by Julie Hyzy
Chapter Twenty-Four
Richard DeChristopher leaned forward, listening to the one-sided conversation as his wife spoke on the phone. She had her back to him as she cradled the cordless handset against her cheek, chattering so much that he wondered how much information she could possibly glean without listening. And he wanted her to find out as much as she could. From what he could tell, it was Anne Callaghan on the other line and he leaned over to whisper to Timothy when Gina moved farther into the kitchen.
“It sounds like our little painter friend isn’t going to make it here today.”
Timothy’s face was impassive. “How do you want me to handle it?”
Richard’s eyes were on Gina’s back. He didn’t answer. He knew that the longer Gina spoke to Anne, the better their chances of finding out what they needed. In all probability, Anne was unaware of her husband’s involvement in the theft of the Durer, but she was still their best link for getting it back. Whoever that other guy was who’d made off with it, Anne was likely to know how to find him. The only difficulty was getting the information from her. She was a smart one, that girl.
Gina opened the refrigerator, standing in front of the door, with a hand on her hip. The cool air rolled out from the lighted compartment in graceful waves. It was too hot in their house. He kept telling her that. But the woman was always cold. You’d think with the extra layer of insulation she carried, she’d always be warm. Her eyes scanned each shelf, as though her mind could process all the different combinations and options, even as her face contorted into a sad, empathetic frown.
“Oh, no, honey, not really?”
Richard and Timothy exchanged glances. They needed patience at this point, but Richard was finding it ever more difficult to maintain a calm exterior. Charles Bernard’s wire transfer into Richard’s offshore account for half the agreed-upon price had arrived safely two days ago and the playboy’s anxiety was mounting. He’d been calling several times a day since Monday afternoon to check on the whereabouts of the drawing.
Gina lifted the tinfoil cover of a platter, pulling out a wide slice of ham. She folded it in two and took a bite, lifting the microphone part of the receiver high so she could listen, but evidently so that Anne couldn’t hear her chew. Just as she was about to take another large bite, she stood up a little straighter and brought the phone back near her mouth. “Hang on a second, honey, okay? I got a beep.”
Pressing a button, Gina said, “Hello?” They watched her roll her eyes, say “okay,” and then press the same button again, connecting back to Anne. “Listen, sweetie, my husband has a call. The guy’s on his cell phone, and says it’s about some legal thing that’s real important. Sounds very wound up, if you ask me. Like paying for a few extra minutes is gonna break him or somethin’. I’m gonna to give you a call back again one of these days though, okay? Talk with you later. Buh-bye.”
Gina handed the phone to Richard and plunked the platter of ham down on the table between herself and Timothy. “You want anything to eat?”
Richard stood up when he heard the voice on the other end of the connection. “Hello, Charles,” he said easily, walking toward the back of the kitchen to look out the triple set of doors. The overcast sky felt as dark as Richard’s mood, the rumbles in the distance ominous and loud.
“I haven’t made this many calls in a row to one person since I was a horny teenager looking to get laid for the first time,” Charles said. His voice attempted humor, but Richard could hear the strain beneath the levity. “But back then when I finally got screwed, it was a good thing.”
Richard made noises to approximate a hearty chuckle, but his mind was working, gauging the other man’s mood and the best way to approach this situation.
“Well, old friend,” Richard said. He drew his words out, attempting to give the other man the impression that there was nothing to be worried about. “I hope you aren’t suggesting that I intend to take advantage of your trusting nature.” He chuckled again, his fingers tight around the handset of the phone. “I’m certainly not out to screw you. I mean, what would Gina have to say about that?”
No laughter came through the phone line. Richard winced as he stared out the doors. This was going to be a tough sell.
Fat raindrops had begun to fall, making a polka-dot pattern on the redwood deck outside. A bright streak of lightning traversed the dark sky, purpling up the clouds. If he hadn’t been so wound up about this drawing, he might have found it beautiful.
For a long moment the phone was silent. “Maybe I’m not being clear,” Charles finally said, as a hard edge crept into his voice. “I sent you two and a half, with the understanding that upon receipt, a certain package would be brought to me. And at that point I’d planned to give you the other two and a half.”
“I know that.”
“Do you? Then I don’t understand the holdup. You’ve had my funds for two days. And I’m still here, sitting in this lame Chicago Hotel, waiting for my picture. I have things to do, Richard. And I don’t like waiting.”
“I understand, and I assure you—”
“Do you realize those are the exact words you used yesterday? I’m not a patient man, never have been.” His voice came over the line, tight and vicious. “And I have the means to make things happen. You do get my meaning?” Richard heard the man take a deep breath before he continued in a more reasonable voice. “I’d be more than happy to send a messenger over there to pick it up. A fellow I trust. Someone who will do exactly as he’s told and not modify the plan.”
“Look,” Richard said with a sigh. “I don’t have it here. I should have let you know that sooner. That’s why the holdup.”
He could almost hear the gears working in the other man’s head. “Didn’t you tell me that you had it right there in your study? The night of that dinner. It was there.”
“Of course it was here. And it will be back here shortly. What I’m trying to tell you is that I decided to find a safer place to hold it until our transaction took place.” The fingers of Richard’s left hand beat against the side of his leg. “Didn’t want to take any chances with something that valuable. You can see the wisdom in that, can’t you?”
The silence hung for a long moment as Richard pressed the phone to his ear, his mouth tight in a line, as he waited. Charles heaved a theatrical sigh. “When will you get it back?” And then he continued, just as Richard opened his mouth to answer, “You know what? I don’t care when it’s good for you. Don’t tell me. I have a reception to attend tomorrow night. You can bring it by afterward. Call me,” he said, and hung up the phone.
* * * * *
George Lulinski and Bill Schumann stepped out from the glass doors of the police station into the grayness of the bleak day. George meandered down the seven steps to the asphalt parking lot, turning to see Bill, still just outside the back doors, stretching.
“Looks like more rain,” Bill said before following George down the steps.
George nodded as the sky rumbled above. Despite the puddles on the ground and the promise of more precipitation to come, the day was heating up. It was only ten o’clock in the morning and already George could feel trickles of perspiration making their way down from under his arms, soaking his shirt.
As they reached the unmarked squad car, George removed his suit coat, draping it over the seat behind him. Bill did the same, but then dug through its inner pocket before settling into the passenger seat. He came up with a pack of gum and started to open it. Glancing up, he caught George’s look and shot him a grin. “How about I try to chew quietly?”
“How about you forget the gum while we’re in the car,” George countered, serious. “You go ahead and masticate to your heart’s content while we’re interviewing this guy, but just keep it out of the squad, okay?”
Bill shoved the pack into the breast pocket of his shirt. “You got it, boss,” he said.
Minutes later they pulled up in front of Quint’s After Five. The corner tavern, obviously built in the 1950s, had
somehow survived the neighborhood’s renovations. A two-story structure, with living quarters upstairs, it was both business and home to its owner, Al Quint.
“It ain’t gonna be open at this hour,” Bill said as they spun their suit jackets back on. “You want to try the owner’s place first?” He indicated a white side entrance, displaying the same address as the bar.
George was already moving to the door set into the corner of the structure, beneath a plastic sign that gave the bar’s name in small letters, the logo of a major beer brand in bright shades of red and blue. He propped open the lightweight screen door and pushed at the heavy inner one, shrugging at Bill with a look that said, “How do you like that?” when it opened.
Stepping into the dark, stale room, George stopped a moment to adjust and assess the place. There were three booths along the wall to the right, four tables to his left. The bar itself, set against the north and west walls, was small, but despite the aroma of old beer and cigarettes, the place appeared well-kept. The bartender looked up as they moved into the room, squinting his eyes their direction. He was a big fellow, nearly bald, leaning over the counter, in conversation with a gray-haired guy, his only patron.
That guy, sitting on a red-topped barstool, looked like he might have frequented this place since it’d opened decades ago. He held a cigarette in his right hand, the smoke wafting upward in lazy curls, as he focused his attention on the two men by the door. George met the two pairs of eyes and nodded a greeting.
“We ain’t open yet,” the bartender said, grabbing a towel from his shoulder and rubbing his hands in it.
George moved up to the bar, taking the stool next to the old guy. Bill went around to the other side, flanking him. The two detectives presented their identification briefly, George noting that the old guy reacted with dulled curiosity, and the bartender had no reaction at all. No reaction to a visit by the police meant only one thing to George. This guy wasn’t surprised. It meant they’d been expected and the reaction was practiced. Maybe there was more here than he’d figured. Over the old guy’s shoulder, George watched Bill pull out his pack of gum and shove two sticks in his mouth. Shaking his head, George started the interview.
“I’m looking for Al Quint,” he said, addressing the bartender. “That you?”
The guy flipped the towel back up to its shoulder perch. “I’m Al. What’s up, officers?”
“We’re looking for someone. A guy named Pete. Pete Munro. You know him?”
Al appeared to think for a minute. He dragged the towel back to his hands and wiped them, looking down. “No,” he said slowly, “don’t know him.”
The old guy at the bar watched the interchange from beneath shaggy eyebrows, his red-veined cheeks letting George know that sitting here with a drink at ten in the morning wasn’t a fluke. Bony, wrinkled arms leaned forward on the bar, the age-spotted hands meeting in the air near his face, the cigarette not three inches from his mouth. He appeared to be trying to follow the conversation, turning his head toward whomever was speaking, but he was several beats behind each time.
George narrowed his eyes at Al. Bartenders were usually pretty easy to work with. They met so many guys on a first name basis, that it was rare to find one who could say “no” right off the bat. The usual response was a shrug and a request for a description.
“I got a picture here,” George said, reaching into the file folder he carried. He pulled out the first one. They’d obtained it from drivers’ license records after interviewing the three druggie boys in Pete’s old apartment. Fearful of an arrest, they’d given the detectives everything they knew, including Pete’s last name and frequent haunts. While they didn’t know where he was staying now, they did know that he’d been talking about some big score coming up.
If the license didn’t work, George had some mug shots too, from Pete’s prior arrests. The most recent one had provided the two detectives with a bona fide reason to pick the little guy up. An outstanding warrant. Perfect. Now if they could get him into custody, they could squeeze him on the homicide.
Al reached a beefy hand out and took the picture. He made a show of taking it back near the bottle racks where the light was better, and he held it at arm’s length, as though scrutinizing carefully. Walking back with his arm outstretched, he said, “Nope. Never saw him. Sorry.”
Instead of putting the photo away, George placed it on the bar, while digging out the mug shots. As the old guy’s eyes slid over to check it out, George moved it closer to him on the pretense of needing room on the bar to place his folder.
Al tilted his head toward the folder. “What’d this guy do, anyway?”
Bill leaned in on the bar, his mouth working the wad of gum in his mouth. “We just want to question him, is all. About a homicide.”
George placed four mug shots of Pete on the bar, facing Al. He noticed out of the corner of his eye, the old guy had snuck a finger over and pulled the first picture close.
“Homicide, huh?” Al said, the towel back in his hands. He didn’t look at the shots spread out before him. “Who’d he kill?”
“Well,” Bill drawled, “we’re not saying he killed Gary Randall,” Al’s eyes shot up at the mention of the name. “We just want to ask him a couple of questions.”
“You knew Gary Randall.” George said. He didn’t phrase it as a question.
Al scratched his forehead, frowning. He started to say, “I—yeah . . .” when the old guy cut in.
“Hey Al, you do know this guy. Dontcha remember?” The old guy’s words slurred and George’s eyes met Bill’s over the slicked-back hair of his gray head. “He was just in here yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” Bill asked.
“Emil don’t know what he’s talking about, detectives. He’s seeing things.” Al bent, came close to the old guy’s face, but he seemed unaware. “I think you had too many this morning. Maybe you ought to head on home.”
George turned the other mug shots so they faced the old guy. He moved the empty glass to one side, to accommodate them. Coming aware, it seemed, that all eyes were on him, the old guy gave a grin. “What’d you say this guy did?”
“Just want to ask him some questions, old-timer. About a homicide.”
The guy grunted. “This guy ain’t no killer,” he said, pushing the picture back to George. “Is he, Al?”
“I wouldn’t know, Emil,” Al said, his towel back in his hands.
“Sure you would. You better tell these guys that too, you know.” His shoulders lifted for a moment, stifling a belch. “Otherwise when they get wind of that deal . . .” his gaze lost focus and he reached for his glass again, upturning it till the last drops fell onto his tongue. “Can one of you fellas . . ?” He lifted the glass in question.
George nodded to Al who protested. “Listen guys, this guy’s talking out his ass. The last thing he needs is another drink.”
“Fair enough,” George said, “but if you won’t let me buy him a drink, then I guess I’m gonna have to give both of you guys a free ride to the station instead. How’s that?”
Al pulled out a bottle from beneath the bar and poured. Leaving the bottle up top, he held onto the edge of the bar with clenched hands.
“What were you saying about a deal?” Bill asked.
The old guy moved his head in slow-motion, and it took several seconds before he answered. “Listen. Now this is important,” the words came out choppy as he enunciated each syllable. “Al here, is my friend.” He reached across the bar to grasp the bartender’s hand and he held it, tears forming in his eyes. “He’s been letting me come here since my Johnny died. Twenty-eight years ago.” Pulling his hand back, he used the back of his other arm to wipe at his nose. “And I’m not gonna let him get caught up in some kinda murder problem. I know him too good for that.”
“Emil—” Al said.
“Let him talk,” George warned.
“You pick up this guy, you’ll find out. My friend here don’t deal with no murderers.”
George sensed they were losing him. “This guy,” he asked, pointing, “he was here yesterday?”
“He was sittin’ back there,” he gestured with his thumb behind himself, “in the booth with your other friend . . . that big guy, what’s his name? Don Romas.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about, Emil,” Al said, his words staccato behind clenched teeth.
“Back up, back up, a minute,” George said. “Did you say Don Romas?”
“Yeah, he’s Al’s buddy, he does lots of good deals for him, don’t he Al?”
George and Bill exchanged a look. “The Don Romas?” Bill asked.
Al shook his head. “Don’t know what he’s talking about. He never makes sense. Probably read something in the paper and thinks it’s real, you know? I don’t know the guy.”
The old man waved his hand out toward Al, nearly losing his balance on the bar stool as he did so. “Sure you do. Some big business deal you were cooking, remember?” He turned toward George again. “But don’t think nothin’ of that. Al’s always got business deals going. But they’re on the up and up.” He pointed toward Al. “That’s my best buddy. The best guy in the whole world.”
“Emil doesn’t remember things so well, anymore,” Al said, interrupting.
What anger could come from glazed eyes, shot across the bar as Emil sat up a bit straighter. “I can remember everything like it was crystal clear.” He settled down again, his back stooping like an old woman’s, as he muttered to himself. “Young guys nowadays. They keep tellin’ us old guys that we forget, like we all have Alzheimer’s or somethin’. But they forget more’n we do.”
George turned to Al, whose mouth was set in a thin line, his eyes angry. But Emil wasn’t finished. “Hell, I can tell you what I had for breakfast this mornin’,” he held up the amber-filled glass, “an’ I can tell you what I had for breakfast the mornin’ I heard my son got killed.” Tears welled up in his eyes as his voice cracked. “Twenty-eight years ago.” His gray head bowed over the bar and he fell silent.