Pendleton patted down Derrick Shanahan. “You don't got any warrants there, Shanahan, do you?"
Kyter took Chippie Yarrow, kicking out one leg and bouncing him against the once-white Mazda. “How ‘bout you, Yarrow? Any outstandings?"
Derrick said, “What is this?"
"Inspection sticker,” said Pendleton, tapping the corner of the windshield of the beat-up Mazda. “Twenty-nine bucks would have done it. Gotta keep up."
Kyter said, “Downtown we'll tell you all about how it works."
Eddie Milk stood with his hands on the car roof, very quiet, very nervous.
"You,” said Pendleton. “Milky."
Milky said nothing, eyes staying down.
Pendleton said, “Go ahead, take off. Get outta here."
Milky blinked like there had been a mistake, relief coming into his eyes. Amazed at his good fortune, he started away before they could change their minds, glancing back over his shoulder as he walked fast into the crowd.
Derrick stared at the roof of the Mazda as if he was trying to remove the paint finish using only the heat from his eyes.
Yarrow looked at the detective facing him as handcuffs clasped around his wrists.
Yarrow went alone to Milky's place. He wanted to get to him before Derrick did.
Milky's mother answered the door, said she didn't know where he was.
"Look, Mrs. Milk. Did two plain-clothes detectives come by here a couple of days ago?"
She clammed up then. She looked worried.
Yarrow said, “How long has Milky been gone?"
* * * *
Kyter was standing at his desk, waiting for Pendleton when he came in. “He called, all pissy."
Pendleton spilled down his mobile and his keys. “I expected that."
"Says he's gonna call us on it. Gonna write it up."
"Bullshit. So we got a little creative. Who knew?"
"He wants a favor. Demands it."
"What the hell now?"
"Not for him. For the mother, he says."
"For her?” said Pendleton. “What's that get us?"
"Gets us nothing. But he's holding our feet to the flames here."
"To do what?"
"Just show up. Make an appearance."
"Walk in there?"
"Make like it's out of respect. The woman's all alone now. Widow, one son ODed. He says she needs something good to cling to."
"What are we now, Santa Claus?"
"It's a gesture. For my own conscience, too."
"Christ."
"Don't hard-ass me. You know we dicked this up. We wanted to put Eddie Milk in his place. Put him on the outs with his little crew there. Well, it big-time backfired. If this is how we pay, if this is the sum total? Then we get off cheap."
Pendleton said, “He was a weasel. Who got thrown under an Amtrak."
"Fine,” said Kyter. “Put on your tie."
* * * *
In the back room of O'Connor's, the black-awninged funeral home on Broadway, men sat on padded folding chairs sipping whiskey and paying their respects. In the main parlor, Mrs. Milk sat in a brocaded chair wearing a black crepe dress and white Reeboks. The closed casket was peacocked with a ragged assortment of flowers, the largest wearing a white sash reading “SON."
The conductor had seen an obstruction on the tracks. He hit the brakes and the body was dragged two hundred feet, sparks igniting its clothes. Between those burns and the wheel cuts, the coroner was at a loss. Milky's death was ruled a suicide, like his father.
Pendleton and Kyter walked in close to eight. They stood in the receiving line, staring down a couple of punks while waiting their turn. Mrs. Milk recognized the two detectives and rose to her feet. They took her aside and spoke with her quietly. Kyter even held her hand.
In the back room, Derrick grabbed Yarrow's jacket lapel. “You see that shit? Right there."
Yarrow watched Kyter patting Mrs. Milk's shoulder as she convulsed into a black hankie.
Derrick said, “I knew I was right to top him."
Yarrow froze, the Dixie cup of whiskey in his hand. “What'd you say?"
Derrick stared hard. He wore a grin on his face like a look of sick determination, his breath smelling flammable. “End of the month is officially back on."
Later, after the mourners had thinned out, Yarrow went up to the bier, kneeling before the walnut veneer of the no-frills casket. Mrs. Milk sat alone in her chair, humming a church hymn to soothe herself. She had her hero now, a martyr to look down over her from the wall in that third-floor walk-up on O Street. She would be consoled. Those two bumblers had done something right for a change.
I knew I was right to top him.
Admission of murder. It didn't matter now whether or not the end-of-the-month deal went down.
Yarrow made like he was crossing himself, feeling the sweat-dampened front pleat of his shirt, the thin wire that was sewn in there. Under his breath he muttered something—a prayer for Milky, and for all the wayward sons of the town—that only the passive electronic ear could hear. “Never lie to your mother.” Then he stood, touched his fingertips to the coffin's cool finish, and walked away.
Copyright (c) 2007 by Chuck Hogan
[Back to Table of Contents]
THE GIRL NEXT-DOOR by Edward D. Hoch
Although Edward D. Hoch is a winner of the lifetime achieve-ment award of the Private Eye Writers of America, few are the Hoch stories that fit the P.I. category. This new story is one of those few: an entry in his Al Darlan series. Darlan's case this time involves the dark side of celebrity in the music business. Coming next month, and Alexander Swift historical.
In an era when small private detective agencies had all but disappeared from most medium-sized cities, our firm of Darlan & Trapper continued to show a profit, mainly because of Mike Trapper's connections with some of the national tabloids. Mike had bought into a partnership with me some years back, rejecting his family's plans that he attend law school. He was a good detective but young enough to be my son and I couldn't help taking a fatherly interest in him.
He and Marla had been married several years, and had a couple of children. She was a lovely young woman but she was also the occasional source of friction between Mike and me. It was her prodding that persuaded him to start collecting dirt on visiting rock stars when they came to town, and sell it to the tabloids. To me it was no better than the grimy divorce work I'd abandoned early in my career.
"Why do you keep doing it, Mike?” I asked him one damp spring day when business was slow.
"It pays the rent, doesn't it?"
I sighed and said, “Marla is pretty high-maintenance, isn't she?” Almost at once I regretted I'd said it.
"Look, Al, you've got your life and I've got mine. You're on your own. I have a family to support. I know you and Marla have never hit it off."
"She's a fine woman. I'm sorry I said that."
Perhaps it was best that our conversation was interrupted at this point by the arrival of our neighbor, Stacy Cline. Stacy was just out of college, and attractive in a girl-next-door sort of way. Come to think of it, she was the girl next-door. She worked at Santillo's, the small insurance office adjoining ours, which hadn't done much business in the six months they'd been there. Stacy often came over to see us when things got too dull. “Hi, guys,” she greeted us. “How's the private-eye business these days?"
"Slow as the insurance business these days,” Mike told her. “Want some coffee?"
"Sure.” I was never much of a coffee drinker but Mike was.
"I haven't seen your boss around lately,” he said. “You running the place by yourself?"
She shrugged, accepting the coffee from him. “So long as he's there on Fridays with my check, he can stay away as long as he wants."
We'd seen Rich Santillo only two or three times, once when he came to the office after eight one night while I was working. He was a rough-looking man of around forty, with a brush cut that made him look like an ag
eing wrestler. I guessed that Stacy was just as happy she didn't have to share the office with him every day.
"How does he do enough business to keep that place open?” I asked. “We never see any customers."
"He has a few regulars. Sometimes he comes in nights to work."
"I saw him one night."
She sat in her favorite client's chair. “You guys need a secretary."
"We bring one in part time when we need to,” he told her. “You applying for a job?"
Stacy shook her head. “I've got one that pays a lot better than you guys could manage.” She glanced through the open door and put down her coffee. “Looks like I might have a customer. See you later."
* * * *
The teenage rock star Lily Lake was in town for three nights of concerts, trailed by rumors that Sly Morgan was on the scene too. It was the sort of rumor that set the tabloids hopping and brought in some extra cash for Mike Trapper. He left the office in midafternoon, planning to scout the hotels where Sly might be registered under an assumed name. Morgan was a B-list actor who'd hooked up with Lily to further his own career. He had that brooding look teenagers seemed to love, complete with blond hair and tattoos, and the tabloids couldn't get enough of him and Lily, especially on those rare occasions when the paparazzi managed to catch them together.
I hadn't planned on working late that night, but I'd just wound up a security job for a local college and I wanted to finish putting my report on the computer. It was just after eight o'clock when I heard the door to Santillo's insurance office opening. He was back for another late-night visit. I paid little attention, tapping away at my keyboard. I might have heard voices but I couldn't even be sure of that. Then suddenly there were two loud cracks, close together. I'd heard enough gunshots in my life to know what they were.
I kept my own rarely-used gun in the safe, and it took me a vital moment to retrieve it. By the time I reached the hallway there was only the echo of the stairwell door closing. The door to Santillo's office was standing open and I saw him on the floor, bleeding. He may have seen me, and he lifted one arm in a futile gesture. Then the life went out of him. Both bullets had caught him in the chest. I stepped to the phone and dialed 911.
The uniformed cops arrived first, followed by Sergeant Ramous, a homicide detective I'd known for years. “What happened here?” he asked me.
I told him what little I knew. “You might want to check the stairwell door for prints. I think the killer left that way."
"You got a weapon, Al?"
"It's back on my desk. I grabbed it when I heard the shots."
He walked back with me while his men set to work on the crime scene. He picked up the .38 revolver and sniffed the barrel, then opened the cylinder and spun it to see that it was fully loaded. “I didn't think anyone still carried these things. You should get yourself a Glock or one of the other nine-millimeter automatics."
"I'd hate to tell you the last time I fired a gun. Mike has a nine-millimeter and I borrow it once in a while, but this'll do me nicely. I'm getting too old for gunplay."
"You came close tonight."
"Yeah."
"Tell me about the victim."
"Not much to tell. Name's Rich Santillo. He rented the office about six months ago but he wasn't around much. Came in at night sometimes, like tonight. He has one employee, a young woman named Stacy Cline, who's there during office hours."
"Know her address?"
"No idea. It might be in the desk somewhere, in an address book."
"Did you hear any voices, sounds of an argument?"
"I heard him open the door, but that was all. There may have been voices. I wasn't paying attention until I heard the shots."
"You didn't chase after the killer?"
"It seemed more important to tend to Santillo. He died within seconds, but by then it was too late to go after anyone. Our building doesn't have any lobby security."
"And he said nothing?"
"Not a word."
* * * *
I tried reaching Mike at home but Marla said he'd gone to the Lily Lake concert. By the time he arrived at the office the next morning he knew all about the murder from the TV news. I told him what had happened, what little I knew.
"You might have been killed,” he told me.
"The killer probably didn't realize there was anyone else on the floor."
"Has Stacy been in yet?"
I shook my head. “There's no job for her anyway. Didn't you see the crime-scene tape across the door?"
But she did show up, just after ten. “I was down at police headquarters making a statement,” she said, settling into her favorite chair. “How about some coffee?"
"So you're out of a job,” Mike said, pouring her a cup. “We might be able to use you part-time."
"Mike—” I began.
"We'll talk about it,” he said, backtracking a bit. “It wouldn't be much. Leave us your cell-phone number."
"Thanks, I might need the job.” She jotted down the number on our notepad.
"How long did you work for Santillo?” I asked.
"Since he opened the office here. Six, seven months? He was always an odd sort of guy, never around much. Sometimes I suspected the office was a front for something, but I couldn't figure out what. I told that to Sergeant Ramous, but he seems to think I know more than I'm telling."
"Whatever happened last night, it's a good thing you weren't here,” Mike said. “The killer might have shot you, too."
"Were you here?"
"Just Al. I was over at the Lily Lake concert. It started at eight, just about the time of the killing."
Stacy nodded. “She's great. I'd like to catch tonight's performance if I can get a ticket."
I was a bit old to be a fan of Lily Lake, the latest teen queen who'd come out of nowhere to captivate TV and the music business two years earlier. Mike Trapper was a bit old, for that matter, but his interest was strictly business. Lily Lake was hot stuff in the tabloids, especially now that she'd apparently hooked up with Sly Morgan. “I've got an extra you can have,” Mike told her. “I bought them for both nights in case I couldn't get to last night's concert."
"Wow! Thanks, but let me pay you for it."
He handed her the ticket and waved away the offer of money. “It's on me. You need cheering up after what happened."
"My boss was even a Lily Lake fan, can you believe that? He had a whole file drawer full of her clippings and stuff."
"Did she have a policy with him?” I asked.
"No. I asked him once and he said he was just a fan. It wasn't only her. He had clippings on other celebs, too.” She took a sip of coffee and remembered something else. “When I first started working for him he took me to dinner once with some guy from one of those tabloid papers."
Mike Trapper perked up at her words. “He did? Do you remember the man's name?"
"Vance something."
"Vance Oberline?"
"That's him."
Mike was trying not to show it, but I could see the news upset him. After Stacy Cline finished her coffee and went on her way, I asked what was up. “I don't know, Al, but I intend to find out. Oberline's a stringer for a couple of the big tabloids, and a couple of times lately he turned down items from me because he already had them. Now I find that he's friendly with the guy in the next office. That's too big a coincidence."
"It sure is.” I walked over to the wall that separated the two offices. “Let's move this filing cabinet out a few inches."
We found it almost at once. A tiny hole had been drilled through the wall to accommodate a cord and miniature microphone. “He could hear everything we said in this office,” Mike said, his anger building.
"You can bet it doesn't stop here. He may have tapped our phone lines and even bugged your computer."
"What for? Just to sell a few items to the tabloids?"
"Maybe, or to find out what you were working on."
"We'd better tell Ramous about this."
/>
I hesitated. “We tell the police and it gives you a motive for killing him."
"What? You think I shot him?"
"Calm down, Mike. I'm just suggesting we wait awhile before telling Sergeant Ramous anything. Meanwhile, you might want to speak with your friend Vance Oberline about all this."
"Yeah. My friend!"
* * * *
As it happened he didn't have to go searching for Oberline. The man showed up at our office before noon, expressing shock at Rich Santillo's murder. “I didn't realize he had the office next to yours,” he said without much conviction. Then, as if noticing my presence for the first time, he asked, “This your partner?"
"I'm Al Darlan,” I told him. “I'm the one who tries to keep us honest around here."
He gave me a smirk, which went well with the rest of his dried-up face. “And he's the one who makes the money, right?"
"I'm not making much when you undercut me by buying items from Santillo,” Mike told him, his anger brimming over.
"Forget Santillo. That's a dead issue."
"In more ways than one. You know why he rented the office next to ours? So he could eavesdrop on me and steal items for your tabloids."
Oberline's smirk turned into a sneer and I decided I was liking the man less every minute. “He was after bigger game than that. He told me he was on the verge of the story of the century, one that would sell five million extra copies."
"What was that about?"
"I don't know, but he wanted to make sure you didn't get it first."
I remembered Santillo's night visits, when he was probably in there listening to audiotapes and seeing what he could get off our computers. “I have no idea what you're talking about,” Mike told him, “but if I thought you had anything to do with bugging this office I'd kick your ass through that window! Now get out of here. You and I are finished."
"We're not finished if you have a story to sell. Find out what Santillo was working on and it'll bring big bucks."
"You heard the man,” I said. “Get out of this office and don't come back."
He retreated, perhaps deciding at last that we really meant it. When we were alone, Mike said, “We've got to get into that office, Al."
"With crime-scene tape on the door?"
EQMM, March-April 2007 Page 28