The Devereaux File
A Lacey Lockington Novel
Ross H. Spencer
Copyright
Diversion Books
A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008
New York, NY 10016
www.DiversionBooks.com
Copyright © 1990 by Ross H. Spencer
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information, email [email protected]
First Diversion Books edition March 2015
ISBN: 978-1-62681-648-0
Also by Ross H. Spencer
Kirby’s Last Circus
Death Wore Gloves
The Chance Purdue Series
The Dada Caper
The Reggis Arms Caper
The Stranger City Caper
The Abu Wahab Caper
The Radish River Caper
The Lacey Lockington Series
The Fifth Script
The Fedorovich File
The Devereaux File is dedicated to John Sebulsky, world’s greatest carpenter,
To Vicky Sebulsky, world’s greatest artist,
And to Shirley Spencer, world’s greatest wife.
When I stop to think
Of the good friends I’ve had,
My very worst enemies
Don’t seem so bad.
—Monroe D. Underwood
1
Lacey Lockington eased the balding tires of his road-weary Pontiac Catalina onto the Barry Avenue curbing, thereby granting an additional few inches of clearance to westbound traffic. Not that it’d make a helluva lot of difference on Barry Avenue. On Barry Avenue you could get totaled out while parked in your garage. Still he found consolation in the knowledge that he’d taken the precaution.
He departed the decrepit vehicle, slammed its door, turned his ankle when he stepped on a crumpled Budweiser can, mumbled a few one-syllable words, kicked the offending can into the middle of the street, and limped through the sticky late afternoon toward the vestibule of his apartment building.
The neighborhood was deteriorating rapidly, keeping pace with the rest of the city. Ten more years, Lockington figured—only ten more, and Chicago would be the world’s largest ghetto, 250 square miles of slums, Lake Michigan to Elmwood Park, Evanston to Blue Island. He’d given brooding thought to the matter but he’d been unable to pinpoint the origin of a once-great city’s decline—there’d been no single event to presage the avalanche, but it was on and there’d be no stopping it, now or ever. Just a few months earlier, Lockington had been forced to shoot two Hispanics who’d attempted to mug him less than three blocks from his own front door. Well, that wasn’t entirely accurate—he hadn’t been forced to shoot them—he might have squeaked out of the predicament because a pair of fancy switchblade knives constitute a poor match for a .38 police special, but he’d killed the bastards anyway, and with considerable gusto. The incident had cost him his job as a Chicago police detective, but what the hell, you win a few, you lose a few.
It’d been another long day at Classic Investigations on West Randolph Street. Boring days are always long. Lockington checked his vestibule mailbox. Empty. That was fine—no news is good news. He unlocked his door, pushed it to find his night-chain hooked. Edna Garson appeared at the narrow aperture, peered through it, detached the chain, and said, “Why, Mr. Lockington, won’t you please come in?”
Lockington said, “Thanks a bunch—don’t mind if I do.” He pitched his crumpled, sweat-stained hat onto his overstuffed chair and flopped on the sofa, watching Edna splash Heublein’s double-strength vodka martini mix into a water glass brimming with ice. Edna was in her stocking feet, a certain indication that she was a visitor who felt completely at home. She handed the drink to him and Lockington took a tentative sip of it before settling back and lighting a cigarette. He growled, “What’s the occasion?” From their beginning, he’d always played it a shade on the gruff side with Edna and she’d taken it in good-natured stride—it’d become an intrinsic part of their relationship.
Edna said, “Since when do I need an occasion?” She wasn’t a strikingly beautiful woman, but her big, sincere, smoky blue eyes, a slightly out-of-line ski-jump nose, a wide-mouthed, chipped-tooth smile, and a dazzling mop of honey blonde hair had convinced Lockington that she was mighty close. Then, of course, there was the matter of that long-stemmed, instantly responsive, panther-graceful body. Edna Garson was flat-out bonkers over Lacey Lockington and although the feeling may not have been mutual, it wasn’t far from it. Lockington had attempted to avoid dwelling on that question because he was afraid of learning the answer. Edna was saying, “You gave me a key, didn’t you?”
Lockington nodded, grinning, winking at her, taking a long pull at his vodka martini, half-draining the glass, finding the drink to be excellent. He said, “You brought in my mail?”
“Uh-huh, it’s in the trash can—just a flyer from Crossman Brothers Furniture. Crossman’s is running a big sale on Chippendale. I didn’t think you’d be interested.”
Lockington was squinting at her. He said, “Chippendale?”
“Eighteenth century-style furniture—lots of swoops and swirls—heavy on rococo.”
“Rococo?”
“Wooden scrollwork, sort of—intricate—excessively ornate.”
Lockington shrugged, returning to his vodka martini. He said, “We learn something every day.”
Edna withdrew briefly to the kitchen, reappearing with her own martini. She said, “I bought two quarts of the stuff—I figured they’d get us as far as dinner.” She shifted Lockington’s hat to an end table and sat in the overstuffed chair across from him, wiggling her toes in her nylons. Edna never painted her toenails. Lockington was grateful for that. He suspected women who painted their toenails. He didn’t know what he suspected them of, but he suspected them nevertheless. Edna said, “I brought pork chops and delicatessen cole slaw. Okay?”
Lockington said, “Beats hell out of a can of vegetable soup.”
“Glad to see me, Locky?”
“Sure.”
“Try to control your enthusiasm. Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you glad to see me?”
“Because you brought pork chops and delicatessen cole slaw.”
Edna reached for his cigarette, lighting her own from it. She returned it and said, “Anything new at Classic Investigations?”
“Oh, sure—a fat woman came in to use my washroom. She got stuck on the john and when I pulled her off she threatened to sue me for invasion of privacy.”
Edna shook her head perplexedly. “Locky, what is it with you and fat women?”
“I wish to Christ I knew.”
“It may have something to do with your horoscope.”
“Also, a guy called this afternoon—told me that he’ll be in at ten tomorrow morning.”
“Regarding?”
“God knows.”
“Hungry?”
“If he was, he didn’t mention it.”
“You—are you hungry?”
“Probably.”
Edna left the room to get the chops started. Their sizzle and the sounds of her clattering around in his kitchen were comforting to Lockington.
She came back into the living room to spruce up his martini and perch on a sofa arm, peeking at him over the rim of her glass. She said, “Would you believe that for two cents I’d move
in with you?”
Lockington said, “I’d believe it.”
“So?”
“So suit yourself, you have a key.”
Edna frowned, considering it. “Well-l-l, probably not immediately, but one of these days.”
The pork chops were superb, golden brown, crispy around the edges. Lockington liked his pork chops crispy around the edges. The golden brown part wasn’t all that important.
2
TRANSCRIPT: TELEPHONE CALL CLEVELAND-CHICAGO 2017 EDT 5/23/88
FILE # 284-14-8241
CLEVELAND: Blaine?
CHICAGO: Yeah—Horner? Recognized your voice.
CLEVELAND: Look, Blaine, let me have Carruthers in a hurry.
CHICAGO: Stan’s on a priority call, you’ll have to hold.
CLEVELAND: Hold, my ass! This is hot!
CHICAGO: Carruthers here, Horner. You’re in Youngstown?
CLEVELAND: Negative. Cleveland.
CHICAGO: Solo?
CLEVELAND: Negative—I got Phillips.
CHICAGO: What’s in Cleveland?
CLEVELAND: Hopkins Airport. Turkey’s booked on next United to Chicago under name of J. A. Pfiester.
CHICAGO: What’s the sweat? Buy tickets. Have a nice trip.
CLEVELAND: No way. Flight’s sold out. You’ll have to tag him from your end.
CHICAGO: Damned short notice! He’s alone?
CLEVELAND: Negative—female companion. They took a cab from Youngstown. Must have cost a bundle.
CHICAGO: She’s seeing him off?
CLEVELAND: Negative—traveling light, but she’s booked.
CHICAGO: Under what name?
CLEVELAND: Belle Starr.
CHICAGO: Attire?
CLEVELAND: Turkey in brown hat, brown plaid sports jacket, gray slacks, brown loafers—companion in blue-on-white flowered dress, blue leather pumps, carrying blue leather handbag, white cardigan. Some dish!
CHICAGO: Describe.
CLEVELAND: Young—twenty or so, blue-eyed brunette, five-five, one-fifteen—stacked like hail fucking Columbia!
CHICAGO: Caught that first time around. Turkey’s banging it?
CLEVELAND: Looks that way.
CHICAGO: But Turkey’s in his fifties!
CLEVELAND: You haven’t seen this cupcake.
CHICAGO: They’re living together?
CLEVELAND: We located him late last night—we have no pattern, but she spent the evening.
CHICAGO: Code companion “Godiva.”
CLEVELAND: I think Godiva was a blonde.
CHICAGO: What’s Phillips doing?
CLEVELAND: Watching them getting ready to board.
CHICAGO: Watching them getting ready to board? How much time we got?
CLEVELAND: Scheduled arrival at O’Hare 2049 Central.
CHICAGO: Hour and a half—okay, we can hack that. Turkey has what we’re looking for?
CLEVELAND: Maybe—he’s carrying an attaché case.
CHICAGO: Stay close—phone if they abort.
CLEVELAND: Will do.
Contact terminated Chicago 1920 CDT 5/23/88
3
Edna had busied herself with the dinner dishes, drying them, putting them away before pouring Galliano over ice. They sat at the kitchen table, smoking, sipping Galliano, not saying much. Edna studied Lockington, then winked a calculating, smoky blue eye. She said, “Okay?”
Lockington said, “I think so.”
Edna snapped her fingers, craps-shooter-style. “Oh, damn you, Lacey Lockington, you’ve seduced me again!” She popped to her feet, making for the bedroom without looking back, unbuttoning her blouse, unzipping her skirt on the way. Edna had wasted precious little time. She lay on her back, naked, knees cocked, feet flat on the bed, legs spread.
Lockington sat on the edge of the bed, kicking off his scuffed loafers. He said, “Y’know, I’d take an oath that it winked at me.”
Edna’s smile was dreamy. She said, “I have no control over who it winks at.” She rolled onto her right side, reaching for him. She murmured, “Come here, you big bastard—it’s been a century!”
Actually, it hadn’t been a century—it’d been less than forty-eight hours. On Saturday evening Edna had brought ribeye steaks and delicatessen potato salad.
Later, considerably later, shortly after midnight, Edna sat up in bed. She said, “Oh, golly, Locky, I just remembered something!”
Lockington stirred, half-asleep. He mumbled, “Well, whatever it was, we did all right without it.”
“Not that! You had a telephone call just before you got home. Are you acquainted with a man named—damn, I’m not sure—it could have been Devlin or Deverino—something like that.”
Lockington opened one sex-blurred eye. “Could it have been Devereaux—Rufe Devereaux?”
“Yes, that’s it—Rufe Devereaux—you know him?”
“Used to. He called?”
“Uh-huh—he’s coming into town later tonight.”
“From where?”
“I think he said Ohio, but it might have been Oregon.”
“Yeah, seeing as how they’re so close together and everything.”
Edna spun on the bed, jackknifing forward to seize him by the hair of his head, kissing him ferociously. She hissed, “Get smart with me and I’ll bite your balls off!”
“So tell me about Rufe Devereaux coming into town tonight.”
“That was about all—he said that he’ll be staying at the International Arms on Michigan Avenue and that he’d like to have lunch with you tomorrow. He said that he’ll call you at the agency in the morning.”
“How did he know that I have an agency?”
“I don’t believe he did. I gave him the Classic Investigations number. Was that all right?”
“Sure, thanks—I’ve been wondering what happened to Rufe.”
Edna put an inquisitive hand on Lockington’s chest. “Locky, by the way, now that we’re awake—well, why don’t we—?”
“We just did.”
“We just didn’t—my God, that was six hours ago!”
“We started six hours ago—we finished less than two hours ago!”
Edna said, “Well, yes, if you want to look at it that way, but we still have five and a half before daybreak.”
“Somehow you always manage to see the bright side, don’t you, Edna?”
“Locky, I invented optimism!”
“Uh-huh, and you didn’t really forget about Rufe Devereaux’s call.”
“Uhh-h-h, well, Locky, you see—that is—okay, you’re right, I didn’t forget about it!”
“You saved it for now—extra innings wasn’t enough—you wanted a double header.”
Edna Garson nestled close to Lockington, giggling softly in the darkness. She whispered, “Batter up.”
4
Lockington came into the kitchen, yawning, buttoning his shirt, squinting into an eight o’clock sun that blazed through the window like a Viet Cong rocket attack. Edna Garson was buttering toast. She was wearing yesterday’s white blouse and navy blue skirt. There was a small grease splotch on the front of the skirt—from the pork chops, Lockington figured. On Edna it looked good. He seated himself at the table as she poured coffee. He said, “Your hair’s a mess.”
Edna nodded. “A passion perm—you’ve seen a few.” She sat across from him, sipping at her coffee. “Say, could I hustle you for a lift downtown?”
“Sure, if we can get out of here in twenty minutes. I’ll be going it alone today. Moose won’t be in.”
“He’s sick?”
“No, he has a bunch of loose ends to attend to—insurance, funeral expenses, grave maintainence—that sort of thing.”
Edna frowned into her coffee. “I’m barely acquainted with Moose, but I can feel for him—he’s had a rough row to hoe. You knew his wife well?”
Lockington nodded. “She was like a sister—Helen baked apple pies for me when Moose was my partner on the force.”
“Well, you’re partners
again, sort of.”
Lockington nodded, munching toast.
Edna said, “You were at the funeral?”
“Uh-huh.”
“How was it?”
“How was it? You ever been to a happy funeral?”
“Yes, a couple.”
“So have I, come to think of it.” Lockington slurped coffee and lit a cigarette. “What’s going on downtown?”
“I’m gonna buy a sheer teddy with sequins.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“What color?”
“What color do you prefer?”
Lockington gave the question some thought. “Black, I guess. Where are you gonna wear this thing?”
Edna winked. Edna had the most provocative wink in all of Cook County, Lockington thought—it promised a great many things, every one of which Edna was capable of delivering in abundance. She said, “Oh, hither and thither, I suppose.”
Lockington said, “Hither and thither are okay, but stay the hell out of yon—you could get arrested in yon.”
Edna stuck out the tip of her tongue, wiggling it.
Lockington didn’t say anything. Neither did Edna until they were on Belmont Avenue, thumping toward the Outer Drive. Then she wanted to know about Rufe Devereaux. Who was he?
Lockington said, “CIA—Cajun guy from the Baton Rouge area—worked out of the Chicago office until winter before last.”
“How did you ever manage to get hooked up with a CIA man?”
“I was a Chicago cop. You don’t remember that?”
“Oh, God, who doesn’t? You just got to be in the Guinness Book of Records!”
“Well, the Chicago police force has cooperated with the CIA on occasion.”
“On what—looking for Russian spies?”
“Not really. Anyway, I drank a lot of beer with Rufe Devereaux.”
“And chased a lot of pussy.”
“No, I watched Devereaux chase pussy.” Which was one-half wrong.
The Devereaux File Page 1