No Man's Dog: A Detective Sergeant Mulheisen Mystery (Detective Sergeant Mulheisen Mysteries)

by Jon Jackson

  “Baby, baby, sweetie,” he crooned, as he used to when she’d had a fall, when he picked her up and petted her. “Slow down. I’m sorry. I swear I was gonna call you. I t’ought he just meant, don’t bother you. I was ‘posta meet him, but he never showed.”

  At her demand he told her that he knew nothing about Joe’s plans, but Joe had said he needed some help, and as he had some free time he’d flown to Detroit, but Joe was now at least a day overdue and no word. He, Roman, was staying at the house, by which he meant her mother’s house, on the east side. No, he had no hint of what Joe was up to. He swore.

  “I’ll be there in a few hours,” Helen yelled. “Don’t you move. I mean freeze!” She slammed down the phone.

  For five minutes she raced around in a frenzy, yanking out suitcases, opening dresser drawers, flinging open the closet doors, until she found herself standing there, staring at dresses and wondering what she was doing. She calmed down. She paged through the phone book, found a private air service in Helena, and called. The best they could offer was a Beechcraft, a twin-engined airplane that could, possibly, get her to Detroit around midnight. It wasn’t even noon yet.

  She concentrated. It took three more calls. Mel, a friend who was in the Business—who had, in fact, succeeded to the top of the Detroit syndicate with her help—was very happy to be of service. Some associates, Mel said, had flown out to Seattle, to take care of a few things. They had taken the Gulfstream, a very nice, speedy executive jet. They would be in Seattle for another day or two. The pilot and crew were being paid to sit around and wait, so why didn’t they fly over to Montana—it was just a state away, wasn’t it—and pick her up and carry her to Detroit? They could land at the City Airport, handy to her mother’s house. He’d make sure that Roman was there to meet her.

  “Fine, thanks Mel.”

  Mel was grateful for the opportunity to help. He hoped her mother wasn’t in ill health or anything. She said it wasn’t like that, but a personal emergency that she’d rather not go into. Mel understood. She’d almost screwed Mel once. She wondered what he’d have done for her if she had.

  Mel called back in ten minutes. She would have the plane all to herself; it would be at the Helena airport in about an hour and a half. She’d probably be in Detroit by six. He hoped they could have dinner while she was in town. Which reminded him, there would be food and drink on the plane. And don’t even think of trying to pay for this, he was just happy to be of service.

  She asked, “I don’t have to go through any kind of check-in, or anything, do I?”

  “Aw, no. You go to the general aviation place. It should be a small airport, you’ll find it. It won’t be the commercial terminal. They’ll have a place you can park and everything. You can bring anything you want on board—a pet, whatever. It’ll just be you, right?”

  She said she’d be alone. She didn’t have much luggage. But it reminded her to call Fedima and arrange to have the dogs taken care of. She packed clothes, grabbed a pile of money, her favorite gun—a nifty Browning 9mm automatic pistol—and especially a cut-down Remington Model 870 .20-gauge shotgun. These weapons fit nicely into a duffel bag. Then she drove to Helena. She wasn’t familiar with the town; she and Joe normally did their shopping in Butte, sixty-some miles in the other direction. But she got there in plenty of time and found the general aviation hangar. The airplane arrived fifteen minutes later, a half hour later than Mel had promised. They’d had to call around to get the crew together.

  It was a beautiful plane, a white G500. It had a cabin for fourteen, with large, plush leather chairs, a divan, a galley. There was a pleasant young attendant named Virna, who immediately opened a bottle of champagne, compliments of “the boss.” There were also bunches of flowers, again specially ordered by the boss—huge bouquets of roses and even some orchids. She would provide a meal, which the boss had ordered put aboard from an excellent Seattle restaurant called Campagne. It involved pâtés, cheeses, fresh fruit, and an already prepared fish of the day in a wine sauce with shallots. Virna apologized for the fact that they’d had to keep the fish warm, and thus it was not at its peak, but it was very good. Salad, of course, with a walnut vinaigrette.

  Helen couldn’t remember having flown on this plane. It belonged ostensibly to the Krispee Chips Corporation, one of the mob’s long-standing fronts. It must have been purchased since her departure. Her mentor, the late Humphrey DiEbola, would have enjoyed something like this, although the cuisine, she was sure, would not have been French, but something spicier, something with chilis.

  “What’s our ETA?” she asked Virna.

  Virna had to ask the pilot, who responded that it would be 7:30, local time. They would cruise at fifty thousand feet.

  It was dark when they landed. Roman was there. He looked scared, as scared as a burly man in his sixties could look. Helen put him at ease: she apologized for calling him an oaf. “I was furious,” she said, “but I’m feeling calmer. Still mad, though . . . so don’t say anything. Any word from that bastard?”

  No, and Roman was a little worried. “This ain’t like Joe,” he said. He had no idea where Joe was, he hadn’t given a hint as to what the problem was for which he’d needed help. “Mel wants you to call,” he said.

  “Screw Mel,” Helen said.

  They went to the house, where she spent all of fifteen minutes hugging her mother, a dumpy little Serbian woman of Roman’s age. She had a number of medical problems, which had to be discussed. Helen listened for a few minutes, but when it was clear that nothing serious was wrong with her mother, she said she was exhausted and had to rest, and they could talk later. She went to her father’s study and called Mel, to thank him for the ride and promise to have dinner before she left town. She also asked if he’d heard anything from Joe, or about Joe.

  “Baby, the less I hear about Joe the better I like it,” Mel told her. “I know he was Humphrey’s buddy and he helped Humphrey to the end, but the man is poison. Forget about him.” He went on in this vein for a minute and then Helen finally was free of him.

  Who could help? She sat at her father’s old desk, drumming her fingers. Suddenly, it occurred to her that Joe might be in a hospital. Perhaps he’d had a relapse, as had happened in Colorado, on the train, a recurrence or complication of his head injury. Thinking of that, which she didn’t really believe in, given Joe’s good health of late, she thought of Mulheisen, the cop who had investigated her father’s murder and later pursued both Joe and her. Mulheisen might have him!

  Why hadn’t she thought of that? A man was crazy to come back to Detroit as long as Mulheisen was here. For that matter, maybe she was crazy as well. But Roman, who kept up on all such matters, naturally, informed her of Mulheisen’s retirement.

  That was something of a relief, but then it occurred to her that if Mulheisen was a civilian now, maybe he could be of assistance. As a matter of fact, she was on pretty good terms with Mulheisen, she felt, despite a fairly stormy past. She’d once punched him in anger. And he’d tried to pin a murder rap on her, but all that was history. More important, she knew that he continued to order cigars from a small firm she owned. The cigar factory was closed at this hour, but she had access to the files from her home computer. She looked up his address and phone number.

  A woman answered who said she was a nurse. Mr. Mulheisen was not at home and Mrs. Mulheisen was in bed. Helen thought at first that the nurse meant Mulheisen’s wife, but she seemed to recall that Mulheisen was not married. It must be the mother. It was like Mulheisen to be living with his mother, she thought. She declined to leave a message.

  Roman couldn’t enlighten her. He wasn’t aware that Mulheisen’s mother had been injured in the bombing. He knew only that Mulheisen had retired. Helen supposed that his mother, who must be fairly old, was ill. It seemed odd that he would go off and leave her with a nurse, especially if the illness was such that he had retired early, as she suspected.

  Helen was frustrated. She felt compelled to do something. She hadn�
�t flown all the way out here just to sit and stew. She could have done that at home. Once again, she was tempted to call Colonel Tucker. But, again, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She had a feeling that Joe’s warning not to call him was intended to protect her. But good god, she didn’t need protecting from the Colonel. On the other hand, she recalled some hints she’d received that Joe and one of the Colonel’s agents had a little thing going.

  Yes, she thought, that was probably it. He was with that woman, that Dinah Schwind. This had nothing to do with the Colonel at all.

  This was no help. She had no way of finding Dinah Schwind. She felt like driving to Mulheisen’s house and demanding to know where Mulheisen was—an absurd notion. Very likely, Mulheisen knew nothing at all about Joe, and could care less. Besides, if the old lady was ill . . . She couldn’t bring herself to do it.

  Resigned, she went in to talk to her mother, who was herself getting ready for bed. Her mother, of course, had seen immediately that her daughter was distraught, but she’d tried to ignore it, in case it was not serious. Now the old lady drew her out. When she learned what the matter was, she commiserated, but in a deprecating way. Helen’s father had been a notorious philanderer. Soke Sedlacek had suffered mightily. But in the end she had resigned herself.

  “It’s how men are,” Soke told her daughter. “They see some pretty girl, always someone younger, and they can’t help themselves. A stiff prick has no conscience.”

  Helen was not having that. She wasn’t old, and she didn’t think Dinah Schwind, the Lucani agent, was any younger, and certainly not more good-looking. She’d merely thrown that notion out as a possibility; she didn’t really believe it . . . not really. Did she? No, she thought there must be some other reason. “I even called Mulheisen,” she said. “You remember him, Mama, the police detective . . . he was in charge of the investigation when Papa . . . died. I thought he might know something. But he’s gone off somewhere too.

  Mrs. Sedlacek remembered Mulheisen. “The poor man,” she said. “His mother was almost killed in that bombing, out in some awful suburb. I don’t know where it was—Ann Arbor?”

  Soke knew nothing much about it, only what she’d read in the newspaper. But Helen felt it might be important. She went off to call an old friend of hers from school, Christi Rose. Christi’s mother had worked for Humphrey at one time. Christi was a very bright young woman who had married a bright young man when they were both in law school. Christi did the family law in the firm and Ron did criminal and personal injury law. If anyone had any useful knowledge about this bombing, Christi would.

  She did. After they got past the greetings and “let’s have lunch, soon,” Christi told Helen what she knew about Cora Mulheisen, the investigation, Homeland Security. Yes, a Vernon Tucker was part of the investigation. Christi had lots of information, including the scuttlebutt in the legal world. Insiders speculated that the bombing was all about the case of a young drug dealer, named Calona, who was at the Wards Cove Municipal Building for a preliminary hearing. Presumably, the bombing was intended to provide cover for springing Calona. Unfortunately, Calona had died in the bombing; the hearing had been held in a judge’s chambers that was located all too close to the point where the bomb-laden truck had crashed.

  This information wasn’t very enlightening to Helen, but she was a thorough person. She listened to the other theories, the ones that presumably had interested the Homeland Security people, about rival Arab factions. There were a few Arabs in that county, but nothing like the thousands of expatriate Syrians, Lebanese, Chaldeans, Iraqis, and others in nearby Wayne County (where Detroit was located). There were no hearings or any other activities involving them going on, although there were some citizenship processes in train. The Arab angle was a no-go. The only other activity scheduled, besides the hearing on the environmental issues that had attracted Cora Mulheisen’s group, was a routine matter concerning the disposition of the property of a deceased woman named Constance Malachi.

  “My ears perked up when I heard that,” Christi said. “You remember Jerry Malachi, don’t you?”

  “Oh, sure,” Helen said. “Jerry was at Michigan State when we were. Tall, good-looking . . . a golfer, wasn’t he?”

  “Tennis,” Christi said. “He was a psych major. I dated him pretty seriously, when we were seniors, don’t you remember? For a while, he thought I’d marry him, but no way. Then I went off to law school and met Ron.”

  That wasn’t exactly how Helen remembered Christi’s brief fling with Jerry, but she didn’t say anything. “Was he involved in this . . . what was it, a hearing?” she asked.

  “Oh, no. It was just the name. No connection,” Christi said. “Jerry turned out to be gay, you know.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “I’m not sure he even knew he was gay, at the time. But I had my suspicions. Not that he and I ever, uh, did anything. Which made the switch to Ron a lot easier, believe me.”

  Helen had known Jerry Malachi rather more intimately. One thing she knew for sure; he wasn’t gay. No point in mentioning it now, of course. They went on to discuss a number of things about school, about Ron, the kids, Detroit. After a few more “Let’s have lunch” suggestions, that was it.

  Helen was still frustrated, still seething. She went downstairs to the elaborate workout area her father had installed in the basement. She took a swim, and then a sauna. She’d had some adventures with Joe in this room. The thought of it vanquished the momentary feeling of relaxation. She went upstairs and called the number for Jerry Malachi. He still lived in Grosse Pointe, not far away.

  “I ran into a friend of yours,” she said when he came to the phone. “Christi Rose. Your name came up.”

  Jerry was delighted to hear it. “How’s Chrissy doing these days?”

  They chatted for a bit and then Helen mentioned the Malachi connection, the hearing in Wards Cove. “Christi said it caught her eye, but it turned out that it was a different Malachi.”

  “I wonder where Christi gets her gossip?” Malachi said. “Actually, there is a connection, but it’s pretty distant.”

  “That’s Christi,” Helen said. “Always jumping to conclusions on insufficient evidence. She told me you were gay. I guess you weren’t lying when you swore to me you never touched her.”

  Malachi laughed. “I never lied to you, sweetie. Now you know.”

  “So what is the connection?”

  Malachi explained that Constance was a cousin, somewhat distant. Her father was an uncle of Jerry’s father. “I met her, once or twice, a long time ago,” he said. “They weren’t from Detroit. Most of that side of the family are in Indianapolis.”

  “What was the hearing about?” Helen asked.

  “A dispute about property,” Jerry said. “I wouldn’t have noticed, except there was a hideous bombing the same day, some kind of terrorist thing. Connie had married a guy from up north somewhere. Then she died. There was some kind of disagreement about her inheritance. So . . . what are you doing these days?”

  Helen wasn’t sure if Christi had been aware that Helen had also dated Jerry, although she was pretty sure it was one of the reasons Jerry had broken off with Christi. She wasn’t in the least surprised, in fact, when Malachi said, “What are you doing tonight?”

  “Tonight? It’s kind of late, isn’t it?” Helen said.

  “Gee, what time do you usually go to bed?” Jerry asked. “I mean, to sleep? It’s only ten o’clock.”

  Helen was amused. She was also restless. She agreed to meet in an hour, at a bar they knew on Kercheval, Pierre’s.

  Jerry was as handsome as ever, she was glad to see. It turned out he was divorced. He was in marketing now, obviously doing fairly well. He knew about her late father; perhaps it added some glamour, another attraction. Helen felt hard-pressed to keep the conversation in the direction she preferred. The Jerry she had known in college was still a wolf.

  Malachi wasn’t interested in his remote cousin, but as it seemed that Helen was
, he was happy to tell her what he knew. Constance Malachi was a little older than them, probably in her late thirties when she died. He remembered seeing her when he was a kid and she was a rather sexy teenager. She’d gone into the law, he said, working for the government.

  “I think she was doing pretty well, actually,” Malachi said. “A prosecutor or something. Worked for the U.S. Attorney’s office. Then, I guess she married this Luckenbach guy, who was some kind of big farmer, or developer—I don’t know what the deal was. She dropped out of sight. They had some kind of property settlement deal, part of the marriage, or maybe his business. Then—boom!—she dropped dead. Heart attack. Amazing, isn’t it? She was so young. I have this image of her, the bold, vivacious older girl. Very bright, too.”

  It was sad, Helen said. Too young. “But what was the issue? Why the hearing?”

  “The family was upset, I heard,” Malachi said, “because some property that belonged to the family, her dad, I guess, was claimed by the husband, this Luckenbach guy. Pretty nice chunk of property, too. Upstate, somewhere, I heard. Probably lake property. There might have been some development scheme.”

  “So what happened?”

  “What happened? To the property, you mean? Well, nothing. The hearing was disrupted, of course. It was a thing with lawyers. Nobody was injured. I think it’s still in contention. These things can go on for ages, you know.”

  Jerry really wanted to talk about Helen. She, however, had heard enough. And she was tired, a little hungover, from the champagne on the plane, or a bit of jet lag. It ended with a brief tussle in the parking lot. Jerry insisted on a kiss, for old time’s sake. Helen finally gave in to the kiss, and then solemnly agreed to meet him the next night for dinner.

  Helen drove home thinking the whole thing had been a bore, a waste of time. Talking to Jerry had reminded her of why she preferred Joe. The kiss had awakened no passion. But she had gotten from Malachi the name of the town where Luckenbach lived. He had dredged it up from his memory, only because of the oddity of the name: Queensleap.