The Fruitcake Murders

by Collins, Ace;

Grabbing the receiver on the second ring, Lane pulled it to his ear and barked, “Hello.”

  “Okay, Elrod, this is the payoff. Have your representative bring the woman with the cash to 1014 Elmwood at 1:15 tonight. Don’t be a minute late or a second early. Come to the front door. I’ll have what you are looking for there. If you mess this up, then kiss your representative good-bye. Got that?”

  The cop considered what he’d heard but didn’t answer. Looking to Tiffany, he shrugged.

  “Did you get that?” the male voice on the line demanded for the second time.

  “1014 Elmwood,” the cop assured him.

  “And the time?”

  “1:15.”

  “You’re putting your life on the line, Elrod,” the man warned, “but I’m risking even more than you.”

  “And you’ve got everything I need?” Lane demanded.

  “Everything,” came the quick explanation, “Just make sure you’ve got the girl and the money. That blonde’s testimony could lock someone up for a long time.”

  “About the blonde,” Lane replied.

  “What’s wrong with your voice, you don’t sound like yourself.”

  The cop took a deep breath and then in a desperate action, coughed several times. After clearing his throat, he got back on the line, “I picked up a cold. Just this time of the year coupled with my health issues.”

  “Forgot about your weak heart,” the caller replied, “and on the woman, don’t mess me around. You found her. Even though I’ve never met her, what she tells me will give me what I need to make sure she’s the real deal. If she’s not, then I don’t care if you are the DA—I promise that you will be fish food by Christmas. You savvy?”

  Lane looked over at Tiffany. She had clearly heard everything that had been said, so he was hardly surprised when the reporter mouthed, “I’m your blonde.”

  “Okay,” the cop announced into the receiver, “I fully understand.”

  “One more thing. I know the last guy you had working for you was injured in a wreck. I want to make sure this new man is someone we can work with. Can he be trusted not to rat my boss out to the cops?”

  “Yeah,” Lane barked, “you can trust him. Just so you know, he’s handsome, has dark wavy hair, is well-built, and about six feet tall. He kind of looks like Robert Taylor . . . the movie star.”

  “Good to know, but I hope tonight’s the only night I ever see him.” A second later, the line went dead.

  “Well, Skipper,” Tiffany noted, “this sounds interesting.”

  “Let’s not go back to using old nicknames,” he snapped, “especially one that brings back a lot of bad memories.”

  “Whatever. By working together we might be able to save Elrod’s investigation after all.”

  She was right. Because the news of the man’s death had not been released to the press and had therefore not hit the papers or radio broadcasts, the caller figured the DA was still alive. That was fortuitous. They might actually be able to pull this charade off and get a line on what the district attorney was investigating. But what were they walking into? And why would Elrod agree to leave the mystery woman with this man? That thought led to a series of troubling questions. Was he wrong about Elrod? Was this man that everyone put on a pedestal in league with the very people he was supposed to be bringing to justice? Was he a part of this whole sinister mess? What better way to hide his guilt than by pretending to be the reformer and then taking payoffs?

  “Why look at this,” the woman called out. Lane glanced up and found her holding a leather attaché.

  “Where’d you get that?”

  “Now, Skipper,” she teased, “while your brain was locked up, mine was working. I made a quick tour of the area and found that this had been slid behind a curtain in Elrod’s living room.” She popped the latch and pulled it open. “How did your people miss it? I have a few guesses.” She chuckled, and then her eyes grew as large as saucers. “Wow, Skipper, this thing is filled with money. I mean lots and lots of money. Looks to be all twenties.” She reached into the bag and pulled out a handful of cash.

  “That’s probably the payoff,” he announced.

  “And I’m the blonde,” she again noted. “So we have everything we need for tonight. I sense we’re about to blow the mob wide open.”

  “Or we’re going to get blown wide open ourselves.” He countered. After crossing the room and looking in the attaché, Walker reached out and gently took the woman’s chin, lifting her face until their eyes met. “This is not a game. We’re playing with fire here. If something goes wrong, Santa might have two less places to visit next week.”

  “I know,” she assured him. “This is no walk in the park. Delono and his boys keep the funeral homes and flower shops in business. But I liked Elrod, and I don’t want to see his work die with him.”

  “Neither do I,” Lane acknowledged, while not voicing his sudden doubts about the district attorney. Crossing the room, he picked up the phone and dialed the morgue.

  “Morelli’s place, where a corpse shows no remorse.”

  “Mitch, that’s horrible.”

  “Humor of my trade,” the ME replied.

  “Keep it in house,” Lane suggested. “Mitch, have you told anyone that Elrod was murdered?”

  “No,” Morelli said. “I’ve been up to my ears in accident victims. I called the chief and commissioner, but they were out. No one from the media knows either. So just you so far.”

  “What about the guys I asked you to send down here to rework the crime scene?”

  “Oh, gosh,” the ME quickly explained, his tone reflecting his embarrassment, “I got to working on an autopsy and just forgot. I’ll do it now.”

  “No,” the cop shot back, “don’t tell anyone what you know. I don’t want the word getting out that Elrod has been murdered. It has to be kept quiet until in the morning. Call Doc Miller and the boys that worked it with me and tell them to keep a lid on it, and I don’t want anyone coming over here.”

  “Mind if I ask why?”

  “You can ask,” Lane answered, “but I can’t tell you. I’ll come back to secure the scene here, including the fruitcake, but I have to do something else first.”

  “Is it tied to the case?” Morelli asked.

  “Yeah. And if I turn up missing,” the investigator paused, “look in the Bible on the desk in Elrod’s office. I’ll write a note detailing what I know there. You can find that information where the second chapter of Luke begins. Got it?”

  “Sure. This time of the year that’s easy to remember, but I don’t like the way this sounds. Be careful, Lane! I don’t want to have to determine what killed you.”

  “I’ll do my best to not give you that assignment,” he assured the ME as he hung up the phone.

  After considering what he knew, he went over to the desk, opened the Bible, and spent a couple of minutes jotting down what he’d learned. Tossing the pen down and closing the Bible, he turned back to face Tiffany. Her normal smug expression had been replaced by a softer, more concerned look. Her change in disposition caused him to offer the woman an out. “You don’t have to do this.”

  She shook her head, “And if you go there without a blonde then you won’t live to explain what this is all about. I’ve got to know what Elrod uncovered. If he was taking down organized crime and I can report on it, I have to be there. It’s my job.”

  “So your concern is for the story and not me?” he asked.

  She forced a smile, “Maybe it’s for both. I know you’re tired of Delono and his ilk running this town. So am I. I’m also tired of seeing kids hooked on dope and women working the street to support their habits. I’m tired of the murders and the dirty cops. But as much as I want to break the story about the big man being sent to the big house, I don’t want to see a dumb homicide detective go down in the process. You’ve caused me a lot of grief, you don’t know a thing about tact and manners, but . . .” She stopped, her blue eyes looking as if they were suddenly a bit moist.<
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  “But what, Tiff?”

  “But nothing,” she shot back, “I just don’t want to have to figure out a way to make you sound good in an obituary. I’ve never been any good at writing fiction.”

  “Don’t worry,” he quipped, almost relieved she hadn’t gone soft on him, “I’ll outlive you just so I don’t have to deal with your libelous prose.”

  “Still,” she chimed in, “there’s something about this mess that doesn’t pass the smell test.”

  “What are you talking about?” he quickly asked.

  Her eyes locked onto Lane’s. “Delono would have had Elrod wiped out the professional way. He’d have either used some kind of drug that made it appear the DA died of a heart attack—I mean everyone knows he had a weak ticker—or he’d have had a hired gun shoot him. Hit men don’t use fruitcakes as weapons and then come back a half an hour later and stab their victims.”

  “So,” the cop asked, “what’s your theory?”

  “I don’t have one,” she admitted, “the money still being here means that it was likely not a robbery either. I just don’t see this as being connected to Delono.”

  “Tiffany, other than your fake Santas, who else had a motive?”

  “Maybe,” she suggested, “our visit to the address on Elmwood will give us some insight into that.” She smiled, reached over, and patted the attaché, “You got a plan, Skipper?”

  “Of course,” he growled, “and don’t call me Skipper!”

  “Hey,” Tiff laughed, “if you think I’m ever going to forget what you did to us in that rowboat you’re sadly mistaken.”

  Lane shook his head, grabbed his hat, and walked toward the door. It was not the time to relive a past adventure that ended badly; instead it was time to play Santa and deliver a gift he hoped didn’t explode in their faces.

  5

  Wednesday, December 18, 1946

  11:02 p.m.

  It’s all set,” McCoy Rawlings announced as he placed the phone back into its cradle. While waiting for a response, the six-foot, three-inch ruggedly good-looking man walked over to an end table and twisted a knob on a Zenith desktop radio. The dial’s light immediately popped on and thirty seconds later the walnut-encased box’s speaker came to life. While tapping his fingers on the wooden tabletop, Rawlings listened to the second verse of Perry Como singing “Winter Wonderland.” Only after the decade-old holiday hit concluded did he turn back and study his visitor.

  In the shadows beside the small living room’s one door, dressed in a gray wool overcoat turned up at the neck and sporting a matching fedora pulled low over his face, a short, thin brooding man stood stone still and mute. His motionless hands were shoved deep into his coat pockets and a cigarette hung from his lips, its smoke drifting lazily toward the ceiling giving the only indication that Richard Delono was alive.

  Delono was a crime lord or a “boss” as the newspapers described him. He was by nature and profession ruthless and cold. For this Chicago native, the only lives that had any real value were those belonging to him and his family. His voice registered in the tenor-range and his slow, deliberate delivery was crisp and grating. He dressed, ate, and lived well, but rarely smiled. He fancied himself looking like Humphrey Bogart but in truth was closer to Bela Lugosi and, like the character that actor was famed for playing, Delono was a creature of the darkness.

  Though there was no hint of emotion etched on Delono’s face, Rawlings figured “The King of the Underworld” must have been pleased with the news that’d just been shared. After all, for weeks Delono’s main goal had been tracking down the blonde. Still, even if he was satisfied that his goal had been realized, the man with the dark eyes and pencil-thin mustache didn’t reveal it. He remained stiff and silent until Como’s song finished and Nat King Cole’s new hit, “The Christmas Song,” began.

  “Mr. Rawlings,” the guest began, his voice so quiet as to almost not be audible over the music, “what do you think of that recording?”

  “The one by Nat?”

  “Yes.”

  “I like it,” Rawlings admitted.

  “Why?” the visitor demanded.

  Rawlings shrugged, “I guess, Mr. Delono, because it mentions so many of the things that make Christmas special to me. I like thinking about the way kids look forward to Santa, a nip in the air, snow on the ground, and the sighting of reindeer. So even though I’ve never eaten a chestnut, for me that song captures a lot of magic in its few short verses.”

  Delono nodded, reached up to his mouth, took the cigarette from his lips, dropped the still-burning butt into an ashtray, and moved toward the door. It looked as though he was about to make an exit until he paused while reaching for the brass knob and slowly glanced back to his host. The words he spoke hung in the air like a summer fog. “McCoy, there’s only one way this Christmas will be merry at my house, and that’s if you do your job tonight.”

  “Can I ask,” Rawlings quietly inquired as he considered what was obviously meant as a warning, “why this dame means so much to you?”

  “Do you need to know?” Delono asked. “Will it matter as to how you do your job? I mean, a man working on a Detroit assembly line doesn’t know who is going to buy the car he’s making or why he chose that one over a dozen other models.”

  “No,” Rawlings admitted, “you’ve paid me well and the money that Elrod is adding to the kitty is more than enough bonus, so, in truth, I don’t really need to know. I’ll assure you my knowing or not won’t matter when it comes to my work. I’ll snuff out and get rid of the mark even if I don’t know the reason I am doing it, but—”

  Delono, his dark eyes glowing, cut Rawlings off before he could finish his question. “You don’t need or want to know the whys. Too much knowledge only gets people in trouble. Just do your job and send me the proof that you’ve done it.”

  “Will a photo do?” Rawlings asked.

  The underworld king nodded. “A photo and that blue jade ring she always wears. It’s the only one like it, and she never takes it off. You mail those two things to the post office box I gave you and then you get back to the West Coast. After you finish here I never want to see you again.”

  As he considered what was obviously a threat more than a suggestion, Rawlings nodded, walked over to the radio, and switched it off. Reaching into his coat’s side pocket, he fingered a thick stack of bills before turning back to his guest. “Ten thousand is a chunk of change; she must mean a great deal to you.”

  “Let’s just call her a present,” Delono countered.

  “A present?”

  “McCoy, were you in the military?”

  “Yeah, Marines,” Rawlings admitted, his tone displaying a hint of pride. “I fought in the Pacific.”

  Delono smiled, “And what was the value of a man’s life in the war?”

  “I cared a lot about my own,” Rawlings truthfully answered.

  “What about the enemy?” the guest asked. “Or what about a fellow soldier who took a bullet intended for you? What were their lives worth when compared to yours?”

  “When compared to mine?”

  “Yes.”

  “About a plug nickel,” Rawlings explained. “I was no hero, just a man trying to stay alive. My skin was much more important to me than anything or anyone else.”

  “Well,” Delono explained, “this woman has great value to me only because she has great value to someone I need in my camp.”

  The host nodded, “And who is that?”

  “You don’t need to know,” Delono explained. “All you need to keep in mind is that the blonde needs to be silenced. When her lips no longer move, when she can no longer tell what she knows, then she has no value to anyone. Her silence is the greatest present I can give this year.”

  Delono’s words were cryptic, hiding much more than they revealed. As Rawlings turned them over in his head, he quipped, “You said give not get. I’m not following you. I thought I was doing this for you. After all, it’s your money and you hired me.”<
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  The visitor smiled, “Don’t you know it is always better to give than receive? That’s the great lesson of this season.” Delono pulled his left hand from his pocket and ran his gloved fingers over his clean-shaven chin. “McCoy, I have a wonderful wife and five children. My oldest kid is in college and my youngest is just a third grader. This year I’ve spent thousands of dollars on their presents and can’t wait until Christmas Eve when we sit around our tree, sing a few carols, and open those gifts. That will be a day when I will make memories that I’ll never forget. So therefore it promises to be the most wonderful day of the year.” He paused and locked his eyes on the hired gun. “But if you fail me tonight, then my December 24 will not mean nearly as much. I might not enjoy the looks on the faces of my kids when they open their presents or my wife’s smile when I hand her the keys to her new Packard. So, I have a lot riding on what goes down in the next couple of hours. And, so do you. The Japs might not have killed you at Iwo Jima, but I can make sure that you’re not as lucky here in Chicago. You’re not the only one who is in your line of work. You’re not the only one who thinks life is cheap. I can make one call and hire someone to finish you off. So I think you understand what happens if you don’t do the job tonight.”

  Rawlings nodded, “I understand.”

  “One more question,” Delono announced as he turned the knob, opened the door, and looked out into the snow. “Does killing bother you?”

  “I was trained for it in the war,” Rawlings calmly explained. “I was a sniper. I don’t know how many I killed in combat, but with each kill it was easier. Soon it just became a job. I didn’t even look at the man in my sights as a person; he was just a target.”

  “But that was war,” Delono noted, “and tonight the target will not be some man in an enemy uniform, but a woman. Doesn’t that make it different?”

  Rawlings shrugged, “In the war I got the same pay everyone else at my rank and grade got, so I wasn’t paid for each kill but for each day of combat duty. But tonight I’m getting more than I made in three years of active duty. So, let’s just say I like the rewards much better in civilian life than those I had in the military.”