The Fifth Script: The Lacey Lockington Series - Book One

by Ross H. Spencer

  He stood and she slipped an arm around his waist, guiding him toward the bedroom. She said, “Tell me, do you strip your women or is that their responsibility?”

  “My women? I lost my harem in a poker game.”

  “You’ve avoided the question. Do you peel me, or do I?”

  “Your choice.”

  “You’re a gentleman. I’ll take care of it. You’ll watch?”

  “Like a hawk.”

  “Lights on or off?”

  “On, please.”

  “Yes, I’d prefer that—after all, why show it if you can’t see the damned thing?” She turned to push him to a sitting position on her bed, stepping to the middle of the room. “Will this do something for you?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “That’s nice, because it’ll certainly do something for me. Say when.”

  “Go.”

  She undressed slowly but without hesitation, Lockington watching for the blue butterfly on her appendectomy scar. Erika Elwood didn’t have a blue butterfly on her appendectomy scar. Erika Elwood didn’t have an appendectomy scar—her glorious rigid-nippled body was without a mark. She curtsied, blew him a kiss, and turned out the lights.

  Later, her legs clamping him deep into the hot cream of her, her tight, tawny buttocks rolling to the cadence he’d established, she whispered, “You’re—you’re gentle!”

  Lockington muttered, “You were expecting to be ripped limb from gut?”

  “Oh, no, but—no, but you—never mind about that—just never mind—oh, fuckest thou ME!”

  Lockington smiled into the darkness of Erika Elwood’s bedroom. It would have taken a newspaper woman to come up with a line like that.

  37

  They drove from St. Charles toward Chicago through a sunny Thursday morning, saying little, Erika’s mind elsewhere, apparently, Lockington looking back on the most memorable Wednesday night within his memory range. Erika Elwood’s shameless baring of a body that would have chased Venus de Milo into seclusion had been an elixir for the middle-aging Lockington, and he’d made love better than he’d ever known how. She’d responded in feverish fashion, coming at him like a tigress, tossing, turning, moaning, groaning, crying out, pawing him, clawing him, biting his shoulders, heaving upward to meet his thrusts with a wiry strength that had made her difficult to control. Lockington said, “Sleep well?”

  She said, “Yes, thank you,” the first words she’d spoken in twenty miles. Then she drifted back into her thoughts, whatever and wherever they’d been. Lockington would have given a pretty penny to have been privy to what went on in that lovely head, but the thoughts of a woman are difficult to come by, and the thoughts of a beautiful woman are next to impossible. For a splinter of a second he wondered about the thoughts of Chicago fat women, abandoning the subject in haste.

  He dropped his passenger at the entrance to the Chicago Morning Sentinel Building, ignoring the impatient blasts of automobile horns, watching, waiting until she was safely within the doors before pulling away. Pick her up at 5:15 sharp, she’d told him, kissing him before she’d left the car, and Lockington had promptly driven through a red traffic signal.

  He parked the Pontiac in the Randolph Street lot, walking east to stop at the shabby Greek restaurant across from Classic Investigations. He ordered a cup of coffee, and he was valiantly attempting to drink the dreadful potion when Lieutenant Buck Curtin slid onto the counterstool next to his. Curtin’s smile for Lockington was something considerably less than a smile. He said, “Well, heavens to Betsy, Lacey Lockington, fancy meeting you here!”

  Lockington frowned into his coffee. “Yeah, downright amazing, ain’t it?”

  Curtin filched one of Lockington’s cigarettes from the pack on the counter, lighting it with one of Lockington’s matches. He said, “Say, by the way, Lacey, a fella got killed out in Evanston late yesterday afternoon.”

  Lockington nodded. “It happens all the time in Evanston—also Skokie, Park Ridge, Mt. Prospect, North—”

  “This guy’s name was Fisher, Gordon Fisher—he was an attorney for the Chicago Morning Sentinel—the Sentinel—that’s the newspaper that got your ass suspended, if I ain’t mistaken.”

  “You ain’t mistaken.”

  “Well, as one detective to another, you got any opinions on this Fisher thing?”

  “Yeah, I got an opinion. If he was a lawyer, he probably had it coming—particularly if he was a Communist lawyer.”

  “What an unsympathetic outlook.”

  “I’m an unsympathetic guy. Make a note of it.”

  “I’ll do that. Fisher was the ex-husband of the chickie who got her brains blown out back a week or so—that former Sentinel columnist.”

  “That right? Coincidence, probably.”

  “No coincidence, baby, take my word for it! Somebody got an axe to grind with the Chicago Morning Sentinel!”

  Lockington shrugged, sipping at his coffee.

  Curtin said, “Now, here’s the interesting part—according to Gordon Fisher’s secretary, he had a telephone call from a man named Lacey Lockington of Classic Investigations—late afternoon call—she got the impression that it concerned something important. What was that all about?”

  “I’ll be brief.”

  “Don’t hurry, you might make a mistake.”

  “Fisher stopped at the agency while you and I were playing peek-a-boo yesterday afternoon. He talked to Moose Katzenbach—said he wanted to be contacted. I called Fisher twice—the first time he was on another line, the second time he was out of the office. That’s it, all of it.”

  “Katzenbach—Katzenbach—yeah, another busted-down ex-cop. What’s Denny running, a fucking refuge for washouts?”

  “It’s temporary, only temporary.”

  “Any idea what Fisher wanted?”

  “I figure it may have had something to do with his wife’s death.”

  “Why would he come to you instead of the law?”

  “Why did the mule shit in the church yard?”

  “Where were you late yesterday afternoon?”

  “On my way to St. Charles, Illinois.”

  “How about last night?”

  “In St. Charles—or just north of it.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Talking to a client of Classic Investigations.”

  “All night?”

  “That’s the way it worked out.”

  “The client will corroborate that yarn?”

  “I expect so.”

  “Sex?”

  “Not often these days—getting old, y’know.”

  “The client’s sex, asshole!” Curtin’s eyes were bloodshot chips of ice.

  “Female, I believe.”

  “Well, God damn, Lockington, you do get around, don’t you? Okay, let’s have her name.”

  “I don’t have to divulge such information, you know that.”

  “You don’t have to divulge such information if you’re a private detective, but you ain’t no fucking private detective.”

  “No, but I’m a paid employee of a private investigations concern. Same applies.”

  “Uh–huh.” Curtin got up, slapping Lockington on the shoulder, digging in, feeling for a holster strap. “Watch yourself, grifter—this time tomorrow, your keester could be sucking buttermilk.”

  “This time tomorrow there’ll be fucking bluebirds over the fucking white cliffs of Dover, just you wait and see.”

  The Greek behind the counter glanced up sharply. He snapped, “Watching yoom language—sometimes ladies come this place!”

  Curtin said, “Any lady comes this place ain’t no lady.”

  The Greek bristled. “Hey, yoom wanting me throwing yoom ass out?”

  Curtin jerked his wallet, flipping it open to flash his buzzer. He said, “Hey, yoom wanting fast visit from fucking Health Department?”

  The Greek’s smile was a ghastly thing. He said, “No troubles, mens—too early in morning.”

  They went out, Lockington and Curt
in, Lockington crossing Randolph Street to Classic Investigations, Curtin walking east toward State Street. Curtin waved. Lockington waved back. For a few moments there, they’d been on the same side.

  38

  It was 9:50 A.M. and Lockington was seated at the agency desk, tangled in a web of cigarette smoke and somber thoughts, staring at nothing in particular, mulling matters over and over and over, trying to get a grip on a thing that had no handle, grabbing big, slippery chunks of thin air. At 9:55 Moose Katzenbach came lurching in, sinking onto the client’s straight-backed wooden chair with a whooshing sigh. He backhanded sweat from his forehead. He growled, “Thursday mornings suck.”

  Lockington nodded. “You are a sage for the ages. You manage to turn anything on the Stella Starbrights?”

  Moose made a wry face. “Well, yes and no—mostly no.”

  “Give me the yes part.”

  “Yesterday afternoon, I did just like you said—I went over to the main library and threw the Chronicle’s obit wrap-ups on the microfilm screen.” He tugged a small paper notebook from a shirt pocket, opening it, leafing rapidly through it. “So, this is what I come out with—the Fisher woman was born April 12, ’53—Connie Carruthers was born June 6, ’56. You registering this earthshaking information?”

  “For what it’s worth, consider it registered.”

  Moose pawed for a cigarette, found that his pack was empty, accepted a Marlboro and a light from Lockington before peering owlishly at his notebook. “Eleanor Fisher graduated from Northwestern University in ’75, Carruthers from DePaul in ’78—both were journalism majors. Fisher’s maiden name was Leavitt, her parents live on North Olcott Avenue—Carruther’s maiden name was Kendall—her father’s dead, her mother lives on North Ozanam. No brothers, no sisters involved.”

  Lockington said, “North Olcott, North Ozanam—same neck of the woods—any connection there?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like maybe Fisher and Carruthers attended the same school or the same church, or some God damned thing—parallels, Moose—we’re looking for parallels!”

  “There was nothing sticking out—you know the obits, Lacey—bare bones.”

  “Both were journalism majors—that looks like a parallel.”

  “Yeah, but what can we do with it? What the hell, if two doctors get murdered, both studied medicine—two pianists, both studied music—naw, there ain’t much there.”

  Lockington was silent through a few heartbeats. Julie Masters had studied journalism. Fisher and Carruthers had scored—Julie hadn’t. Julie never would. The cemeteries were full of dead journalism majors. Lockington shrugged it off. “Okay, anything else?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Whaddaya mean, ‘not yet’?”

  “Well, I went from the library over to City Hall, but Bugs Grayson had taken the afternoon off—baseball flu. By then it was time to go home, so that’s what I did.”

  “Logical, by God. Who’s Bugs Grayson?”

  “Bugs runs the City Hall data processing center.”

  “All right, what can he do for us?”

  Moose said, “He just might scare up something you could hang your hat on. Duke used him from time to time. I came by City Hall this morning—took me fifteen minutes to find Bugs—he was feeling up a skinny blonde typist.”

  “Where?”

  “All over, but he seemed to be concentrating on the groin area.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “In the water fountain alcove.”

  “That’s better. Duke used this Bugs Grayson?”

  “Oh, sure—you see, City Hall’s data banks are loaded with offbeat information. When what little we have hits those computers, we could pick up a lot of minor league fallout—unpaid parking tickets, traffic violations, teen-age shoplifting raps—or maybe something bigger, like DWI’s or drug charges or—well, you name it, and it’s somewhere on a silicone chip.”

  “It ain’t on a silicone chip if it never happened.”

  “Yeah, and Bugs wants fifty bucks—it probably ain’t worth the shot.”

  Lockington said, “Give him fifty and we’ll find out. What was Duke using Bugs for—what sort of information?”

  “I dunno—I never handled that end of it. Looking for character background, no doubt. Take that J.B. Grimes, for instance—Duke told me that Grimes got pinched in ’65 for messing around with a choir boy.”

  “Duke knew that Grimes was queer?”

  “Yeah—I tailed Grimes—he was shacking with some immigrant kid at the Ellenwood on North LaSalle.”

  “Then why didn’t Duke throw the switch on him?”

  “Probably trying to raise the ante.”

  Lockington tried not to smile. Denny had handed him a piece of cake and all the credit. “Duke was paying Grayson fifty a throw for data bank information?”

  “Naw, Duke was fixing him up with sure things—Bugs is a gash-hound.”

  Lockington dug into his thinning wallet and shoved a pair of twenties and a ten across the desk. “Is Buck Curtin still hanging around out there, making like fucking Philo Vance?”

  “Uh–huh, he’s stashed in an unmarked black Ford in the no parking zone out front—about as inconspicuous as a hog in a synagogue.”

  Lockington thought it over for a few moments. “Okay, Moose, get back over to City Hall and see if Grayson has anything of interest. Here’s the office key—you’ll probably be back before I am.”

  “You’re cutting out?”

  “For a couple hours, I figure.”

  “With Buck Curtin snapping at your ass.”

  “Not this trip. I’m using the rear door.”

  “Mind if I stick around and watch? We ain’t got no fucking rear door.”

  “I know it.” Lockington winked. “So does Curtin. I’ll take the vestibule stairs up to the Polack’s gun shop—the gun shop has a rear door.”

  “Will the Polack let you use it?”

  “He’ll let me use it if I tell him that I’m in the market for a new gun. When Curtin sees you come out, he’ll think that I’m still in here, minding my own business.”

  “Where you headed?”

  “I’ve got to swing by my apartment for a few minutes, and make a stop on North Michigan Avenue—I should be back about 12:30.”

  “Lacey, what the hell’s going on? You can tell me—we’re working the same beat, ain’t we?”

  “Moose, I don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Well, I don’t wanta piss on your parade, but I think we’re beating the shit out of a dead donkey. After all, what do we have?”

  “Well, we got two ex-Stella Starbrights and one ex-Stella Starbright’s ex-husband, all deader than Kelsey’s balls.”

  “Ex-husband—whose?”

  “Eleanor Fisher’s—that Gordon Fisher who dropped in yesterday afternoon was hitched to the first Stella Starbright.”

  “And he’s dead?”

  “Shot—in an Evanston motel room.”

  Moose scratched his head. “I didn’t hear about it. Sonofabitch! Small world, ain’t it?”

  “Yep, and shrinking by the minute.”

  “There’s a hookup?”

  “You’d better believe there’s a hookup!”

  “Well, baby, we’d better find it pronto! Buck Curtin thinks you killed the Stella Starbrights because that horseshit column got you suspended!”

  Lockington shook his head. “I doubt that Curtin sees it that way. Curtin’s a fox—he pretends to look north when he’s looking east. He’s pouring the heat to me because he thinks I’ll tell him something or lead him to something. Curtin thinks I know more than I do, and he could be right, but if he is, it’s dormant information—I can’t wake it up.”

  “This guy Fisher—he was killed because he’d been married to one of the Stella Starbrights?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then why?”

  “Well, for one thing, he was the Morning Sentinel’s chief attorney. For another, he came to Class
ic Investigations looking for help, apparently. There’s a loose thread hanging somewhere, Moose—there always is. Say, just for the hell of it, have Bugs Grayson run Fisher through the computer—that’s Gordon G. Fisher. Got it?”

  Moose Katzenbach heaved his bulk from the straight-backed chair. “How about the telephone—I still don’t answer it?”

  Lockington said, “Look, it’s unlikely, but if I need you, I’ll ring twice, hang up, ring twice, hang up, and ring again—pay no attention to anything else. Duke Denny would skin me alive if he called here and got Moose Katzenbach, the guy he’d just fired.”

  Moose said, “I’m gonna give Curtin the finger.” He headed for the door, then held up, turning to Lockington. “Hey, if we bust this one, you think maybe Duke would take me back?”

  “Moose, this has all the earmarks of a national interest item. If we bust it, you could wind up being interviewed by Carson.”

  Moose grinned, slapping his knee. “God damn, Lacey, Helen would sure like that! Helen never misses Carson because once in a while he gets animals on the show.”

  Lockington nodded. “More like five nights a week, wouldn’t you say?”

  39

  Chicago’s west suburban telephone directory had the listing—Wright, Rev. Abraham J., 2397 Scott Street, 455-7600.

  The old Pontiac clanged into Franklin Park, rolling west on Grand Avenue, turning south on Scott Street, the roughest thoroughfare in the northern hemisphere, Lockington was certain. The building stood on the southeastern corner of the Scott and Fullerton Avenue intersection, a dilapidated, one-story, red-brick affair that’d once been a coffee and tea warehouse if Lockington’s dim memories of Franklin Park were serving him correctly. He pulled into the gravel parking lot, stopping there to kill the engine.

  Lockington checked out the scene. There was a crude wooden cross, fashioned from 2x4’s, nailed lopsidedly over the entrance, and on the northern wall of the structure was an amateurishly-lettered black-on-white sign: FIRST CHURCH OF CHRIST OUR GLORIUS AND CRUCIFRIED REDEEMER–REVEREND ABRAHAM J. WRIGHT, PASTOR AND TRESUROR. Lockington noted that TRESUROR had been underlined. He left his car to crunch across the gravel and try the door. It was locked. Then he spotted the buzzer and punched it a couple of times, waiting until the door swung groaningly inward, sounding very much like a medieval drawbridge being lowered, Lockington thought. Or raised. Lockington possessed no authoritative knowledge of medieval drawbridges. A tall, bony, scraggly-haired woman stood in the doorway, listing perceptibly to starboard, eyeing him up and down. She was either a young-looking older lady or an old-looking younger lady. She had a black eye, a swollen jaw, a lacerated upper lip, a few gaps in her mouth where teeth once were, and she was at least six months pregnant—and drunker than forty barrels of owl manure. “Yesh?” she lisped, experiencing difficulty with her balance.