War at Home: A Smokey Dalton Novel

by Kris Nelscott

“I needed a break,” I said.

  “Me, too. Malcolm promised ice cream. Want some?”

  “I’d rather have dinner,” I said.

  “He deserves ice cream.” Malcolm reached us, overhearing the last interchange. “He worked all afternoon.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Skimming.” Jimmy held up his hands. His thumbs and forefingers were black.

  “He got the bright idea to go through the New Haven papers for the past year, searching for Daniel’s name.” Malcolm leaned on the bench’s arm. “He said he didn’t believe all those people who told you Daniel wasn’t in trouble.”

  I looked at Jimmy. He shrugged. “Folks lie, Smoke.”

  “Did you find anything?” I asked.

  “Not Daniel,” Malcolm said. “But we found a couple articles about Rhondelle Whickam.”

  “Really?” Now I was interested. “What were they?”

  “The librarian gave me paper.” Jimmy shoved his hand in his pocket. “I wrote it all down.”

  He handed me some crumpled sheets of scrap paper.

  “Tell me anyway,” I said.

  “Her daddy said she’s missing,” Jimmy said. “They’re searching for her.”

  Sidbury hadn’t told me that.

  “It was a short news article,” Malcolm said. “ ‘National Merit Scholar Disappears.’ I think the only reason they ran it was her dad’s connection to Yale.”

  That made sense. “Anything in there?”

  “It was really short,” Jimmy said. “Just her name and that everybody was worried about her. It was in May.”

  “Near the Panther murder?” I asked.

  “Before,” Malcolm said.

  I would like to see that article. “You said you found more than one article. Did they find her?”

  “Nope,” Jimmy said. “That was the newest one. But we found an old one, too. Malcolm did.”

  “I saw that she’d won a National Merit scholarship. I remember when Daniel got his national scholarship, it even hit the Chicago Tribune. So I figured the New Haven papers would cover hers. And they did. There wasn’t a lot in that article either, just her address and her parents saying they’re proud and all that and a picture.”

  Something in the way that Malcolm said “picture” caught my attention. “What about the picture?”

  Jimmy giggled. “Malcolm says she’s a fox.”

  “Did not,” Malcolm said, his cheeks growing red.

  “Said Daniel didn’t deserve her.”

  “I did say that.” Malcolm grinned at Jimmy.

  “You were amazing,” I said to Jimmy. “What made you look that up?”

  “The sooner you find Daniel,” Jimmy said, “the sooner we can leave.”

  I ruffled his hair. “Let’s get you some ice cream. Then let me see those articles, see if I can find anything in them.”

  Jimmy grinned. Malcolm smiled, too. “We’ll get the ice cream and meet you at the library.”

  “Deal,” I said, and headed across the Green.

  EIGHTEEN

  The article about Rhondelle Whickam was only five paragraphs long, but it told me a few things I hadn’t known. I learned that she hadn’t returned to Vassar for the spring semester, although she had told her parents that she had. And they didn’t find out until the school sent a letter inquiring whether she’d return in the fall.

  The last time her parents had seen her had been the day she left for Vassar. She had called them once or twice since, but their letters had gone unanswered (and unreturned). Her parents had simply assumed she had become too busy to write.

  When they found out, in May, that she was gone, they searched everywhere, but hadn’t found her. The police had no leads, so they were turning to the community for help.

  I couldn’t find a follow-up story, which led me to believe there was none. I used Jimmy’s scrawled notes to find the original news story about the scholarship. There wasn’t really a news story per se, just a photograph of the National Merit Scholars from Connecticut. Only a handful of students were in the picture, along with the governor.

  Rhondelle Whickam was the only black, and the photographer had her stand to the side, behind two boys who were taller than she was. The other girl stood up front, but she probably looked like Connecticut’s idea of a National Merit Scholar, with her pale skin and smooth blond hair.

  Rhondelle’s hair was smooth, too, but it had clearly been straightened or ironed. Her eyebrows had been plucked into an arch, accenting her delicate nose and the European look to her face. If it weren’t for her hair and her lips, her skin color wouldn’t be readily apparent.

  I stared at the photograph for some time, committing it to memory. I wasn’t the kind of person who would rip a photograph out of a library newspaper, although in this case I wished I was.

  I finished with the papers quicker than I expected, feeling no need to double-check Jimmy’s efforts. It pleased me that he had taken initiative. Part of his willingness to do this, obviously, had been his desire to leave New Haven. But one year ago he wouldn’t have known how to help.

  The work he had done with Grace Kirkland—reading, studying the daily papers, learning how to use a library—was really paying off. I felt like I owed her even more.

  * * *

  The next morning dawned sunny and warm. I had guard duty from three A.M. on, so I had plenty of time to plan my day. I used the motel phone to see if the Whickams had returned. They hadn’t.

  Malcolm offered to help me with my search, but I had little for him to do. This day would be a duplication of the day before — more phone calls and a lot more searching for information.

  I wasn’t going to leave the boys at the motel, either, although I might return to make some calls. We needed something for them to do on what was obviously going to be a hot day. I couldn’t find evidence of a public pool (not that I looked terribly hard; what I was afraid of finding was a pool that “frowned on” the presence of blacks), and there didn’t seem to be much else that New Haven offered for idle children.

  Essentially, I had no choice but to drop them at the Green again. This time, I suggested that they visit some of the Yale museums and libraries, hoping they might find something to interest them. If nothing else, I said to Malcolm, they could explore the campus.

  We set up a meeting time for early evening, and then I drove to Rueben Freeman’s home.

  He had given me his address the day before. He lived in an old house on Bristol. The street had an air of age and decay. Most of the houses were about a hundred years old, and they had clearly been broken up into apartments.

  Freeman’s was on the third floor of a narrow, faded building that showed its Civil War roots. The main door was propped open with a wooden box lying on its side. To the right, there was a narrow flight of stairs, obviously original. They weren’t carpeted, and the wood was scuffed so badly that it shown white.

  I hurried up the stairs. This building clearly didn’t have air-conditioning. The second floor smelled faintly of garlic and roses, an interesting combination. Four doors opened onto the landing there.

  A fifth opening revealed another flight of stairs. Only this one was even more narrow than the original, and I had to crouch as I climbed to avoid hitting the ceiling.

  Freeman clearly lived in what had been the attic of this old house. There was only one door, and it was at the very top of the stairs. No landing, nothing to brace yourself on. The last stair touched the door’s jamb.

  I knocked, hoping I was early enough to find Freeman in.

  “Yeah?” he shouted from somewhere toward the back.

  “It’s Bill Grimshaw,” I said.

  “Lordy, you don’t let up.”

  I could hear his footsteps as he walked toward the door. Then I heard a deadbolt turn, and a chain lock slid back before the door opened outward. I had to step down to avoid being hit.

  Freeman grinned. Obviously a lot of his visitors had that problem. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
/>   “Thanks,” I said. “Sorry to drop in. I had a few questions.”

  “That you didn’t want to discuss on the phone,” he said as I walked past him.

  I shrugged, letting him believe that.

  The apartment was immaculate. The ceiling slanted, confirming my impression that this had once been the attic, but someone had put in extra windows and dormers, giving the room a sense of light and air. Freeman had plants hanging in front of each window and near two skylights that added even more light.

  A fake Persian rug covered the hardwood floor, and a dark blue sofa that picked up the rug’s main colors dominated the front room. A matching easy chair stood to one side.

  A narrow hallway disappeared down the back, probably leading to the kitchen, bath, and bedrooms. The entire place smelled faintly of incense, surprising me.

  “Have a seat,” Freeman said. “I was just getting to work.”

  There was no resentment in his voice, no concern that he had been interrupted. He nodded toward a table pushed up against one of the windows. A manual typewriter sat on top of the table and, next to it, a stack of papers and a pile of books. A folding chair, with a dented pillow acting as a cushion, was set at an angle, as if the user had just stood up.

  He pushed the door closed. “I did some calling around. I guess what happened to you is pretty common, and pretty shocking, considering Yale’s new ‘open’ admission policy. It doesn’t happen at the more expensive hotels, though.”

  “That’s not a surprise.”

  “Yeah.” He shook his head. “Want some coffee?”

  “Sure,” I said, and followed him through that dark hall. The kitchen was a galley carved into the wall, across from a dining area with no window, only an overhead light.

  He poured me a cup from the pot on top of the stove. “Cream? Sugar?”

  I shook my head, and took the cup from him. There was no evidence of a woman in this apartment or a roommate, or anyone else.

  “You checked,” I said, “but are you going to cover the story?”

  “Why’s this so all-fired important to you?” he asked.

  “Besides the theft and violation? And the fact that I can’t go to the police?”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “I can’t let them get away with it,” I said, “and I have to work on the Kirkland case. I don’t have the time to go after two corrupt cops.”

  He poured himself a cup of coffee. “So you figure I’ll do it. You think I have a death wish? I’ve got to live in this town.”

  “So publish the article in the national press.”

  “New Haven hates national publicity.”

  “Use a pen name,” I said.

  He bit his lower lip. The skin looked raw there, as if he had been doing it a lot.

  “You can’t be a crusading reporter if you shy away from the tough stuff.”

  “Never said I was a crusader.” He took a sip, and closed his eyes for a moment, as if he had been waiting all morning for that coffee.

  “You weren’t happy with the way the Crow covers stories.”

  “There’s a large distance between the Crow’s happy business tone and taking on New Haven’s finest.”

  “I think that’s New Haven’s worst. But if you don’t want to do it, I’ll call a friend of mine. He’s done some gutsy national stories. He’ll love this one.”

  I hoped. If Saul had the time and energy to leave the Midwest and come east. He’d been badly injured in December, and although he was much better, he still had to rest a lot.

  Freeman held up his hand. “The pen name is an idea. If I can get the interviews without blowing my cover, it might work.”

  “The victims would be a good place to start.”

  “I was thinking of the police,” Freeman said. “They’re not going to be happy.”

  “Sanford and Prauss won’t admit anything. Don’t go in person. Use the phone and your pen name, and talk to the department representative. Every police station has a press contact. They’ll deny it, which is all you need. Then when the story breaks, they’ll do more denying and, with luck, some investigation into their ranks. And then you can cover the story under your own byline for the Crow because that rumor you started would affect business.”

  “Man, you’re one sneaky son of a bitch.” There was admiration in his tone. He grinned. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

  “Done.” My turn to sip the coffee. It was bitter and had been sitting too long, but I didn’t mind. I figured I’d need a lot of caffeine for my day. “You ever hear of Rhondelle Whickam?”

  “Prof Whickam’s daughter? Sure.” His smile faded. “Poor thing.”

  “Poor thing?”

  “She’s missing,” he said. “No one can find her. It can’t be good.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But she was involved with Daniel Kirkland, so maybe she’s with him.”

  Freeman whistled. “That’s interesting. You think the Pride of New Haven’s black community voluntarily went AWOL?”

  “It’s a possibility. I’ve been trying to reach the professor, but he’s out of town.”

  “He goes as often as possible, searching for his daughter. He’s crazy over this. I heard talk that it’s affecting his work.”

  “But you never investigated.”

  “We ran the missing-person story,” he said. “There never were any calls or any follow-up. I just don’t think folks care about a missing black girl.”

  “Not even the black community?” I asked.

  He shrugged, and then changed the subject. “Those names I gave you yesterday pan out?”

  “The ones I’ve contacted,” I said. “I still have a heck of a list to go through, and for fairly obvious reasons, I don’t want to call out of the motel.”

  “Afraid the cops’ll come back, huh?”

  “I doubt they’re that dumb. But I’m not going to sit there alone waiting for them.”

  “I’d’ve left the minute they messed with me,” he said.

  “Most people would.” I set the cup down beside the sink. “Thanks for the coffee and the conversation.”

  “If you’re not calling from the motel, where’re you calling from?” he asked.

  “I found a pay phone not too far from the Crow.”

  “You probably pissed off half the neighborhood if you were hogging the booth,” he said. “Lots of folks in that part of town don’t have phones.”

  I hadn’t even thought of that, and I should have. The phenomenon was the same in the poor areas of Memphis and in Chicago’s South Side. The pay phone was most people’s link to the outside world.

  “I don’t have a lot of choice,” I said.

  “I do. I have a deadline for a fluff piece I’m doing for the Ledger. You can use my phone. I won’t be needing it.”

  I had hoped he would make an offer like that. I thanked him, and got down to work.

  NINETEEN

  I used Freeman’s phone for nearly three hours. He had moved his typewriter to the kitchen table. About ninety minutes in, he came into the living room and listened to me work. When I hung up from yet another failed call, he said, “Man, you sure like fake names. You sure you’re really Bill Grimshaw?”

  My heart hit two extra beats, but I managed a grin as I stood. I reached into my back pocket, pulled out my battered wallet, and tossed it at him.

  “Sometimes you gotta know how a door will open,” I said.

  He thumbed the wallet open and actually looked at my ID It was legitimate. The birth certificate I had used to get the driver’s license hadn’t been. But people didn’t routinely look at other people’s birth certificates.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you before,” he said, handing me back the wallet. “You’re willing to take all kinds of risks to make sure a couple of corrupt cops won’t get away, and you’re striving pretty hard to find this kid, but you’re willing to cut some interesting corners along the way.”

  “Yep,” I said, replac
ing the wallet and sitting back down. “The line I walk is mighty fine.”

  In Chicago these last few months, the line had been nearly nonexistent. The agreements I’d made with the gangs made me feel like I had not only crossed that line, but that I was going to take up residence on the wrong side.

  Freeman shook his head and disappeared back into his kitchen. After a few moments, I heard the rat-a-tat of the manual typewriter and went back to my calls.

  I had only a few names left when I finally scored a hit. A rental agent with one of the firms that catered to students sounded appalled when she heard my lies about Daniel. She offered to check her records and get back to me.

  I offered to hold on the line while she looked.

  She was gone nearly fifteen minutes, and when she returned, her voice was shaking. “I rented him the apartment,” she whispered, as if she didn’t want anyone else to know. “I remember him. Usually we require extra identification and references from coloreds, but he had a Yale ID. He even showed me his transcripts from last spring, proving he’d been there. He said he didn’t like the atmosphere in the colleges, and who could blame him with all those snotty rich kids?”

  “Do you usually talk to your renters this much?” I asked.

  “Well, he was unusual. I remember that much. And he was charming. So educated and funny. I figured my boss wouldn’t ever see him, and wouldn’t know that I hadn’t gone the extra mile. What could it hurt?”

  “Has he been paying you?” I asked.

  “On time, every month on the twenty-fifth—so he was actually early. It’s usually cash, because he doesn’t have a New Haven checking account and we don’t accept out-of-state checks. We have a cash arrangement with a number of our students.”

  “Aren’t they worried that the cash might not get credited to their account?”

  She didn’t seem to take offense at the question. “One of his friends drops it off and gets a receipt. That was my idea, actually. I figured if my boss didn’t see him, there wouldn’t be the wrong kinds of questions, you know?”

  “I know,” I said, and hoped I didn’t sound too sarcastic. “Is the friend a girl?”