The Fifth Script: The Lacey Lockington Series - Book One

by Ross H. Spencer

  “Will it end?”

  “Yes, soon—very soon.”

  She’d lapsed into silence. So had Lockington. They’d had green salads and hot roast beef sandwiches and fries, exchanging occasional glances, nothing more. They’d driven to her house after dark. When she’d locked the door behind them, he’d sat on the big leather couch, placing her Repentino-Morté on the coffee table. He’d said, “You’d better put that thing away.”

  She’d picked up the superb 9mm pistol, transporting it carefully into her bedroom. In a few moments, she’d called to him. “Would you come in here?”

  He’d left the couch and gone in there. She’d been naked, her back to him, turning down the bed. Without looking at him, she’d said, “Uhh–h–h, look, Lacey, we’ve had dinner, there are no dishes to wash, we’re already drunk enough, and I’m so Goddamned hot I may blow a gasket! Turn out the lights, please.”

  Lockington had turned out the lights, feeling a sudden melancholy. We never knowingly do anything for the last time in our lives without experiencing sadness. He’d read that somewhere. He’d sat on the edge of the bed, and she’d swarmed over him with the awesome white-tipped frenzy of a Solomon Islands hurricane. A sense of imminent danger will do that to some women. So will a sense of imminent wealth.

  47

  Moose Katzenbach came into the Classic Investigations office at 9:54 A.M. Lockington said, “Whatcha got?”

  Moose said, “Plenty, but it’ll have to wait. Curtin just parked out front and he was getting out of the car!”

  From the doorway, Lieutenant Buck Curtin said, “Well, well, if it ain’t the vanishing Lacey Lockington and Omar, the fucking tentmaker!”

  Lockington said, “What—”

  Curtin said, “Sit down and be quiet!”

  Lockington said, “I ain’t standing up.”

  “That simplifies it—now all you gotta do is be quiet!” He jerked one of Lockington’s Marlboros from the pack on the desk, lighting it with one of Lockington’s matches. He said, “For your information, that old back door stunt ain’t gonna work no more!”

  Moose said, “We don’t got no back door.”

  Curtin said, “Don’t start up with me, fatso! Now, shall we get down to brass tacks?”

  Lockington said, “You better ask Moose—I ain’t allowed to talk.”

  Moose said, “It’s okay by me—I got nothing better to do.”

  Curtin said, “All right, I’ve just been notified that Mr. Max Jarvis is missing. So is his Rolls Royce automobile.”

  Moose said, “Which way did they go?”

  Curtin said, “Straight up. Somebody stashed about twenty pounds of TNT under the front seat.”

  Moose said, “Next time, Jarvis better look under the seat.”

  Curtin said, “It knocked out windows in fucking Toledo!”

  Moose said, “I got an aunt in Toledo.”

  Curtin said, “So, boys, if you’ll put on your hats, we’ll truck on down to 26th and California, there to discuss certain matters considered pertinent to Max Jarvis getting blowed clear the hell to Covington, Kentucky.”

  Moose said, “I know a guy lives in Covington.”

  Curtin said, “Drop your cocks and grab your socks—you’re off to see the wizard.”

  Lockington said, “Are we under arrest?”

  Moose said, “Covington’s just across the river from Cincinnati.”

  Curtin said, “C’mon, c’mon, let’s go!”

  Lockington said, “Curtin, sit down and listen to me!”

  Curtin said, “I’ll listen to you in the interrogation room at 26th and California.”

  Lockington said, “If we’re under arrest you gotta read us our rights.”

  Moose said, “That Covington’s sure a swinging town.”

  Curtin’s face was the color of a five-alarm fire. He said, “Okay, on your feet!”

  Lockington said, “You ain’t told us if we’re under arrest.”

  Curtin roared, “Yes, you sonofabitch, you’re under arrest!” His voice had risen a full octave.

  Lockington said, “Let’s hear the charges.”

  Curtin clawed for his shoulder holster and Lockington threw up his hands. He got to his feet, giving Moose a meaningful look. He said, “Well, you can’t argue with an officer of the law.” He slouched from behind the desk. He said, “Except when he won’t listen.” He busted Buck Curtin very hard on the point of his clefted chin. Curtin’s knees buckled and he sagged slowly, settling to the floor like Godzilla going down in Tokyo Bay. Lockington said, “Get his gun, Moose, and we’ll prop him up in the swivel chair.”

  Curtin came out of it slowly, twitching, a slender ribbon of bloody saliva trickling from a corner of his mouth, his eyes returning to focus, becoming twin beads of smoking malevolence. He rasped, “You cocksuckers are gonna do big fucking time for this!”

  Lockington hovered over Curtin, leaning forward to clamp a hand on the detective’s shoulder. Very softly, he said, “Hey, Bucko, I’m gonna talk, and you’re gonna listen!”

  48

  When she’d gotten into the car she’d said, “You’ve heard about Max, of course.” Lockington had nodded, and there’d been no further mention of the matter. The sunset of August 30 flamed beyond the western horizon, giving Lockington the impression that hell had just boiled over. He knew that it hadn’t, of course, but he knew that it would, and damned quickly. He drove through thinning conversation, turning north toward St. Charles on Route 25, rather than 31. Erika Elwood was frowning. She said, “Why the switch?”

  Lockington said, “I could use a drink.”

  “There’s a pleasant coincidence—so could I.”

  “Right about now, I’ll bet you could.”

  “And what does that boil down to?”

  “It comes under the heading of pointed remarks.”

  “Obviously. Care to explain it?”

  “Over a drink.”

  “I’ll appreciate that.”

  “I doubt it.”

  He nosed the dilapidated Pontiac into the parking lot of The Wigwam on North Avenue in downtown St. Charles. The evening was sultry and the stench of rotten algae boiled up from the sluggish Fox River to blend with diesel smoke from the never-ending chain of trucks snorting up the Route 64 hill. Lockington saw the Fox River as a second-class swamp, and St. Charles as an overrated, noisy, filthy little town. They went into the Wigwam, a dim, cool, sprawling place decorated with plastic tomahawks, novelty shop arrows, and shabby reproductions of oil paintings depicting Indians riding spotted ponies in pursuit of buffalo, doing war dances, shooting it out with blue-clad soldiers, and conducting any number of Indian-like activities. There’d been Indians along the Fox River a long time ago and they’d liked it no better than Lockington, apparently. They’d moved on. There were a few people at the bar but the dining area was deserted save for an elderly, birdlike woman at the piano who was playing it well enough for Lockington to identify “Only a Rose.” They took a table in a remote corner of the room, Erika studying Lockington, toying nervously with the flouncy pink bow at the throat of her provocatively sheer white blouse. She was edgy, she’d been bumped off center. Lockington waved the menus away, ordering a double Martell’s cognac. Erika asked for a Tom Collins and when they’d been served, she said, “There’s something altogether different about you this evening, I can feel it—a sudden mood shift, I’d say.”

  He took a slug of his Martell’s, rolling it briefly in his mouth in the manner of those who genuinely appreciate strong drink. “You’re probably right.”

  “Which brings us back to your pointed remark.”

  Lockington said, “Yes, I’d like to speak with you regarding your husband.”

  49

  Her head snapped up, her eyes wide, her mouth open. She gasped, “My—my what?”

  Lockington smiled mild approval. He said, “Not bad, but no Oscar. Your husband flies two flags—he was born ‘Dennis Herzog’ in Cleveland, Ohio. He changed his name—in Clevela
nd, probably—legally, I’d imagine. In Chicago, he’s known as ‘Duke Denny’, most of the time. ‘Herzog’ is the German word for ‘Duke’, but you know that. He’s killed half-a-dozen people, and you know that, too.”

  Erika Elwood was sitting erect, outrage personified. She said, “My God, what on earth are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about one of the more efficient assassins of our time, and I had every intention of killing the sonofabitch until my mood shift, as you’ve termed it. It may not last long—mood shifts come, and mood shifts go.”

  She reached to touch Lockington’s hand, squinting at him. “Lacey, are you all right—what the hell kind of tangent is this?” The response had underlined bewilderment, but there’d been no bite in its delivery. Her back was to the wall—she was parrying without thrusting.

  Lockington banged his forearms flat on the table, hunching forward, speaking rapidly, tersely. “Okay, sweetie, let’s scratch the peek-a-boo routine—there are three different scripts for tonight’s grand finalé, and you’re familiar with one of’em. The script that you know, the one that you helped write, goes like this—you and I drive out to your house this evening and when we go in, who is sitting there but Duke Denny, brandishing your Repentino-Morté 9mm pistol. Duke shoots me, ostensibly an intruding vengeance-crazy ex-cop who’s there to eliminate the last of the Stella Starbrights. This accomplished, Duke stuffs my .38 police special into my dead hand, and you call the cops—oh, Dear God in Heaven, your husband has just shot a marauder who was attempting to murder you! Then you two bastards stroll hand-in-hand into the sunset with Max Jarvis’s fifty million clams. Not a terribly bad effort, you understand, but too transparent to get off the ground.”

  Erika was nibbling half-heartedly on the limp orange slice she’d plucked from the rim of her glass. She said, “Maybe you should get into religion, or group sex, or something.” The barb was dull, her voice was flat, her train was off the rails, but when the smoke had cleared, she’d still have one move left, one only but it’d be brilliant, it’d look like a checkmate, and a tactician of Erika Elwood’s caliber would be certain to sniff it out—Lockington was betting all the marbles on that. He listened to the piano. The old lady at the keyboard was engaged in a free-for-all with “The Riff Song” and the Riffs were getting the best of it.

  In a few moments he said, “Duke has rewritten the original script. His revised copy has him relieving me of my .38, plugging you with my gun, plugging me with your gun, placing my gun in my hand, and phoning the law to report that his wife has just been shot to death by a certain Lacey Lockington and that Lockington has been duly polished off. That way, you see, Lockington takes the rap for another murder, his seventh, and as your grieving widower and legal heir, Duke Denny pockets the fifty million dollars willed by Max Jarvis to his four daughters and their mother. Then Duke packs up and hauls ass for the Bahamas before they’ve finished singing ‘Abide With Me’ at your funeral or ‘Down in Jungle Town’ at mine. By the way, that won’t fly, either.”

  She avoided his gaze, busying herself with an attempt to spear the elusive maraschino cherry in the opaque depths of her Tom Collins. Without looking up, she said, “Let’s get this straight, shall we?”

  Lockington said, “Don’t you think it’s as straight as we’re likely to get it?”

  “You’re accusing me of participating in a plot to take your life, am I correct on that?”

  “Lady, I’m not accusing, I’m merely stating facts—you’ve already cooperated in the murders of your mother, your three sisters, your ex-brother-in-law, and your father, so what’s just one more? Jesus, woman, Lady Macbeth was a bush leaguer!”

  She’d captured the maraschino cherry to snip it from its stem with white teeth. She was meeting his eyes now, her voice level. “Look, before we go further, let’s examine the third version of tonight’s script. It’ll be yours, I assume.”

  Lockington said, “Uh—huh, all mine—well, prior to my mood shift, I’d figured things to develop in this fashion—Duke gets my gun, aims it at you, pulls the trigger, and the damned thing doesn’t go off. With that, he’s blown the whole package so far as you’re concerned, so with all bridges down and no way to get back, he thinks that he’ll cook up a new yarn before he calls the police—possibly something about me breaking in and getting hold of your gun and him grappling with me, and you getting hit before he manages to shoot me. Then he ups with your Repentino-Morté and jerks the trigger and again nothing happens, which is because I’ve filed the firing pins of both guns flush to their hammer facings. Now we come to the very best part.”

  “The part where you walk on water?”

  “No, the part where I kill Duke Denny.”

  “With what? You’re fresh out of guns, remember?”

  “I’ve neglected to mention that there’s another Repentino-Morté behind the cushions of your leather couch. I stashed it there yesterday evening.”

  Her reply came a split second late and this pleased Lockington—the wheels were turning. She said, “However, since your mood shift, you don’t want to kill Duke Denny—right?”

  “Let’s say that I’m awaiting developments.”

  Her sudden smile illuminated their corner of the room. “All right, Lacey, you win! There was nothing personal in this—I’m sure you understand.” She’d been highly instrumental in the cold-blooded massacre of her entire immediate family and she was handling it as she’d have handled being a day late with her rent payment—sorry, but something trivial came up.

  Lockington said, “Why, of course—it was free enterprise that made America great.”

  “Is there a possibility that we can do business?”

  “Not on paper.”

  Her face was expressionless, she was a trooper. With fifty more Erika Elwoods and a few rowboats, Lockington would have attacked the Spanish Armada. She was saying, “Lacey, which of us do you want the most?”

  “Dead, you mean.”

  “Yes, dead.”

  Lockington ground the butt of his cigarette into their ashtray. “From a bright woman, a stupid question.”

  “It’s Duke—it has to be Duke because of Julie Masters!” There was her proposition—a trade—Judas for Brutus.

  Lockington put the torch to the fuse. “No affidavits.”

  She gave him a tight, knowing smile, nodding curtly, licking her lips, standing, smoothing her skirt. She said, “When I come back from the little girls’ room, I may give you one more script.”

  “That’d make four—nearly all of ’em.”

  “Nearly all? There are five?”

  “There’d have to be.”

  “But only three of us knew! Who’d have authored a fifth script?”

  Lockington winked at her. “I’d say it was a joint effort—Satan and Almighty God.”

  She returned his wink. “And their medium?”

  “A neutral, I’d think—a party who’s served neither.”

  She threw back her head, laughing the soaring laugh that Lockington liked. “Ah, the cryptic remarks of Lacey Lockington! You’ll excuse me for a few moments?”

  “Certainly.” He watched Erika Elwood depart the dining room of The Wigwam, a river boat gambler with an ace up her sleeve, shooting for astronomical stakes. She’d seen her one remaining move and she’d make it without hesitation. She’d been a worthy opponent, intelligent, sophisticated, courageous, audacious, thoroughly treacherous, and if Lockington had been running the CIA, he’d have recruited her at any price. Then she’d have sold out to the KGB.

  He sat through a lengthy medley of Romberg stuff, selections from New Moon and The Student Prince, before motioning to the waitress. He said, “Would you be so kind as to check the ladies’ room? I seem to have lost track of my companion.”

  The waitress said, “Oh, sir, I’m sorry—I thought you knew! She left in a cab several minutes ago!”

  Lockington said, “Thank you. May I have another double Martell’s?”

  50

 
He drove north on Route 31. Despite the dense greenery fringing the Fox River, he could see no beauty in the area—there was an inhospitable bleakness about it, it’d sucked up too much of Chicago’s atmosphere. Erika Elwood’s front door was wide open, her driveway was blocked—there were two Kane County Police cars, an ambulance, and a St. Charles paramedics van. There was a dark blue Ford sedan parked on the lawn—coroner’s office, possibly—coroners seemed to have a heavy thing for dark blue. There were ten or more men clustered around the front steps and Lockington recognized two of them—Lieutenant Buck Curtin and Moose Katzenbach. He eased the Pontiac to a halt on the graveled shoulder in front of the little white house and got out. Curtin and Katzenbach headed in Lockington’s direction, accompanied by a leathery, hawk-faced, gray-haired fellow wearing blue denim jacket and jeans, gray Stetson hat, and low cut Western-style boots. Buck Curtin accelerated, reaching Lockington in advance of the others. There was a prominent bluish bruise on the point of Curtin’s chin. He said, “As a fucking strategist you’d make a fine towel boy in a Chinese whorehouse!”

  The man in the gray Stetson nudged Curtin aside, shoving out his hand. He said, “They tell me that you’re Lacey Lockington.”

  Lockington nodded, extricating his hand from a tiger-trap grip.

  The man in the Stetson said, “Pleased to meet you, Lockington. I’m Joe Leslie, Kane County Chief of Detectives.”

  Lockington was surveying the scene. “Looks like trouble.”

  Curtin guffawed. “Trouble? Naw, no trouble here, Lockington—this is the monthly meeting of the fucking Kane County Audubon Society!”

  Joe Leslie quieted Curtin with a withering stare. He said, “When Lieutenant Curtin contacted me this afternoon, I was under the distinct impression that this thing would go a trifle more smoothly than it went.”

  Lockington said, “Uhh-h-h, yes—well, you see—”

  Curtin said, “Yeah, we see, all right—we see what—”