I'd probably do is call it in immediately and let the cops deal with it.
Still, I always liked the way that one worked out. I walked in on a cover-up, and what I did was cover up the cover-up. And in the process I wound up with the truth. Or an approximation of it, at least, and isn't that as much as you can expect to get? Isn't that enough?
Clark Howard
Under Suspicion
CLARK HOWARD, Edgar winner, novelist, screenwriter, is best known for his short stories, which number among the finest ever written in the crime-fiction genre. Howard is unique in examining the lives of people at the bottom of the social ladder. He finds in them, on many occasions, beauty, dignity, meaning, sometimes even charm. "Under Suspicion," which first appeared in the March issue of Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, is one of his finest stories.
Under Suspicion
Clark Howard
Frank Dell walked into the Three Corners Club shortly after five, as he usually did every day, and took a seat at the end of the bar. The bartender, seeing him, put together, without being told, a double Tanqueray over two ice cubes with two large olives, and set it in front of him on a cork coaster. Down at the middle of the bar, Dell saw two minor stickup men he remembered from somewhere and began staring at them without touching his drink. Frank Dell's stare was glacial and unblinking. After three disconcerting minutes of it, the two stickup men paid for their drinks and left. Only then did Dell lift his own glass.
Tim Callan, the club owner, came over and sat opposite Dell. "Well, I see you just cost me a couple more customers, Frankie," he said wryly.
"Hoodlums," Dell replied. "I'm just helping you keep the place respectable, Timmy."
"Bring some of your policemen buddies in to drink," Callan suggested. "That'll keep me respectable and profitable."
"You're not hurting for profits," Dell said. "Not with that after-hours poker game you run in the apartment upstairs."
Callan laughed. "Ah, Frankie, Frankie. Been quick with the answers all your life. You should've been a lawyer. Even my old dad, rest his soul, used to say that."
"I'm not crooked enough to be a lawyer," Dell said, sipping his drink.
"Not crooked enough! Hell, you're not crooked at all, Frankie. You're probably the straightest cop in Chicago." Callan leaned forward on one elbow. "How long we known each other, Frank?"
"What's on your mind, Tim?" Dell asked knowingly. Reminiscing, he had learned, frequently led to other things.
"We go back thirty years, do you realize that, Frank?" Callan replied, ignoring Dell's suspicion. "First grade at St. Mel's school out on the West Side."
"What's on your mind, Tim?" Dell's expression hardened just a hint. He hated asking the same question twice.
"Remember my baby sister, Francie?" Callan asked, lowering his voice.
"Sure. Cute little kid. Carrot-red hair. Freckles. Eight or ten years younger than us."
"Nine. She's twenty-seven now. She married this Guinea a few years ago, name of Nicky Santore. They moved up to Milwaukee where the guy's uncle got him a job in a brewery. Well, they started having problems. You know the greaseballs, they're all Don Juans, chasing broads all the time—"
"Get to the point, Tim," said Dell. He hated embellishment.
"Okay. Francie left him and came back to live with my brother, Dennis— you know him, the fireman. Anyhow, after she got back, she found out she's expecting. Then Nicky finds out, and he comes back too. Guy begs Francie to take him back, and she does. Now, the only job he can get down here is pumping gas at a Texaco station, which only pays minimum wage. He's worried about doctor bills and everything with the baby coming, so he agrees, for a cut, to let a cousin of his use the station storeroom to stash hot goods. It works okay for a while, but then the cousin gets busted and leads the cops to the station. They find a load of laptop computers. Nick gets charged with receiving stolen property. He comes up for a preliminary hearing in three weeks."
"Tough break," Dell allowed, sipping again. "But he should get probation if he's got no priors."
"He's got a prior," Callan said, looking down at the bar.
"What is it?"
"Burglary. Him and that same cousin robbed some hotel rooms down at the Hilton when they was working as bellmen. Years ago. Both of them got probation on that."
"Then he's looking at one-to-four on this fall," Dell said.
Callan swallowed. "Can you help me out on this, Frankie?"
Dell gave him the stare. "You don't mean help you, Tim. You mean help Nicky Santore. What do you think I can do?"
"Give your personal voucher for him."
"Are you serious? You want me to go to an assistant state's attorney handling an RSP case and personally vouch for some Guinea with a prior that I don't even know?"
"Frank, it's for Francie—"
"No, it isn't. If Francie was charged, I'd get her off in a heartbeat. But it's not Francie; it's some two-bit loser she married."
"Frank, please, listen—"
"No. Forget it."
There was a soft buzzing signal from the pager clipped to Dell's belt. Reaching under his coat, he got it out and looked at it. It was a 911 page from the Lakeside station house out on the South Side, where he was assigned.
"I have to answer this," he told Callan. Taking a cellular phone from his coat pocket, he opened it and dialed one of the station house's unlisted numbers. When someone answered, he said, "This is Dell. I got a nine-one-one page."
"Yeah, it's
from Captain Larne. Hold on."
A moment later, an older, huskier voice spoke. "Dell? Mike Larne. Where's Dan?" He was asking about Dan Malone, Dell's partner, a widower in his fifties.
"Probably at home," Dell told the captain. "I dropped him off there less than an hour ago. What's up, Cap?"
"Edie Malone was found dead in her apartment a little while ago. It looks like she's been strangled."
Dell said nothing. He froze, absolutely still, the little phone at his ear. Edie was Dan's only child.
"Dell? Did you hear me?"
"Yessir, I heard you. Captain, I can't tell him—"
"You won't have to. The department chaplain and Dan's parish priest get that dirty job. What I want you to do is help me keep Dan from going off the deep end over this. You know how he is. We can't have him going wild thinking he'll solve this himself."
"What do you want me to do?"
"I'm going to assign you temporary duty to the homicide team working the case. If Dan knows you're on it, he might stay calm. Understand where I'm coming from?"
"Yessir." Dell was still frozen, motionless.
"Take down this address," Larne said. Dell animated, taking a small spiral notebook and ballpoint from his shirt pocket. He wrote down the address Larne gave him. "The homicide boys have only been there a little while. Kenmare and Garvan. Know them?"
"Yeah, Kenmare, slightly. They know I'm coming?"
"Absolutely. This has all been cleared with headquarters." Larne paused a beat, then said, "You knew the girl, did you?"
"Yessir."
"Well," Larne sighed heavily, "I hate to do this to you, Frank—"
"It's all right, Cap. I understand."
"Call me at home later."
"Right."
Dell closed the phone and slipped it back into his pocket. He walked away from the bar and out of the club without another word to Tim Callan.
* * *
Edie Malone's address was one of the trendy new apartment buildings remodeled from old commercial high-rises on the near North Side. The sixth floor had been cordoned off to permit only residents of that floor to exit the elevator, and they were required to go directly to their apartments. Edie Malone's apartment was posted as a crime scene. In addition to homicide detectives Kenmare and Garvan, there were half a dozen uniformed officers guarding the hallways and stairwells, personnel from the city crime lab in the apartment itself, and a deputy coroner and Cook County morgue attendants waiting to transport the victim to the county hospital complex for autopsy.
When Frank Dell arrived, Kenmare and Garvan took him into the bedroom to view the body. Edie Malone was wearing a white cotton sweatshirt with MONICA FOR PRESIDENT lettered on it, and a pair of cutoff denim shorts. Barefoot, she was lying on her back, elbows bent, hands a few inches from her ears, feet apart as if she were resting, with her long, dark red hair splayed out on the white shag carpet like spilled paint. Her eyes were wide open in a bloated face, the neck below it ringed with ugly purplish bruises. Looking at her, Dell had to blink back tears.
"I guess you knew her, your partner's daughter and all," said Kenmare. Dell nodded.
"Who found her?"
"Building super," said Garvan. "She didn't show up for work today and didn't answer the phone when her boss called. Then a coworker got nervous about it and told the boss that the victim had just broken up with a guy who she was afraid was going to rough her up over it. They finally came over and convinced the super to take a look in the apartment. The boss and the coworker were down in his office when we got here. We questioned them briefly, then sent them home. They've been instructed not to talk about it until after we see them tomorrow."
The three detectives went into the kitchen and sat at Edie's table, where the two from homicide continued to share their notes with Dell.
"Coroner guy says she looks like she's been dead sixteen, eighteen hours, which would mean sometime late last night, early this morning," said Garvan.
"She worked for Able, Bennett, and Crain Advertising Agency in the Loop," said Kenmare, then paused, adding, "Maybe you know some of this stuff already, from your partner."
Dell shook his head. "Dan and his daughter hadn't been close for a while. He didn't approve of Edie's lifestyle. He and his wife had saved for years to send her to the University of Chicago so she could become a teacher, but then Dan's wife died, and a little while after that Edie quit school and moved out to be on her own. Dan didn't talk much about her after that."
"But Captain Larne still thinks Dan might jump ranks and try to work the case himself?"
"Sure." Dell shrugged. "She was still his daughter, his only kid."
"Okay," Kenmare said, "we'll give you everything, then. Her boss was a Ronald Deever, one of the ad agency execs. The coworker who tipped him about the ex-boyfriend is a copywriter named Sally Simms."
"Did she know the guy's name?" Dell asked.
"Yeah." Kenmare flipped a page in his notebook. "Bob Pilcher. He's some kind of redneck. Works as a bouncer at one of those line-dancing clubs over in Hee-Haw town. The Simms woman met him a couple times on double dates with the victim." He closed his notebook. "That's it so far."
"Where do we go from here?" Dell asked.
Kenmare and Garvan exchanged glances. "We haven't figured that out yet," said the former. "You've been assigned by a district captain, with headquarters approval and a nod from our own commander, and the victim is the daughter of a veteran cop who's your senior partner. We'll be honest, Dell: We're not sure what your agenda is here."
Dell shook his head. "No agenda," he said. "I'm here to make it look good to Dan Malone so he'll get through this thing as calmly as possible. But it's your case. You two tell me what I can do to help and I'll do it. Or I'll just stand around and watch, if that's how you want it. Your call."
Kenmare and Garvan looked at each other for a moment, then both nodded. "Okay," said Kenmare, "we can live with that. We'll work together on it." The two homicide detectives shook hands with Dell, the first time they had done so. Then Kenmare, who was the senior officer, said, "Let's line it up. First thing is to toss the bedroom as soon as the body is out and the crime lab guys are done. Maybe we'll get lucky, find a diary, love letters, stuff like that. You do the bedroom, Frank. You knew her; you might tumble to something that we might not think was important. While you're doing that, we'll work this floor, the one above, and the one below, canvassing the neighbors. We'll have uniforms working the other floors. Then we'll regroup."
With that agreed to, the detectives split up.
* * *
It was after ten when they got back together.
"Bedroom?" asked Kenmare. Dell handed him a small red address book.
"Just this. Looks like it might be old. Lot of neighborhood names where Dan still lives. None of the new telephone exchanges in it."
"That's it?"
"Everything else looks normal to me." Dell nodded. "Clothes, makeup, couple of paperback novels, Valium and birth-control pills in the medicine cabinet, that kind of stuff. But I'd feel better if one of you guys would do a follow-up toss."
"Good idea." Kenmare motioned to Garvan, who went into the bedroom.
"Neighbors?" Dell asked.
"Zilch," said Kenmare.
Kenmare and Dell cruised the living room and small kitchen, studying everything again, until Garvan came back out of the bedroom and announced, "It's clean." Then the men sat back down at the kitchen table.
"Let's line up tomorrow," Kenmare said. "Dell, you and I will work together, and I'll have Garvan sit in on the autopsy; he can also work some of the names in the address book by phone before and after. You and I will go see Ronald Deever and Sally Simms at the ad agency, maybe interview some of the other employees there also. We need to track down this guy Pilcher, too. Let's meet at seven for breakfast and see if there's anything we need to do before that. Frank, there's a little diner called Wally's just off Thirteenth and State. We can eat, then walk over to headquarters and
set up a temporary desk for you in our bullpen."
"Sounds good," Dell said.
Kenmare left a uniformed officer at the door to Edie Malone's apartment, one at each end of the sixth-floor hallway, one at the elevator, and two in the lobby. When the detectives parted outside, Dell drove back to the South Side, where he lived. When he got into his own apartment, a little after midnight, he called Mike Larne at home.