Charles Willeford - Sideswipe

by Unknown

  "I didn't cut it outa that bag 'cause I couldn't give Dale no reason for doing it. I cut it out of another Hefty I had in my apartment."

  "Jesus Christ, Maria," Gonzalez said, shaking his head.

  Before they left, Hoke and Gonzalez shook down the room, found nothing of interest in Dale's suitcase, and then drove back to Miami to book Marvin and Dale. Hoke had carried Dale downstairs over his shoulder, and Gonzalez had brought the bag of money, Dale's suitcase and purse, and a small sack of toilet articles that belonged to Troy Louden.

  Marvin was isolated in Interrogation Room Two. The story he told and retold several times to Major Brownley and Bill Henderson was substantially the same as the one he had told Hoke and Gonzalez.

  By the time Dale sobered up enough in the female annex of the city jail to realize that she was going to be charged with murder and robbery, she had decided not to say anything else to anyone. In jail, she knew she would be fairly safe from Troy Louden, and the prospect of spending a few years on Death Row, or with good luck, twenty-five years in prison, seemed for the moment like a reasonable exchange for her life.

  Dale regretted telling everything to Marvin, but they couldn't use most of what she had told him against her in court. And she certainly wasn't going to tell the police anything she knew about Mr. Sinkiewicz and Troy. Troy was mad enough at her already, and even the women's prison wouldn't be safe enough distance from him if he knew she blew the whistle on him to the cops.

  For the next two days, Hoke and Gonzalez spent hours at their desks writing up their reports and supps, supps, supps.

  CHAPTER 19

  On Saturday morning, Hoke picked up Aileen at the Miami International Airport and drove her up to Singer Island. Aileen--if there had been anything seriously wrong in the first place--seemed to have made a prompt recovery. She had gained eleven pounds, and she wore a pair of black velvet toreador pants and a matching bolero jacket her mother had bought her for the trip. Curly Peterson, elated to see her departing his home and life, had put two crisp fifty-dollar bills into her purse as a going-away present. Aileen was happy to be back, although the trip and all of the excitement had been an adventure to remember and she had met this boy who lived three doors down from her mother's house in Glendale. His name was Alfie, and his father was a composer who scored music for movies. She had a snapshot of Alfie, which she had shown Hoke, and she told her father that she and Alfie were going to be pen pals.

  Hoke looked at the photo--a grinning teenage boy with unkempt hair and a cotton string for a backbone--and told her that he was a handsome boy indeed. The boy, in Hoke's private opinion, looked like a congenital idiot, but he took it as a favorable sign that Aileen was taking an interest in boys. After all, Aileen was his daughter, so she was certainly smart enough to know by now that boys were not interested in skinny, bony girls who looked more like boys than they did girls.

  Still, Hoke would be watching her and Sue Ellen both a lot more carefully now. And maybe that wasn't so bad, either.

  After they got on the Sunshine Parkway, Hoke told her in more detail than he had on the phone about the supermarket murder-robbery, and the progress they had made on the case, so far. Aileen, however, was more concerned about Ellita than she was about the manhunt. She was also disappointed that she hadn't had a chance to see Ellita and the new baby.

  "Instead of staying with Granddad, wouldn't it be better for me to stay home? I can help Sue Ellen with the housework and the baby while Ellita's going through her therapy."

  "I thought about that, honey. But Mrs. Sanchez's going to live with us.for a month or so when Ellita comes home, and the house would be too damned crowded. Besides, I want you fattened up a little, and Inocencia's going to keep you on a separate diet the doctor gave us. I've been worried more about you than Ellita. I should've paid more attention to you instead of being so damned wrapped up in my own problems. I probably shouldn't've sent you out to L.A. in the first place."

  "No." Aileen shook her curls and laid a hand on Hoke's arm. "It was my fault, Daddy. I know now I was only trying to get more attention from you than I deserved, and it worked too well. That's why I always vomited by the professor's window. I guess I knew he'd tell you about it sooner or later."

  "From now on, baby, no matter what's bothering you, come to me and we'll talk about it, okay? Lately I've been busier than a cat covering shit on a marble floor, and sometimes I might forget to be a father."

  Aileen started to cry, but stopped just as abruptly. She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, leaned over, and kissed Hoke's right hand, which was holding the steering wheel.

  "What's that thing on the chain around your neck?"

  "It's a Saint Joseph's medal," Aileen said, holding it up for him to see. "Mother Superior gave it to me. She said I was a pretty girl, and when I gained more weight, boys would want to kiss me. Instead of letting them kiss me, she said I should tell them to kiss the Saint Joseph's medal."

  "That's good advice if you ever date Cuban boys in Miami, but it won't work with WASP boys. By this time next year you'll be beating off boys with a stick."

  "Maybe next summer Alfie can come and visit us from California? He's never been to Florida, but his father's got lots of money."

  "Why not? But a year's a long time. Ask me again next summer, and if you still want him to visit, then I'll write and ask his father--or phone him."

  "Would you?" Aileen sat back and looked at Hoke with new regard.

  "Sure. Why not?"

  Hoke stopped at the El Pelicano to collect his belongings, Aileen's boxes, and her bicycle, before driving to Frank's house. Once the car was packed, he told Aileen to ride her bike to the house while he took a last look around the apartment and said good-bye to Professor Hurt.

  Hoke's small apartment needed cleaning, but it still looked good to him, and he knew that he would miss living in it. He hadn't forgotten anything. For a long moment, he looked out the window, across the crowded beach to the water. As an experiment, it hadn't worked out, but it had still been worthwhile, despite the negative results. Scientists always considered negatives as positives because they didn't have to try the failed experiment again. They could go on to something else. Hoke had learned that there was no way a man could simplify his life. In managing the apartment house, as simple as that had seemed to be, he would have had just as many problems as he had as a detective-sergeant. They would all be petty problems, however; little annoying things that would have to be done, but would occupy his time without producing any sense of satisfaction or accomplishment. Right now, he was stymied in his manhunt for the killer, but he knew in his heart that he would find him eventually.

  He didn't like the idea of the grim-faced Mrs. Sanchez moving in with them, but at least Mr. Sanchez wasn't coming with her. That meant the move would be temporary. Without his wife to look after him, old man Sanchez would be almost helpless, so she wouldn't stay any longer than necessary. By the time school started again, everything would be back to normal, except that he would never have Ellita back again as his partner at work. The girls would have to take more responsibility for their lives, but they were maturing fast, and Sue Ellen, in spite of her green hair, was as stable as a stone house. Hoke shrugged, picked up the three volumes on horseflies, and went downstairs to Dr. Hurt's apartment to return the books.

  Itai was glad to see him.

  "How about some wine?" Itai said, grinning. "I got a case of last year's Beaujolais Nouveau at Crown on a special sale."

  "I haven't got the time, Itai. I'm going to have lunch with my father, and then I've got to get back to Miami."

  "We're going to miss you around here, Hoke, but I've decided to go back up to Gainesville in September myself. In the last two days I've only written eighteen words. So I've decided to abandon my novel for a while--the way Valery said you should abandon a poem. I miss teaching and my lab, and I'm vacationed out."

  "What'll your chairman say, if you don't come up with a complete manuscript?"

>   "He'll be glad to have me back, and I've already written to tell him I'm cutting my leave short. Now he won't have to hire a substitute. Besides, I may finish the book back at school. I've got enough down on paper to still plug away at it. But there're too many novels already, and not nearly enough books on horseflies. I'm going to save my dough and take a leave without pay in another year or so and go to Ethiopia. The flies will still be there, waiting for me."

  Hoke gave him his card. "Keep my card, Itai, and drop me a line. Or if you ever come down to Miami, call me and we'll have a few beers. I really enjoyed our little dinner party."

  "I did, too, even though Major Brownley won every damned game. A game with dice should be a game of chance, but his luck was uncanny, I thought. He never landed on anyone else's property but his own."

  "He plays Monopoly with his kids all the time, that's why he's so good. But at least I didn't let him talk you into playing for real money."

  "Sure you won't have a glass of wine?"

  "No, I've got to gcL"

  "I'll walk you to your car. By the way, Hoke, that Riviera Beach detective was here this morning looking for you."

  "Detective Figueras?"

  "Yeah, that's his name."

  "Did he say what he wanted?"

  "No, just that you should get in touch with him. I guess he heard you were leaving, and wanted to say good-bye. Everybody on the island's following this case, you know. Your name's been in all the papers, although most of the people around the mall call you 'the man in the yellow jumpsuit.'"

  Hoke laughed. "I still wear 'em around the house." They shook hands. "Anyway, if Figueras comes around again, tell him I'll call him."

  Aileen was given the large guest bedroom at the back of the house, the same room where Hoke had spent three happy days in quiet contemplation. With this room she could open the sliding doors to the patio and swim in the pool anytime she wanted. Hoke and Frank carried her boxes into the bedroom, and Helen stayed with her to help put her things away. Frank and Hoke had a glass of iced gin apiece while they waited for lunch.

  "I'm not very hungry, Frank," Hoke said. "And I really ought to get back to Miami. You should see my goddamned desk. It's piled up to here with autopsy reports, folders, and paper. You wouldn't believe how much paper a case like this generates. Everything has to be written down, checked, rewritten, distributed--"

  "It'll all wait another hour or so, son. Detective Figueras called me earlier, and I told him you'd be here for lunch. He said he'd come by at noon."

  Hoke looked at his Timex. "It's eleven-thirty now. I'll call him at the station and save him the trip."

  Hoke used the phone in the kitchen to call the Riviera Beach police station. "What's up, Jaime?" he said, when he got Figueras on the line. "This is Hoke Moseley."

  "I think I've got a tentative lead on your supermarket massacre, Hoke. It may turn out to be nothing, but it looks pretty good, and I was going out this afternoon to check it out. But when your father told me you were going to be here today, I thought maybe you'd like to go with me. Like I say, it may be nothing, but I got what looks like a positive ID on the old man's picture. It's not him so much as it is the cane. The woman says that the old man was carrying a cane like that--the one with the dog's head handle."

  "What woman?"

  "Mrs. Henry Collins. Her story was weird enough to have some truth to it, so I checked it out. What happened, she said, was that this old man told her to tell her husband to drop charges against a guy named Robert Smith, or her husband would be killed. This guy was a hitchhiker Collins had picked up, who then pulled a gun on him. Collins wrecked his car at a bridge outside Riviera, and then the hitchhiker was booked in the Palm Beach County Jail. At any rate, Collins believed this threat and dropped the charges. No weapon was found in the case, so Smith was released. I took a gander at the jail records, and this old man, Stanley Sinkiewicz, Senior, was Smith's cellmate for a few hours. He was arrested for molesting a child, but wasn't booked because the father of the little girl said it had all been a mistake. Interesting parallel, you know? Charges dropped by the complainant in both cases. The old man was released, and the father of the girl, a guy named Sneider, drove him home."

  "And Mrs. Collins gave you a positive ID from the picture in the paper?"

  "That's right. Her husband was up in Jacksonville when she called me, and I went out to talk to him yesterday when he came home. He's a truck driver, and he didn't get back home till yesterday. He was really pissed off at his wife for calling me and didn't want to get involved. Being away from home three, sometimes four days a week, he was afraid that this Smith guy would do something to his wife and kid while he was on the road. Anyway, I checked back, and the fingerprint report, when it finally came in from the FBI, was just filed away because Smith had already walked, and nobody did anything about it. But this Smith is a career criminal named Troy Louden. He's wanted in L.A. for killing a liquor store owner and his wife in a robbery. When I got the printout of his rap sheet, it was two fucking feet long. He's a dangerous sonofabitch, and Collins was smart to drop the charges."

  "D'you have the old man's address?"

  "Sure. You want to go with me and see if he's home? I doubt if he'll be there, but maybe we can find something there that'll lead to something else."

  "Where should I meet you?"

  "I'll meet you in the parking lot behind the Double X Theater at Dixie and Blue Heron Road."

  Hoke hung up and told his father that he couldn't stay for lunch. He might be back a little later to say good-bye, but right now he had to go check on something with Jaime Figueras.

  "I understand," Frank said. "But I'll have Inocencia fix you some sandwiches before you drive back to Miami."

  "That'll be fine."

  Figueras drove, and it took only a few minutes to drive out to Ocean Pines Terraces.

  "When I left Riviera," Hoke told him, "this was all dairy farm land."

  Figueras cruised slowly down the curving streets, taking the speed bumps at an angle and looking for Sinkiewicz's house.

  "It's a mixed subdivision now, Hoke. About half retired people, and half working people with kids. I don't think Riviera'll get any more subdivisions like this one. Most white people are building north of North Palm Beach now. In another ten years, this'll probably be an all-black subdivision if the interest rates come down a few points."

  There was a brown Honda parked in Stanley Sinkiewicz's carport. Figueras pulled in and stopped at the curb, two houses down. "There's a car. Somebody home, after all."

  "And the Honda's got a roof rack. You go to the front door, Jaime, and I'll slip on around to the back. Nobody locks Florida rooms, and I'll come in the back way."

  "Don't you think we should get some backup first?"

  "If no one's there, we won't need any backup. And if someone's home and resists, I want to take a shot at the bastard. What do you want to do?"

  "I'm with you, Sergeant. Why don't we see what happens?"

  Hoke took out his pistol. He circled behind the house to cut through the two back yards. Figueras waited, to give Hoke enough time to reach Stanley's yard, then walked up the concrete path to The door. He rapped on it with the barrel of his pistol.

  Stanley Sinkiewicz opened the door, left it open, and walked back to his dining room table. Stanley didn't say a word, but sat at the table and began to spoon tomato soup into his mouth. Figueras followed him inside and closed the door with his foot, covering the old man with his weapon. Hoke entered the dining room from the screened porch, also holding his pistol on Stanley. He looked at the old man's lined, pigeon-gray face, and shook his head. Hoke knew an old lag when he saw one, and he could tell, just by looking at this old eon, that the man had spent most of his life in prison. When they finally got his record, it would probably be three feet long.

  "Sinkiewicz?" Hoke asked. "We're both police officers."

  "I been waiting." Stanley nodded. "But I ain't ate nothing for two days now. I just fixed this soup,
not really wanting it, but knew I had to eat something pretty soon. Maya--that's my wife--when she fixed it for me, used to put a little whipped cream in it. The milk in the icebox went sour on me, and I had to fix it with water instead of milk. But it still tastes pretty good, once I got started on it."

  "Are you alone, Sinkiewicz?" Figueras asked.

  Stanley nodded and crumpled two soda crackers into his soup.

  "Do you know Troy Louden?" Hoke said.

  Stanley nodded.

  "D'you know where he is?"

  Stanley pointed down the hall with his spoon. "In the bedroom."

  "I thought you said you were alone." Hoke had reholstered his pistol, but he quickly withdrew it again. "'Cuff him, Jaime."

  Hoke started down the hall. Figueras handcuffed Stanley's wrists behind his back. Hoke hesitated outside the closed bedroom door, waiting for Figueras to cover him. Figueras, holding his pistol with both hands, stayed ten feet behind Hoke. Hoke twisted the knob, threw open the door, and jumped inside with his gun in front of him.

  There was no one else in the room. Figueras joined him. The bed was piled high with a half-dozen sheets, a comforter, a bedspread, and was topped by a woman's red plastic raincoat. There was a discernible mound beneath all of these coverings. Hoke peeled them back from the head of the bed, one at a time, and uncovered Troy Louden as far as his waist. The corpse was ripe, and the washcloth over Troy's face had dried. Hoke picked it gingerly away and thought he could detect the odor of burning almonds, but later he was never sure whether he had or not. Dale Forrest's little.25 caliber slug, a crisscrossed lead dumdum, had hit Troy's left cheek, penetrating the bone, and then fragments had been deflected upward, exploding the left eye and skating through the eye socket. Troy had suffered a good deal of pain before he died. Hoke covered the dead man's face back up with the dry washcloth, then drew the bottom sheet over the upper body and head. He and Figueras went back into the dining room.

  Stanley, with his thin arms handcuffed behind his back, was staring at his cooling soup, but he had apparently lost interest in it.