“Dick, you’re early…” He froze when he saw me. “What the—?”
“Wrong Dick,” I said with a grin. His face went pale and he tried to slam the door. I slammed my right palm on the door, and shoved my foot into the doorframe.
“Not so fast, Simon. I just want to talk to you.”
“No! Get away from me! I don’t want any trouble!”
“Trouble? From me? Not likely, unless you try to slam this door in my face again.” I pushed against the door and it gave way to my weight.
Simon backed up into the room and held up his hands. “N-no. Please! I don’t want any trouble! I’m not even involved!”
I followed him in and slammed the door behind me. I stared at him evenly, never letting my gaze drop. I think this was the first time I’d ever looked at him straight on. Simple Simon had a face that must have had a rough trip down the birth canal and never recovered. Below his big, rheumy, blue eyes, the rest of his features seemed to melt into his shirt collar. His beard sunk into his receding chin, which disappeared into the collar of his shirt as if it was being sucked into quicksand. And I’m sure he could whistle a fine tune through the gap in his front teeth, which would surely send the ladies running the other way. Despite his weak face, his bare arms were sinewy from river work. Even so, I took another step forward, this time leaning in, my nose almost touching his. The silence stretch uncomfortably. His breath smelled like the dumpster behind the Courtesy. “Involved with what?”
Simon took another step back. “Nothing. I don’t know anything. Now go away!”
I held my pose right in his face, despite the rotten smell.
“I’ve … I’ve got a gun!” he stammered.
Without giving an inch or taking my eyes from his, I reached down and pulled my jacket aside to show him the .38. Simon’s eyes trailed down to my gun.
“So do I,” I said, baring my teeth. “But I don’t plan to use mine today. How about you?”
Simon looked on the point of collapse. He hung his head, slumped his narrow shoulders. I pointed to a ratty love seat behind him and said, “Sit down. Let’s chat. This can be quick, if you cooperate.”
Without taking his eyes off of me, he stepped back, feeling for the couch behind him, and plopped onto the seat. He looked up at me like a chastened schoolboy. “Please don’t hurt me,” he pleaded.
“For chrissakes, Simon, get a goddamn grip.”
He looked wildly around the room, sweat pouring down into his beard. I was sweating, too. The house was a hotbox. No air conditioning, and no shade for miles around outside. People around here don’t want trees messing with their zoysia, I guess.
I pulled out my cigarette pack and offered him one. He leaned back into the loveseat, hesitant, as if the cig was a gold coin under a viper’s ass. Finally, he reached for it. But his hand was shaking so wildly, he had to grab his wrist with his other hand to hold the cigarette still while I lit it. It was all I could do to keep from guffawing at him.Then I lit one for myself and pulled up a cheap cotton-fabric chair across from him.
“Nice place, Simon. You live alone?”
He blew out some smoke in a couple of gasps and coughed at the end. “Yes.”
“I’m gonna get right to the point. Your buddy, The Beef, is dead.”
“You’re puttin’ me on.”
“Like hell. I saw his body. A brand new smile carved in his muscled neck.”
Simon flopped back against the love seat. If he was going to need smelling salts, he was with the wrong guy. I’m only good for a few slaps.
“Broad Jimmy and Kira Harto told me you were the last to leave before The Beef.”
“Yeah? So?” he began. “Wait! You don't think I did it?”
“I don’t know. But I’m talkin’ to you.”
“Jesus, buddy. How could—? Could you imagine me trying to cut The Beef?”
“Stranger things have happened. Where did you go after you left Broad Jimmy’s?”
“I came home. I took a bus. I swear it! Two buses. I came home and went right to sleep.”
“You see anybody around before you caught the bus?”
“No, not really.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I mean maybe a pedestrian or two. I don’t know. Coupla niggers. They all look the same to me.” He looked at me half-proud, half-bashful, like he wanted to take a stand against me somehow.
I ignored Simon’s bid for racial solidarity. “Where were the Negroes?”
“They passed on the other side of Locust. I didn’t really look at them. Animals. You don’t make eye contact with them, you know.” He puffed out smoke, righteous, his indignance giving him confidence as he sat up straighter. The itch to slap him grew strong.
“Were they all Negroes?”
“Yeah. I swear.”
I looked at him over my own cigarette. He couldn’t hold eye contact long, busying himself with shaping his ash on the side of a cracked plastic ashtray. “Why did you think I was coming here to hurt you?”
“Because of what happened in the bar. Because of what The Beef said.”
I laughed and leaned toward Simon, and with a sinister undertone, I said, “That? That was just The Beef’s bullshit.”
“You’re not gonna hurt me?”
“I already told you, Simp—Simon—I’m not puttin’ any hurt on you. Unless you don’t cooperate.”
“Well, that’s all I know.”
“What’d these colored guys do?”
“Nothing. They were just shuffling along the street. By the time my bus came, they were gone.”
“How about the bus ride? Any reckless drivers? Strange occurrences?”
“I don’t know. I was half-asleep. Didn’t see a thing.”
“Why’d you think I was this Dick guy when I came to your door?”
“Dick’s my ride to the landing. He’ll be here any minute, too,” he added with emphasis.
“Nothing to me.” I stood up and gave him one of my business cards. When I leaned over close to him, I thought he was going to bust through the back of the couch into the wall behind him to get away from me. “I’ll be in touch. Call me at my office if your memory improves today. In the meantime, not a word. To anyone—police, your buddy, Dick. Anyone. Got it?”
“Yeah, I got it.” Simon put his cigarette up to his mouth and took a drag. The man’s hand was still shaking.
“And another thing, Simon?”
“What?” he asked, pronounced defiance in the clipped way he snapped out the question.
“Brush your teeth. Your mouth smells like a dead possum.”
He closed his mouth and pursed his lips, and his face got hard, but he didn’t say anything.
I gave him my winning smile, walked out, and slammed the door behind me.
Back in my apartment I thought longingly of my modest, comfortable bed. I needed to sleep, but couldn’t. Not yet. I had to reach Bertie, find out what Hamilton and Frederick had discovered. In my groggy state, I was starting to mix them up, plus now I had a third cop who wouldn't want to be my playmate once I found him. If I was going to probe around into official corruption, I'd need Bertie's trust to do it—and to cover my saggy ass if necessary. I tried his direct line, but no dice. I dialed his home number. I was in luck.
“Bertie? It’s Ed. Yeah. Listen, I need to talk to you.” I summed up the night’s festivities out at the Hanady estate, including that Hamilton and Frederick might be missing, though I left out the new development with The Beef. He said he was going to go in to his office, and that he’d meet me at mine by 10:00 a.m. I debated catching some shut-eye in between. Naw, I could do that at the office.
Another beautiful late spring morning, and already too hot for this time of year. When I pulled into the industrial court, the morning drop off at the preschool had already commenced. I thought it’d be nifty if Mrs. Hanady was there, dropping off her daughter, but she wasn’t. Sure, I’d be out a new case, but she would have her Rachel back. And I’d ag
ain get to enjoy the beautiful view from the comfort of my desk.
Inside my office, nothing had changed. Mrs. Hanady’s mug still sat on the desktop, a smudge of evaporated coffee on the bottom. I decided to check in with the answering service.
The operator was pleasant. Three messages: two more solicitors, and a Mrs. Hanady.
“What did Mrs. Hanady say?”
“She said, quote, ‘Tell Mr. Darvis that I’m very worried that he did not call last night. Please have him phone me immediately.’ She also left a number.”
I thanked the operator and hung up. I immediately dialed the Hanady place. The phone rang about ten times before I felt myself starting to doze. Finally, I hung up.
I felt woozy. I was worn out from lack of sleep. My headache had slipped into a low throb, thanks to the Slinger, but I’d have to skip the catnap if I wanted to stay on top of this case. I lurched up from my chair and pushed out the front door, intending to walk across to the preschool. If Rachel Hanady was there, I’d have little to do until Bertie showed up.
Immediately, I turned back into my office, as I felt the heft of the .38 against my waist. Yeah, maybe not the best entrée into a preschool. So, I deposited the pistol in my desk lap drawer, then doubled back toward the school entrance.
I entered and found the same receptionist, free of her Agatha Christie paperback and chips this time.
“Hi, remember me?” I tried a smile. My jaw, still sore, checked that impulse.
“Yes. Mr. Darvis. If you’re looking for Miss Reyes, I’m afraid you’re out of luck. She took the morning off.”
Along with everyone else, I thought.
“The police came by earlier.”
“Yeah? The same officers as yesterday?”
“Just one of them. Officer Hamilton.”
If Hamilton was okay, then maybe his partner was, too.
“Thank you.” I was about to walk out of the building, but then I remembered. “Is Rachel Hanady here today?”
She looked down at a roster. “No, she isn’t.”
“Any word about her?”
“No. And I’m sorry.” She seemed to mean it.
“Okay. Thanks again.” I walked out. The sun was spreading down the street, sparking a little humidity. Which didn’t do wonders for my headache.
I went back into the office, ransacked my desk drawer for some aspirin, and debated washing it down with some scotch, but then remembered I’d left it back in my apartment. I guessed water wouldn’t kill me. But coffee, I thought, was better, so I put the coffee on to brew, doubling the usual grounds.
Waiting for it to percolate, I dialed Hamilton’s precinct again, but stopped when a police cruiser pulled in behind my car, lights flashing. I hung up the phone. Immediately, another car, unmarked, screeched up to a halt behind the cruiser. Hamilton, sunglasses on, leaped out from the driver’s side. He looked pissed. Then the passenger door opened, and out stepped an officer I didn’t recognize. Both of them drew their guns and crept towards my office door. Why they were creeping in full view is anyone’s guess. No one stepped out of the unmarked car.
I decided to stay put. They entered one after the other. Officer Hamilton first. And he had his gun on me.
“Stand up!” he commanded. “Hands in the air!”
“What’s this, officer?”
“Do it!” shouted the other. I raised my hands, trying to read Hamilton’s face. The second cop moved around the desk and brought my hands behind me as I stood. Hamilton kept his gun on me.
“Officer Hamilton, what’s going on?”
“Ed Darvis, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say—“
“Cut that out, Hamilton. What am I being charged with?”
His gun didn’t waver until the other cop had the handcuffs locked snug around my wrists. Hamilton nodded at the other, who then shoved me forward.
“C’mon, Hamilton, what are you booking me for?”
Pushing open the door in front of me, he shoved me toward the patrol car. He glared at me as if he wanted to spit in my face, but instead spoke in a barely audible growl.
“For the abduction and murder of Officer Jonas Frederick.”
Chapter 8
Sweat This One Out
They led me straight to the sweat room. I’d tried various angles of protest and feints for information on the ride down, but both officers were mum. That is, Hamilton was mum. The other cop took some pleasure in describing what he looked forward to doing to a cop-killer. Lucky for me he waited outside the room while Hamilton and the plainclothes detective, who followed us, prepared their own strong-arm. I needed Bertie Albanese.
Hamilton wore a look of utter rage and contempt. The plainclothes, maybe ten years older, sized me up coolly. They began with the standard question: “Where were you last night? I started with the drive out to the Hanady place, including seeing Frederick’s car in the driveway. I related what I had seen of the house, my run-in with Meeki. And that Tom Hanady was at home and had, in fact, purpled my jaw—with the help of Meeki, of course. The detective leaned over to examine the lump on my head, shrugged at me, and sipped on some coffee. I walked them through the morning, and told them about my plan to meet Bertie.
“He’s chief inspector, District 9. He’s probably at my office now, wondering where the hell I am.”
“Joe,” the plainclothes officer said to Hamilton, “go see if you can reach Bertie Albanese.”
“Do you buy all this bullshit?”
“I don’t know. But Bertie’s a good start.”
I sighed. Hamilton left the room and closed the door. It was just the me and plainclothes.
“Listen, Detective…?” I waited.
“Marconi.”
“Detective Marconi. Bertie and I go a long way back. I used to be police, foot patrol, District 3”
“Yeah? When?”
“During the war.” Marconi smiled and passed off a kind of snort. Yeah, I thought, I was an irregular, unfit to serve my country overseas. Don’t mention it, asshole. “So, Detective, you ever walk the Three? In uniform?”
Marconi just looked at me blankly.
“Lookit, Bertie can vouch for me. He also knows everything I know so far about this case.”
Marconi raised his paper cup, peered at the bottom, then flung it into the trash, splashing some dregs on the grey wall above the can. “I’m inclined to believe you. But you’re staying put until we get a hold of him.”
“I expected that.” I waited again. “What happened to Frederick?”
Marconi sighed and pulled out a cigarette and lit it. He held another towards me. I wiggled, still handcuffed behind my back. He sort of smiled and put the cigarette back in the pack.
“We know he was shot. Once in the back of the head. That’s all it took.”
“.45?”
He scowled. “Yeah, how did you know?”
“I told you. That’s the make that Meeki guy carried. Plus, I just remembered. He said something about Frederick being ‘taken care of’.”
Marconi shook his head, loosing out a stream of smoke. “Goddamnit. His face was fuckin’ blown apart.”
“Where did you find him?”
He regarded me a moment. “In the woods along the outer road, unincorporated West Lou. Two hunters found him.”
More guys with guns. “Any witnesses?”
“No.” Anticipating another question, Marconi continued, “He was face down. No other signs of violence to his body.”
“How did you guys make me for a suspect?”
“Tom Hanady called it in. He said you had been up to the house threatening him.”
Jutting my jaw forward, I asked, “Did he mention how he treats his house guests?”
“No. He said that his bodyguard escorted you back to your car.”
I grunted at that. “Some escort. Did he mention Officer Frederick’s car?”
Marconi was going to respond when Officer Hamilton strode back in. He paused and looked from me to Marcon
i. He looked like he had stepped into the wrong room. As green as he was on the force, this was likely his first time dealing with a suspect in this way. I hoped to God it was his first and last time dealing with a slain partner.
“I reached Detective Albanese. He’ll be down in a few minutes.”
“Good. Let’s just keep Mr. Darvis in here until then. I’m going to wait outside. If you—”
“I’m going to stay in here, Detective.”
Marconi looked as though he were going to say something else, then stopped. He stubbed out his cigarette and left. Officer Hamilton sat in a chair next to the door. He faced me, his seething not yet under control. From the quivering of his lips, I could tell a deeper emotion was threatening.
“Listen, Officer Hamilton—”
“Zip it, okay?” His voice came out in a tremble.
“I’m sorry … about your partner. Jesus, I—”
“I said shut up!” He jumped up, and in one quick stride, fist drawn, punched my sore jaw. The impact knocked me out of the chair, and with my hands cuffed I could do nothing to break the fall. I should have expected this. I don’t know that he did. It hurt like hell and I felt my eyes water. He pulled me up roughly and thrust me back onto the chair. The door burst open and Marconi came in.
“Officer H
Hamilton! Come with me.”
I watched as Hamilton followed Marconi like a chastised teenager. Right before the door closed, I heard Marconi growl, “Go to your desk and get some goddamn cof—.”
If someone had told me an invisible felon had drilled wet plaster into my brain, I’d have believed them. I couldn’t make sense of anything. Except that Tom Hanady had called in and pointed the finger at me. Where was he now?
The door eased open a minute later, and in stepped Bertie Albanese.
“Ed. You look like hell.”
“I’m in it. Any chance you could persuade them to take the bracelets off?”
Marconi strode in behind him. He nodded to Bertie and came around behind me. Finally, my blood reacquainted itself with my fingers.
A Bullet Apiece Page 7