Corpses Say the Darndest Things: A Nod Blake Mystery

by Doug Lamoreux

  I nodded – slowly. “Yes.”

  “Then you know he was at Delp's house. He said he left at about 2:30 that morning. He kept repeating it; 2:30, 2:30. Then he would begin to cry once more, saying, If only he had stayed.”

  “Yeah, I know how he felt. Did you or your older brother ever threaten Delp?”

  “What? John and I? You are being stupid. We had nothing to do with anyone there.”

  “What about Nick? Do you know? Did he threaten Reverend Delp?”

  Mike ground his lips together and shook his head. “The way I understood it, Nick had not spoken to Delp since he left the church… and for some time before that.”

  “Before that. He worked for him, didn't he? You're saying he wasn't on speaking terms with Delp while he was working for him?”

  “I do not know the details. Nick liked the church, he liked the people. He did not… What did he say? Speak ill, yes, that was it. He would not speak ill of the reverend.”

  “But he didn't like him?”

  “He did not like the caste system. This Reverend Delp spent his time in his big office, away from everyone. When he wanted something done, he would dispatch his legions. When he wanted his books, uh the church finances, seen to, Nick was allowed to come among the legion. Not to be a part of them but to be among them. Then, somewhere, somehow, the reverend decided he did not like the way Nick was handling his books.”

  “What was his major complaint?”

  “I do not know. Nickie never said. Just that the big-shot minister had relieved him of his duties. He did not fire him, officially, but he was not invited to return to his work. Not long after, Nick said, that is when the church started having financial problems.”

  “What sort of problems?”

  “Again, I do not know. Nickie did not know. Everybody there, at this Majestic Temple, loves Reverend Delp. This translates to everyone being very close-mouthed about the church. Nick had ceased to be allowed access to its inner workings. It bothered my brother much. Soon after Nick got the boot, according to this Katherine, there arose some serious financial trouble.”

  “Evidenced how?” I asked.

  “You ask more than I know. Nick was told little, he told us less. The staff, the church staff, most were volunteers but, of those being paid many, maybe all, were taking pay cuts. Recently, there have been these… fundraisers; constantly. The crusade teams, that is what Nick called them, these teams began staying in cheaper hotels, dispensing with room service, doubling on rooms.”

  “Is that why Katherine Delp wanted to skip the Atlanta crusade?”

  Mike made a derisive grunt and shrugged his massive shoulders. “He… Delp, not long ago, he dismissed his personal house staff; his servants.”

  “Is that why he let Nick go? The financial problems? Or did Delp know about his relationship with his wife?”

  “Nickie did not say. I do not think he knew. The reverend just said his bookkeeping services were no longer required.”

  “It's a little odd that Nick hadn't seen this financial trouble brewing?”

  “Just so. That is what Nick kept saying. That there were no financial troubles. He could not imagine what might have happened to bring this on, especially so quickly. Nickie said Conrad Delp was richer than the Tsars. Perhaps he was merely trying to cut his wife off. Perhaps he had some big scam. I do not know. Nickie did not know. All he would say for sure was that this claim that the church was broke was… the farce.”

  “Back to my original question; did you or your brother, did Nick, threaten Delp?”

  “No. I heard nothing of this before you raised the question. Nick said nothing about anyone receiving threats. Why do you ask this?”

  “Because it all makes as much sense as a goose eating foie gras. Delp agrees with you; he's never heard of any threats. But, according to his ministry, they were coming in.”

  “If you ask me there is nothing new in this. The ministry of Reverend Delp claims many things.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  You know the drill by now. After my fight with, and following the interview of, Mike Nikitin, I wasn't in the mood to deliver Willie's wreck of a car anywhere. Puking smoke, it shuttled (and shuddered) me home. I crawled up and into my apartment then teetered in place through a hot shower. With the dirt and blood washed off, I limped to my kitchen. By the flickering bar light above the sink, I rigged a bag of ice for the back of my neck, squeezed out a cool cloth for my lips and nose, and grabbed up a new bottle of gin promising myself two long fingers. After my last twenty-four hours, that didn't seem unreasonable. On second thought, and realizing I was fooling myself, I put away the glass and grabbed a tumbler. I grabbed a lime. I grabbed a knife. Then I grabbed up my Bible. Yeah, laugh sucker, laugh.

  Still by the blue-white flicker, like a quiet lightning storm filtering through the kitchen shutters, I made my way carefully, painfully around to the living room. I popped one of Delp's crusade tapes into the machine and lowered myself onto the couch. This time, Lisa's mother had started recording before the crusade began, picking up a slew of commercials in the deal. Slim Whitman smiled wide beneath an Oil Can Harry mustache, strummed a left-handed guitar, and yodeled at me hawking a new TV album. He disappeared and was replaced by a sexy sweetie hinting she'd ride my baloney-pony if I'd just call her 900 number at a premium-rate. She gave way to a tarot card reader with a Jamaican accent so phoney she couldn't have pulled off ordering oxtail stew at the local jerk restaurant. I could have Fast Forwarded through it all but the remote was… way over there. Finally the show I'd been waiting for appeared (I never dreamed I'd think that) and the Temple of Majesty church chorus began to sing. I cracked the seal on the new bottle and, under the watchful eye of a smiling British beefeater, adjusted the ice on my cracked noggin and cracked open the Bible. Okay, I was cracking up; I agreed with that days ago. I eased myself uneasily back.

  Sometime later, night clocked out and went home and morning took over. Enlarged photographic prints made from the crusade videos lay scattered on the coffee table. Piles of files and filled notebooks spilled onto the floor. Wadded paper decorated the carpet, cigarette butts and ashes did likewise on the table top. The tumbler, empty save for an accumulation of strangled lime slivers, sat stunned and trying to catch its breath. The near-empty gin bottle lay on its side like a corpse; like Katherine Delp, like the brothers Nikitin. A second, barely-dented bottle of Whiskey (Mr. Jack Daniels, ladies and gentlemen) stood triumphantly nearby, the night's only survivor. Another video tape was presenting another chorus of happy worshipers, all singing to shadows from the past while no one and nothing in the here and now gave a damn. Me? I was out of it. My banged up body, for what it was worth, lay left behind, passed-out on the couch with the Bible opened, to the Second Epistle of Paul to the Thessalonians, and spread on my chest like a sleeping infant. Meanwhile, for less than twenty bucks I'd bought back the 1950's and was spending the summer at Lake Sunset with the girls of my youth; one hand in Mary's pants, the other down Becky's blouse. Somewhere in the background a minister was delivering a fire and brimstone message which I was dreamily happy to ignore. Mary grabbed my wrist, her mouth insisting I stop, her wet eyes pleading with me not to. Becky, sure she could hear her father calling, grabbed the other wrist. They pulled my arms out to my sides and, while it would be stretching it to claim I was being crucified, with their soft flesh now out of reach it was its own brand of torture. The girls became one and, co-joined, took on the appearance of a certain church secretary that had been heavy on my overworked mind. “Stop.” She was insistent. “Stop!” But why the sudden alarm?

  It was more than an anguished cry. It was a fervent siren, an intrusion in my brain. Then the girl (the girls?) were gone but the alarm remained, demanding. Demanding again. The lake disappeared, my eyes snapped open to see my apartment had reappeared, and it finally dawned in my gin-fogged skull that – my phone was ringing. “Geez!” All right, I admit, I was startled and I jumped. My ice bag, long since melted to water, s
ank into the cushions. The Bible thumped to the floor (which is no way to treat a baby or the word of God). Embarrassed, despite being alone, I laughed it off and shook myself awake. The aching dizziness returned. Why did I do that! The phone was still ringing. I grabbed up the receiver and barked, “Blake.”

  “You were right, Mr. Blake.”

  “What! What?”

  “You were right.” The voice, even in my groggy head, was familiar. It sounded like… It was Reggie Riaz. “You were right. I wasn't telling you… I didn't tell you everything.”

  “Reggie? Reggie. Go ahead, I'm listening.”

  “It's gotten out of control. No, it's been out of control all along. It was wrong from the start. We shouldn't have been involved.”

  “Who's we?” I asked. The gerbil in my head was still doing laps on his wheel but my vision had cleared (as clear as it was going to get). “Involved in what? Are you talking about Katherine's murder or is there more happening here?”

  “It wasn't supposed to be like this. She wasn't supposed to die. We waited for you to leave. Then we… He just went crazy. He said God commanded it.”

  “Slow down, Reggie. You need to make sense. You're doing the right thing by calling. I can help, but you've got to slow down. Give me your address, I'll come right now.”

  “No. For all I know, they're watching us. If they find out I called you, if they even suspect.”

  For a second I thought the line went dead and I panicked. “Reggie!”

  “I'm afraid for Rocio,” he said, back again. “Before I say anything I got to get her some place safe. You got to understand she isn't responsible for any of this. I love her. Oh, God, what have I done?”

  “Reggie, don't get squirrelly on me. You said, `He said God commanded it.' Who is he?”

  “I'm sorry to bring you into this. They hate you. He hates you.”

  “Who hates me? Are you talking about Delp?”

  “I've got to get Rocio out of here. I'm taking her to her mama's in the morning. If anything happens to her… I can't live without her.”

  “Wait, Reggie, don't hang up.”

  “Meet me tomorrow… someplace… real public… I can't think.”

  “Daley Plaza by the Picasso.”

  “No, too wide open. It needs to be crowded.”

  Okay, he wanted a crowd. Now I had to think – and I was in no condition for it. “Navy Pier? By the submarine; the… Silversides?” I asked. He said nothing. I started a list. “Union Station? Soldier Field? The Field Museum?” I was growing frustrated. “O'Hare? Come on, Reggie, work with me.”

  “I know,” he shouted, as if he'd struck gold. “There's a restaurant I used to work at. It's real busy at lunch. Taqueria Carmelita, on the south side, west of Comiskey Park; 35th and Normal.”

  “Carmelita… 35th and Normal.”

  “Eleven, tomorrow.”

  “I'll be there. Don't stand me up.” I hung up and would have shook my head in irritation, if my head hadn't already been in such a tender state. Instead, I merely muttered, “He needs a crowd.”

  *

  I'd hoped that was the last phone call of the night. But, as I couldn't have got a wish granted with a government certified magic lamp, it turned out to be only the first. My wall clock, in the dim blue flicker from the kitchen, read 3:18 am when I was again awakened by the shrill ring of the phone. I snapped it up, still groggy. “Blake.”

  “He's here.”

  That's what the caller said, just that, “He's here.” A woman's voice. There may have been an accent, there must have been an accent, but I didn't hear it. “W-What?” I sputtered. “Who is this?”

  “It's Rocio Riaz. Reggie told me to call you.”

  “Rocio? Reggie… Riaz? Mrs. Riaz.”

  “He's here! Reggie told me to hide. That he'd be right back. But he hasn't come back. I heard a lot of noise!”

  “Tell me where you are,” I told her. She was crying and I was having trouble hearing her clearly. I mean it was bad. I could have swore she answered, “I'm in the closet.” The poor thing was under a lot of stress, I supposed, but that answer didn't help much. “Did you say a closet? Rocio, what closet? Where are you? What's the address? Give me your address, then hang up and dial 9-1-1.”

  “Reggie said not to call the police. He said we'd go to jail.”

  “Mrs. Riaz…”

  Something cracked so loud in my ear that I ducked. Only after making myself feel like a fool did I realize the sound, splintering wood, had come to me over the phone. Rocio screamed, “My God! My God!” There was another scream and the line went dead.

  “Holy shit.” I hung up and rifled the files, the notebooks, the papers on the table until I found a phone number. I dialed quickly. The ringing lasted two minutes longer than eternity but, finally, Gina Bridges answered dreamily, “Hello.”

  “Gina, it's Blake. Gina, I need you to wake up.”

  “Blake, what? It's three in the morning.”

  “I know. Listen, I need Reggie Riaz's address. Rocio just called and I think they're in trouble. I need their home address, right now.”

  “Okay. Just a second. I gotta find it. I gotta put you down.”

  An emptiness took over the phone on the other end. Time conspired with panic to do me dirt. I was so tense, I almost screamed myself when my Call Waiting beeped. I looked to the screen on the phone and realized the number calling belonged to the Riazs'. Gina still wasn't back. I put her on hold and answered the incoming call. “Rocio?”

  An icy voice crept through the line, stung my brain, and chilled my blood. “Eight, two, six,” it said. “Eight, two, six on Mahr-ket Street.”

  “Reggie?” I asked. “Reggie, is that you?”

  “For the love of Gawd, Blay-ke,” the voice hissed, “hurry.” Again, the line went dead.

  I hung up, grabbed my coat, and ran from the apartment.

  *

  Finding that area of town was one thing (I'd taken my Jaguar this time, as opposed to Willie's folly, and was on Market Street in under thirty minutes). Finding the right house was something else. It was a neighborhood of faded-blue collar workers, the poor, the unemployed, and the uneducated; so run down the For Rent signs looked like ransom notes. (Come to think of it, it sounded like a subdivision for private detectives.) It was not unheard of for the residents, when they moved, to pull the numbers off their houses and take their addresses with them. Many featured no numbers at all. Still, I can count and do a little math and, through the process of elimination, I managed to locate 826. It was a small two-story sitting liked a tilted crown, above two moderate sets of cracked concrete stairs, on a dirt berm to the right. I pulled to the curb short of the house by several car lengths, on the opposite side, and climbed out. I started across the street, straining in the dim light for any sign of life behind the Riazs' windows. The place was as black as a tomb.

  So intent was I on the residence, I paid no attention to the street. That indifference would, over the next five seconds, be the stage upon which I performed a one act play called Failure. I probably heard, but failed to notice, the car's engine starting. I failed to see the vehicle dart from the deep shadows down the street with its lights off. I failed to see it racing toward me. And, though the driver snapped the headlights on in the instant before the curtain came down, I failed to recognize the danger. The car hit me with the left side bumper and headlight. My feet left the road. I rolled up over the front quarter panel, hit the windshield, and I went airborne.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Everything went black. I have no memory of flying over the vehicle's roof but I must have. Further, I must have landed face down on the far side of the street because that's where I was when I came to. But I don't remember that either. I had no idea how long I'd lain there (I didn't know if it was still 1979). It was dark when I woke and I hoped it was still night but was half afraid I'd gone blind. I stirred, saw the blur of a street lamp, thanked the cloud-covered stars I could still see, and stood up. My head felt like a b
roken gourd. Blood trailed down my face and fell in black-looking splotches on the pavement. I was alone in the middle of the street and as badly used as an encyclopedia in a family of morons. The dark car was gone and I was grateful. They must have thought they'd killed me and I couldn't say yet that they hadn't. I staggered toward the curb in front of the Riaz house.

  I paused unsteadily on the sidewalk, swaying there, staring up the mountain of concrete steps to the dark front porch. A pain shot through my head. I heard a muffled explosion and, above me, a torrent of blood poured through the open front door. Racing like a river it cascaded down the steps, a crimson waterfall headed my way. I stood dumb, staring, unmoving. It poured from the house, fell, and was nearly upon me. Then, as if by magic, the river was gone. The steps were dull gray concrete again and dry as a bone. Though I ached from my gumshoes all the way up to my unkempt hair the shooting pain in my head had vanished. I moved to the steps, sat to collect myself, pulled out a handkerchief and attempted to wipe the blood from my face. I might as well have tried to wipe wet from water.

  The pain came again in my head. Suddenly I was indoors, in a small dark room, tinier yet, a compartment of a house. The house above me? I didn't know. Then it dawned I was in a closet. A closet, just as Rocio had said on the phone. Phone! There was a telephone receiver in my hand and I could hear a voice, my voice, on the other end of the line; my own anxious voice asking me if I was all right. I couldn't answer. I was terrified and someone outside of the closet door was banging, banging, banging to get in. I heard myself on the phone, calling to me, pleading, asking again if I was all right. Wood splintered as a panel in the door gave in. A hand shot through the jagged hole, reaching for me.

  I was on the concrete steps again, outside the Riaz home, bathed in cool night air. My head was screaming in pain, vibrating with the hurt. Then something, someone, stabbed me. I was back in the closet again. The attacking hand held a razor, an old-fashioned straight razor, and was coming at me through the broken door, slashing, stabbing, slashing, and I felt it, as God is my witness, a blade being driven across my chest. Pressure, then incredible burning pain and my blood painted the flailing hand and the smashed door.