One Lost Soul More: A Clancy Evans Mystery (Clancy Evans PI Book 1)

by M. Glenn Graves

  “You think it doesn’t ring true?”

  “Let’s just say I am suspicious.”

  “Maybe this Runyon guy was undercover, you know, someone that IA brought in to investigate some dubious police activity.”

  “But he and Scarletti had been working together for three years at the time he was killed.”

  “Perhaps it was a long-term investigation. Maybe this Big Bob character was worth the added expense and time of planting someone close to Scarletti in order to get close to Big’s organization.”

  “To whom did Runyon send that note?”

  “Fellow named Smith.”

  “There’s my lead. I need to find this Smith guy and talk with him. Smith in Internal Affairs?”

  “That’s all it said on the note I copied.”

  “Five years ago?”

  “Yep.”

  “Keep digging.”

  Before I could add a quick bye, she was offline and on to something else. Efficient to a fault.

  I slept until seven, showered, and had a quick muffin and orange juice from room service. I had the main desk bring me a large metropolitan phone book. I planned to rattle some chains via the telephone.

  I called Internal Affairs.

  “May I speak with Detective Smith, please?”

  “Which one?”

  This was going to be more difficult to rattle than I thought.

  “Oh, dear,” I began in my best desperate-female voice. “I work for the Police Gazette and we’re doing a follow-up on the death of Detective Tim Runyon a few years back. I came across the name of Detective Smith on a document, but we have no first name. I just wanted to talk with him regarding the death of Mr. Runyon.”

  “Hold on,” the voice, now full of authority, said to me.

  I held tight. My scheme was not working very well, and I certainly did not like my Police Gazette angle. It was all my feeble brain could conjure. I should have had a contingency plan.

  “This is Captain Walt Arnold. May I ask who is calling in regards to Tim Runyon’s death?”

  “I work for the Police Gazette and we’re doing a follow-up story about the death of Tim Runyon.”

  “I got all of that from the Desk Sergeant. I want to know who you are.”

  “Oh, I’m a reporter for the Police Gazette.”

  “Good for you, young lady. What’s your name?”

  “Sally Markam.”

  “Well, Miss Markam, I can’t give out any information regarding that case.”

  “I certainly understand the need for discretion, Mr. Arnold.”

  “Captain Arnold.”

  “Sorry, Captain. I was saying, I do understand discretion. But if I could just speak with Detective Smith about this, it would only take a minute or so.”

  “There is no Detective Smith here, Miss Markam. Your information must be incorrect. How did you get the name Smith?”

  “Well, I inherited the notes of the reporter who did this story five years ago. I found the name Smith scribbled on his pad. It said only that Smith worked for IA and that he had some information about Detective Runyon’s death. Nothing more. I wish I had something else to go on. You sure there is no Detective Smith who might know about this?”

  “I’m sure. But even if there was someone here by that name, I wouldn’t let you talk with him. It’s against police policy. We don’t like the lives and deaths of our policemen spread over the media with unsupported allegations.”

  “Oh, me either, sir. That’s not what this story is about. This is a tribute to the life of Detective Runyon. I was hoping that Mr. Smith could provide some light on why he was killed and what he was investigating at the time.”

  “Can’t help you, Miss …,” he paused when he couldn’t recall my name.

  “Markam,” I said quickly.

  “Markam, yes. Wish I could provide some help for you. Thank you for calling. You might check your sources again. I think you have a wrong name.”

  I hung up and wondered if I had just gathered a clue, or been brushed off. Maybe both. I could figure that either Captain Arnold was misleading me intentionally, or he was telling me the truth, that there was no one there by that name. I could work either direction. Or both. I started with the assumption that there was no one there by that name. Maybe there used to be.

  I called Rogers.

  “Get me a roster of all the men and women who worked at Internal Affairs when Runyon was killed. Then get me a roster of all the men and women who work there now.”

  “Hold while I search.”

  “You can do that now, while I wait?”

  “Faster than a speeding bullet.”

  “I’ll hold.”

  I walked to the window of my suite and looked out on the Detroit skyline. Overcast. Smog and clouds mixed for great breathing. No rain, just dismal looking. Great place to dream about cotton fields back home. Except that we didn’t have cotton fields in Pitt County, nor in Norfolk for that matter.

  “Okay, you have a precise name you want?”

  “Some guy named Smith who was there at the time of Runyon’s death and who is not there now.”

  “Smith … Smith … okay, here’s Jennifer Smith, Allen Smith … Margaret Ann Smith … oh, goodie, here’s a Tom Smith.”

  “Bingo. Tom Smith.”

  “I detect a note of familiarity.”

  “You should. That’s the name of Tony Scarletti’s brother-in-law in Norfolk. You gave it to me earlier.”

  “I was simply testing your memory skills,” she said.

  “Do some background on Tom Smith. How long in Norfolk? Where did he come from? Whatever you can uncover. Thorough, please.”

  “Can you wait while I do that?”

  “I can.”

  I walked to my little refrigerator hoping for some leftovers to munch. Leftover Italian food from two nights ago was waiting on the bottom shelf. Cold lasagna didn’t do it for me. My stomach growled.

  “You still there?” Rogers asked.

  “Listening to your every word.”

  “He’s been there since Runyon was killed. A few months after the shooting, Smith put in for a transfer to Virginia. He cited personal reasons on his transfer application form.”

  “And he moved to Norfolk from Detroit.”

  “Clever girl. Sometimes you actually amaze me,” Rogers said.

  42

  I walked into the lobby of Lusty magazine’s building on McComb Street, just around the corner from the Detroit Police Station. Location, location, location. Prime real estate. It gave the appearance of a first-rate business, not the sleaze I was expecting. A woman was seated behind a large oaken counter with an even larger oaken backdrop behind her. The backdrop had plastic flowers growing out of the top. There was a painting of some child playing in a field of lilies. Tasteful, but considering what I knew of them, a bit dubious.

  The woman was wearing a bright red dress that fit her like it appreciated the opportunity, a white pearl necklace, and bright red eyeglasses attached to her face by white straps that ran around her head and dropped indelicately down her back. Her hair was pitch black with a streak of silver running along the left side. Color. Flair.

  I was carrying a folder with embossed writing – Waynright & Sons Funeral Home. It was left over from Joey’s sending-off party. I collect souvenirs. Sometimes such souvenirs can be helpful.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “Good morning,” Miss Flair returned to me. “May I help you?”

  “B.A. Dilworth, please.”

  “Let me check…oh, she’s out for the week. Would you care to talk with someone else?”

  “I’m from the funeral home that handled Mr. Malone’s arrangements. We discovered some …. ah…. items. Tell you what, maybe I need to talk with someone who helped to handle his affairs.”

  “That would be Cyler Conroy, Mr. Malone’s Personal Assistant. He worked closely with Mr. Malone’s father in regards to the funeral. Such a lovely affair, too.”

 
“I don’t recall seeing you there.”

  “Oh, I was working. Cyler took photographs. We plan to do a spread in an upcoming issue. Sort of a final farewell, you know. Send off for a great guy.”

  I forced a smile.

  “I understand,” I said. First class organization. Probably will run Joey’s spread next to some article about children running naked with adults. Quality stuff.

  She smiled at me as if it were my cue to say something more. I returned her smile and waited for the light to go on. Desperate moments passed between us in elongated silence. I gave up on the light going on.

  “May I see Cyler Conroy?”

  “Just a moment. I’ll check to see if he is available. Your name, please?”

  “Clancy Evans.” I gambled that Craven Malone had not divulged my identity with anyone but B.A.

  “He’ll be right out,” she said after a few moments.

  The lobby was small, just large enough for Miss Flair, her desk-counter, the artificial flowers, and a painting of a small blond girl sitting in a field of daisies. The artist depicted the child with a handful of flowers held up to her nose. She was smiling. For my taste, it was a rather oddly placed painting of innocence on the wall behind the desk of Miss Flair in the lobby of Lusty magazine.

  There was a door leading off to parts unknown to her right. I assumed that was the door that Cyler Conroy would come through any moment now and be nice to me until he found out who I really was.

  I was still staring at the door when it suddenly opened. Out came a short, slim man walking quickly in my direction. He appeared to be leaving the building as if just passing through on his way to catch a bus or cab or subway. He stopped abruptly in front of me and gave me his hand in an awkward fashion. The fingers of his right hand were aiming slightly downward rather than extended straight out in front of him. His thumb was pointing toward my heart. I grabbed what I could of his hand and allowed him to do the shaking. It was a rather strange greeting ritual, to say the least.

  He was relatively young, but had prematurely gray hair, short and curly. The curls were more the result of a permanent than natural. His hair was compact, tightly woven and he had receding hair lines on both sides of his forehead. The widow’s peak. His eyebrows were black as coal. There were three diamond ear rings all in a vertical line in his right ear lobe. He smiled slightly, showing a few teeth.

  “Miss Evans, so good of you to come by. I do hope it is not an inconvenience for you and the funeral home. You folks did such a lovely, lovely job with the service for our boss. What a man! What a man! Let’s go into my office where we can talk privately,” he cut his eyes towards Miss Flair without moving his head so as not to give her any clue she was being downgraded.

  I would have responded to him, but he gave me no opportunity and there was no reason to say anything. I followed him through the door into the world of publishing sleaze. I suppose I expected to see surly looking people in dark clothing all sporting oversized mustaches working with evil laughter being played in the background. It wasn’t quite like that. It looked like a modern magazine or newspaper room, neatly divided into tiny cubicles with some openings now and then for gatherings of the workforce around the coffee maker and soft drink machines. Typical, if anything.

  Cyler Conroy’s office was first class. Wall to wall oak paneling, plush purple carpet with matching purple drapes that had tiny yellow flowers dispersed throughout greeted me. The room was spacious enough for an executive sized oak desk, matching credenza along the back wall next to the windows, leather couch with two matching chairs, and a bar to the left of the entrance.

  If this was the way the personal assistant lived, I could only imagine what B.A. and Malone had to offer in their world of business management.

  “Oh do be seated, Miss Evans,” he gestured with the fingers of his right hand pointing in that downward position similar to our earlier handshake. He was pointing to the leather couch. He leaned against his desk and crossed his legs.

  “Thank you,” I finally managed to get out my first words to him.

  “Angel said you had some items of Mr. Malone’s?” he said.

  I was processing whether to avoid telling him the truth or confess my sins and get straight to the reason I had come. I chose to stall on truth telling. Ever the sleuth.

  “I love your office,” I said.

  “Oh, my, isn’t it lovely?” he jumped from his cross-legged position and began to prance around the room as if conducting a guided tour. “The drapes are from Jasmine’s, across the water, very exclusive. You know what I mean, honey. Pricey? Don’t talk about it. And getting them to match this carpet, well, I thought it would take forever to get them to see the difference between dark pink and purple. Lovely shade, don’t you think? Look how it goes with the oak furnishings and the leather. Heaven, don’t you just love it?”

  “Captivating,” I managed to get out.

  “Oh, thank you. I do all of my own decorating. In fact, I did Miss Dilworth’s office and Joey’s … I mean Mr. Malone’s. Would you like to see their world of luxury?”

  “Lead the way.”

  “Oh, you’ll just love this,” he pranced out ahead of me and continued his non-stop dialogue. “I just don’t know what we’re going to do around here without Mr. Malone, not that he ever did anything on the business end. But he was always here, always here. Sort of a fixture, know what I mean? B.A. Dilworth does all of the work, the publishing work. She runs this magazine. She’s the real boss and everyone here knows that, Baby. Can I tell you stories about her! Make your hair stand on end. But she is really good at this, maybe the best in the business.”

  I followed along doing my best to dodge some of his words so as not to saturate myself with his verbiage. Cyler could talk and did. Frequently. Well, that’s a little misleading. Nonstop would be a closer approximation to his style. We didn’t have to go far before we reached B.A. Dilworth’s office. Her name was on the door in large letters. Larger than I thought necessary, but maybe she was making a statement.

  He swung the door open like Loretta Young used to do when she entered the room on her television show I watched some as a kid. Hated that entrance, but loved her stories. The gesture some how fit Cyler.

  “Voilá! Isn’t this marvelous?” he spread his arms out, this time gesturing with both hands and fingers turned downward.

  The room was blue and gray. Mostly blue. The desk was mahogany with an executive highback chair. She had matching wooden file cabinets along one wall and only two chairs in front of her desk. Apparently she had no time to entertain like Cyler. The wall behind her desk was full of bookshelves. There were few books, but plenty of items displayed – silk flowers, pottery, photographs, one or two trophies, empty vases, and some exotic statues of naked people. The bookshelves were painted blue to match the blue carpet and the blue drapes. The yellow flowers dispersed throughout her drapes offered a striking contrast to the blues of the room. There was a blue shade on the lamp on the desk and another blue shade on the tall floor lamp in one corner. Her office appeared to be a little smaller than Cyler’s and obviously bluer.

  I started to pickup a photograph on one of the shelves to get a closer look and Cyler gasped loudly.

  “Oh, Miss Evans, we mustn’t touch anything in here. Oh, my god, no, no, no. She will have a conniption. The woman is absolutely obsessive-compulsive when it comes to her things,” he emphasized her things with emphatic feeling. “I am taking a risk just showing you this room. We cannot for the life of the world touch anything in here,” he had his right hand covering his heart and patting it as he spoke. He looked desperate. Lucky for me, I suppose. I didn’t touch the photograph.

  “Okay if I move my face closer to see the picture?” I said.

  “That would be fine, just don’t breathe on it too much.”

  I cut my eyes at him to see if he were joking with me. His face was as serious as death. B.A. must be the Wicked Witch of the East.

  The photograph was of B.A. stand
ing over an elderly woman sitting in a wheelchair. The woman was bent over unable to look at the camera. There was a man in a suit standing to the left of B.A. He was grinning from ear to ear. B.A. managed a smile, but nothing extraordinary. The background of the photo showed some type of institutional building, like a nursing home. There was a sign to the right of B.A. and the woman, but the sign was only partially visible in the photograph. I could only make out the last few letters of two lines. One line had the letters W-O-R-T-H and the next line down had the letters D-I-N-G. It was probably the name of the building. The Dilworth Building perhaps.

  “Should we tiptoe out?” I asked.

  “They’ll vacuum in here later, so we’re okay with that,” Cyler said seriously. “We have to take the elevator to Mr. Malone’s suite of offices. His is to die for.”

  Cyler curled his right index finger in my direction to encourage me to follow him to the elevator. What a guy.

  43

  Joey Malone’s world of luxury knew no bounds. Where his father, Craven, had some taste and style, Joey’s suite was wildly extravagant, even for a man with lots of money. The word excessive kept coming to mind as Cyler gave me the grand tour of his five rooms.

  The center room was his main office. Cyler said he called it his inner sanctum. Around this center room of plush carpeting and gold-trimmed, white lacey curtains, was a desk the size of Texas built in a semi-circular style. The carpet was thick and white. Cyler insisted that we take off our shoes at the door.

  “Don’t you just adore this room? I mean where have you ever seen anything like this? The living end, I tell you. I just dreamed all of this up for him one night. He gave me some ideas and then said do it, so I did it. Lovely, huh?”

  “Memorable,” I said.

  “Only very few people get to see this, Miss Evans. Oh, Joey had friends up here, but not many. This was a very special, special place for us… ahem…. him. It was special to me, of course, since I decorated it and picked out the fabric and the color schemes. I mean, you can’t give yourself fully to some major, major project like this and not absolutely fall in love with it. Adorable, isn’t it?”