He said, “What the hell--”
“Drop the belt,” I told him. “No Marquis de Sade for today.” The belt dropped. I motioned to the bedroom door with the .44. “Open it,” I said. “Miss Martha gets a choice. If she wants out, she leaves with me.”
He glowered.
“I thought we had a deal.”
“Martha has nothing to do with our deal. Open the door. Let's see what she has to say.”
He didn't like it, but he opened the door.
From behind him I could hear his low expulsion of breath. I looked over his shoulder. There was a window across the room, next do a double bed, fronting a fire escape. The window was open, the curtains waving on the afternoon breeze.
Martha was gone.
I smiled at that.
Fallaci emitted a string of curse words and started to turn back to face me. Using the Magnum's butt, I clipped him smartly behind the left ear while he was still turning. He made a funny gurgling sound like a baby's sigh and then collapsed unceremoniously into an unconscious pile at my feet.
I hadn't seen any other choice. Fallaci had too much to lose, or so he thought after the white lie I'd told about leaving a letter for the DA containing what I “knew,” but pride would have prompted him to raise all kinds of a stink about a missing love machine. I had too much else on my plate to be slowed down by collateral noise like that. I holstered the Magnum, let myself out of the apartment and walked down the hallway to the self-service elevator.
A cadaverous, leathery-faced old guy in his late sixties, outfitted in a maintenance uniform and toting a broom and dust pan, had pressed the Down button and was waiting for the elevator to arrive when I walked up to him. We stood side by side for a half-minute or so until the elevator doors yawned open.
When we were alone in the elevator and descending, the oldster met my eyes for the first time. His head nodded upward in the general direction of the Fallaci apartment. A sparkle livened his weathered squint.
“That Martha.” He delivered me a lewd, conspiratorial wink. “I saw the mister show up right after you did. Looks like you got out okay. That Martha. A real hot one. Called me up one time. Claimed she had a clogged sink. She was all alone when I got there. Just me and her, and her wearing one of them tight T-shirts and cutoffs. Hoo-weee! So, I go to look at the kitchen sink and while I'm bending over she reaches down and - -”
“And you checked her plumbing,” I finished for him. “Uh, is this leading up to anything, sir?” I asked politely, “or are you just breaking wind with your mouth?”
He pretended not to hear me. He was one of those characters you run into from time to time. Apparently, Martha hadn't been turned on by me so much as by the fact that I was male. A real hot one, like the old boy said.
“She's wilder than most,” he went on as the elevator settled us on the ground floor. But I wasn't rid of him yet. He rambled on as we stepped into the apartment house lobby. He said, “But she'll end up like all the rest of Mr. Delahunt's, uh, lady friends, you wait and see.”
I said, “Funny thing is, I wasn’t in there long enough to catch his name.”
It made sense that Fallaci would use an alias here.
The janitor favored me with another man-to-man wink.
“It's always the same with all them little cuties. Mr. D finds 'em somewhere and brings 'em home. They end up staying a month or two, getting all used to the good life. Then he gets bored with 'em and, whap, they're back where they came from and Mr. D's got himself someone new.”
His tone of voice said he certainly did admire such style.
I was nearly out the front door, looking forward to escaping the range of his voice, when something clicked in the back of my mind. I wasn't sure what, but it was something and it wouldn't let go.
I said, “How long has Martha been with him?”
A grizzled hand went up and stroked gray chin whiskers.
“Martha? Now let me see.” “Reckon this must be her third month here. Yup, that's it. Three, going on four months. She's lasted longer than most. Must have something Mr. D likes extra special. Don't know as I blame him. But she'll be gone, lock, stock and barrel just like all the others, soon enough.” He finished with a sigh that came from somewhere around his shoe laces. “Sure, must be nice to have money. Sure must.”
With that, broom and dustpan in hand, the old codger ambled off down the first-floor corridor on some janitorial chore. Or maybe looking for someone else to stand still while he yapped at them.
13
I stopped at a fast food restaurant along Colorado Boulevard, on my way to pay a visit on Paul Richmond, and ordered a burger, fries, and a Pepsi. To avoid any hungry cops who might happen along and decide to spot and arrest me on the APB that I assumed had been issued, I made use of the restaurant's drive up window and dined within the cramped confines of the Volkswagen.
While I munched my classic American junk food lunch, I thought about the conversation I had just had with Sal Fallaci. I didn't believe much of what he’d told me. I believed he killed Leon Somerset, as he'd said. But the rest of it, that he killed Somerset because Somerset was working a moonlight operation and that Limp Gallagher and Sparky Boines had been involved from Somerset's end, not Fallaci's, and that Fallaci didn't have any idea what Somerset, Gallagher and Boines had been up to . . . well, that could only be so much of nothing considering those snapshots of Cheryl Kaplin and her friends. The picture of Fallaci and Paul Richmond and Cheryl and the other, as of yet unidentified woman at a party, sharing the same sofa, clearly linked Fallaci directly to Cheryl and so to her death. I wondered if Cheryl's anticipated blackmail shakedown had anything to do with a Fallaci-Richmond connection. Mafia bosses and candidates for District Attorney are not supposed to know each other.
A visit with Paul Richmond would illuminate matters.
I had seen no reason to inform Fallaci that I knew of his contact with Richmond, or to reveal my knowledge of same by quizzing him about the young mystery woman who had appeared to be his date at the party or social function where the snapshot was taken. Teddy Bostwick was checking that angle for me at the News files. Fallaci thought he had me pacified by helping to cool off the heat on Robert Pierpont. For the time being, that was good enough.
The big question remained. Who paid Somerset to kill Cheryl and make it look like an accident? I was proceeding on the premise that this would be the same person that Cheryl had intended to extort ten thousand dollars from. It was easier and cheaper to kill rather than pay. The fact that I still had no solid leads in that direction, despite everything that had happened, was too depressing to think about and so I didn't. I did wonder where Robert Pierpont was, and what the hell he was up to. And I could not forget about Limp Gallagher, who was still out there in the wilds somewhere looking for me.
The telephone directory had listed Paul Richmond's address as being on Monaco, which is on the northwest boundary of Denver, not far from the airport where I had seen Gia, or Sandy, off that morning. I steered north on Colorado to 32nd, which took me east to Monaco Parkway.
That first smattering of clouds I had seen that morning, beyond the western peaks, now stretched and extended across the full western horizon, moving in slowly, inexorably toward the city, all billowy white on top and a grim iron-gray underneath. Snow clouds. Temporary Spring was over. It was getting ready to be February again. You could feel the temperature dropping. The air was turning brittle. Even the sunlight felt chilly.
I started watching house numbers after I swung south onto the Parkway from 32nd. It was a well-maintained neighborhood of towering trees, wide, winter-brown lawns, and older, sedate homes with a few newer houses standing out here and there.
Richmond resided in a brick residence of white trim and unmistakable respectability.
I parked Teddy's VW, walked up the paved front walk and thumbed the doorbell. I heard muted chimes, then approaching footfalls.
Paul Richmond opened the door. He was even more good-looking in real l
ife, in a phony, TV game show host sort of a way. He wore a white turtleneck, casual gray slacks and brown loafers, and he looked like a model out of a men's clothing catalog.
Beyond him, I could see a man and a woman, both in their sixties, seated and relaxed amid the tasteful décor of an expensively furnished living room. The man was leisurely but immaculately dressed, his full head of snowy hair worn on the longish side. The woman who sat beside him on the sofa was beautiful in the manner that only a woman of that age can be. There was an elusive air of tautness about her, just below the surface. I could sense it from across the room, but on the surface, she was all matronly elegance and class with an almost regal bearing about her. She wore a string of pearls.
Richmond favored me with a mildly curious gaze, one eyebrow arched inquisitively.
“What is it, friend?” he asked, a prominent jaw thrust forward and the most subtle condescension in his tone. “I really can't take the time to --”
I tsk-tsked.
“That's awfully bad form, isn't it, Mr. Richmond? Shooing off a prospective voter only two weeks before an election? You're not that far ahead in the polls.”
The jaw stuck out another inch or two. “Beat it, wise guy. We don't have the time.” He started to close the door.
The man in the living room overheard. He rose abruptly and came forward.
“Paul, wait.”
Richmond waited with the doorknob in his hand, the door only half closed, and that pegged him right off. He was a licensed attorney, he had to have something on the ball to begin with, but he was a yes man, plain and simple.
This pegged the other man, too, if there had been any doubt. He strode to the front doorway and stood next to his protégé, reaching out a well-manicured hand that was marred only by brown age spots near the wrist. A smile stretched across his face that even reached his eyes. If I'd been a baby, he'd have kissed me. We shook hands. His grip was firm and confident, as I knew it would be.
“My name is Lloyd Carlyle,” he said needlessly, putting his other arm around the yes-man's shoulder. “The gentleman is correct, Paul,” he advised. “That's no way to speak to a constituent either before or after election, now is it?”
Sullen anger flared up in Richmond’s eyes but vanished again, almost too quickly to see. He was adept at toeing the line, like a good little yes-man.
“Of course, Lloyd. You're right, as usual.” He stuck out his own hand and we shook. His touch had the cool plastic feel of a Ken doll. His voice was contrite, studied humility. “I apologize, friend. Guess I have been letting the campaigning get to me more than it should. So many issues that matter. It catches up to you sometimes. I know it's a weak excuse, but I'm sorry.”
It was disgusting.
“Forget it,” I said.
Carlyle grabbed the conversational ball.
“I'm sure we could spare a few minutes, sir, since you went to the bother of seeking us out. Please come in. If there is some matter you need to discuss with Paul,” he was saying, “some little problem, why, I'm sure we have the time to hear about it, isn't that right, Paul?”
“Of course,” replied Paul dutifully.
Carlyle was beaming the well-oiled PR that is a professional politician's stock in trade while inviting me into another man's home, but I had to admit that there was a certain straightforward, survivor's charisma about the old tiger that was difficult to deny.
I stepped into the house, with the candidate for District Attorney serving as doorman, and Carlyle led me over and introduced me to his better half who, he confided, had been his strong, patient partner and inspiration through many long years of public service. End quote.
Mrs. Carlyle accepted the tribute in stride, as if she knew it to be true and didn't mind a little appreciation.
“So nice to meet you,” she smiled as we cordially shook hands, “Mister…” she let the sentence hang politely, expectantly.
“Kilroy,” I finished for her, and that wrote finis to the niceties.
They all froze.
It was funny, in a way. A movie or stage director would have chewed them out for over-acting. But here it was for real and they just held like that for a moment, startled, like so many mannequins in a store window.
“And I don't have a little problem,” I continued, emphasizing the adjective. I perched on the arm of a chair that faced the three of them. “It's a big problem. Big, and political dynamite. It concerns a recently dead woman named Cheryl Kaplin. I don't suppose anyone here knows that name?”
Mrs. Carlyle was the first to respond. Her aristocratic features had paled to a chalky white, causing her makeup to stand out in rosy blotches on her cheeks.
“You're the man wanted by police,” she blurted, drawing back into the security of the couch. Her slender hands clutched a black purse that she clenched as if she thought she might need it as a shield against me. “It's . . . about a murder!”
It figured. With Carlyle's connections, the Richmond camp would have their collective finger on the pulse of any tremors coming out of the police department.
Richmond charged forward without warning, bring up both hands balled into fists and sticking out his chin again.
“Lloyd, call the police,” he said. “I'll take care of this--”
My first reaction, of course, was to accept his jaw's invitation. But you have to draw the line somewhere, so I settled for handing him a two-handed shove to the middle of his he-man's chest and sent him pitching backwards. He ended up plopping down next to Mrs. Carlyle on the sofa.
I said, “Hold it right there, pretty boy. Why don't you wait for two weeks and take your beating in the election?”
He started to get back up.
Mr. Carlyle stepped forward, stood beside the couch and rested a cautionary hand on the younger man's shoulder, looking directly at me as he spoke.
“Relax, Paul. Let's hear what Mr. Kilroy has to say.”
The soft command, which came out almost as a suggestion, but not quite, caught the DA candidate halfway to his feet. Richmond was boiling mad. At the moment he wasn't happy about being a yes man at all. But ingrained responses die hard. He paused, then sank back against the couch and just sat there, staring at me.
He said, “I think we're making a mistake, Lloyd. Kilroy is a person of interest in a homicide investigation.”
Carlyle countered with, “Mr. Kilroy would not be the first man wrongfully accused of a crime. Then, to me, “I, er, admire your forthrightness in coming here to see us, sir. I'm certain that if we just sit down and talk things over, why, we might. That is, be able to--”
“You bet we'll talk things over,” I broke in. I looked at Richmond. “And I know why you don't want with talk to me, now that you know who I am. What would the voting public say if they were to learn that Paul Richmond, the Mister Clean reform candidate, is up to his good-looking eyeballs in a tawdry murder scandal?”
I admit to being melodramatic, employing a shock tactic to see what sort of reaction I'd get.
Mrs. Carlyle, sitting next to Richmond, blurted out without warning, “Why, you're lying through your teeth! I've known Pauly for years. He would never --”
I admired her spunk, but this was tough guy time.
“Shut up, Mrs. Carlyle,” I said. Then, to Richmond, “What's the matter, Pauly? Do these folks do all your talking for you, or just in front of strangers?”
He glared at me and said, “We're going to call the police.”
He did not move toward the phone.
I said, “You're not calling anybody. Not with what I know. When was the last time you saw Cheryl?”
“About a month ago.” He said it with defiance. “And then only briefly. She tried to hit me up for a job on my election committee. I told her to get lost. Before that, I hadn't seen her in months.”
“Button up, you fool.” That was Carlyle. His mild-mannered veneer had washed away like cheap shellac. Then he snapped at me. “Listen, Kilroy, I don't have any idea what this is all about. I do
n't even care what kind of filth you came here to blackmail us with. Yes, you've timed your move very well. This is a crucial time for Paul, for us. So, quote us your price. That is what you're after, isn't it, money?”
I said, “Cheryl Kaplin and your fair-haired boy here were sweethearts. Or was it just a professional relationship between hooker and john?”
Richmond bristled on the couch.
“Don't you call me anybody's boy, you son of a bitch.”
Lloyd Carlyle ignored the outburst, and so did I.
I said, “Cheryl Kaplin was killed yesterday afternoon, run down by a car in what is still officially listed as an accident. Last night two men tried to kill me, along with a woman who was a friend of with Cheryl’s. Hasn't Paul mentioned any of this to you?”
Richmond said, “I read in the paper about what happened to Cheryl.” He was on the defensive now, not defiant at all. “I don't see how what happened to her has anything to do with me. What was I supposed to do, advertise that I once cared about a woman who is now a hooker?”
“Quiet, Paul,” said Richmond, and to me, “I asked you your price. We can settle this very quickly if you'll just--”
Another voice interrupted.
Mrs. Carlyle said, almost dreamily from the couch, “Can't you see we're only wasting our time, Lloyd? There is only one way to deal with these people. I should think you would know that by now.” So saying, she unsnapped the purse in her lap and withdrew a compact .32 automatic. She aimed it in my direction. “I'll take care of this,” she said in a near whisper.
Then she began pulling the trigger.
14
The .32 automatic began snapping in Mrs. Carlyle's fist, spitting sharp, flat, nasty sounds, and I felt three bullets go whizzing by fractions of an inch over my head, embedding themselves in the wall behind me.
Cold In The Grave_A Kilroy Mystery Page 8