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

by M. Glenn Graves

  Joey was beside himself with ecstasy for this room.

  “So what is to happen to this room?” I said.

  “Happen?” he looked surprised at my question.

  “Well, I mean, since Mr. Malone is no longer with you. Do you have plans for this space?”

  “You suggest that we change it?”

  “No, not necessarily. Who gets it?” I finally asked bluntly.

  “Oh,” the light bulb went on for him. “Well, that would be up to…. let me see, I don’t believe we’ve talked about that. I have no idea who would make that decision. I suppose whoever inherits the bulk of his worth,” he answered in a sort of dream-like state, as if he were imagining himself inheriting the estate.

  He then took me to the rest of the rooms. One was a complete bath with sauna, hot tub, a bank of showers, and a regular tub the size of Chicago, a little smaller than Texas. It was all done in a variety of soft pastels, mostly pinks, light reds and some blues and greens thrown in for imagination. The walls and floor were tiled. It was immaculate.

  There were two bedrooms, each as opulent as the other. The only difference I could see was that one was red and the other was yellow. Choose the color of your mood. The furnishings were nearly the same, although I didn’t really have time to note any small differences that Malone and Cyler might have concocted. Each of the four rooms around the center office were connected by a door. In fact, there were five doors in the center office, one to the hallway and the elevator, and the other four to the separate rooms. Convenience.

  I walked over to the next door thinking that Cyler was going to take me into the last room for one more extravagant show and tell. I stopped at the closed door.

  “And what’s in here?” I said.

  “Off limits,” he said flatly. There was no bounce in his voice or body. “Can’t show you that room. Personal. Very, very private, you know? Mr. Malone had his secrets, and even though, God help us, he is gone, we must protect the dignity of his passing.”

  I was sick at my stomach, but I knew that I wanted to get inside that last room. It wasn’t going to happen on my first visit.

  We got on the elevator and started down to the main floor.

  “You can leave whatever items you have with me. I will guard them with my life,” Cyler said with that hand over his heart gesture he loved so much. Cyler the saint.

  It was time for me to break my ruse and tell Cyler the truth. I hit the emergency button on the elevator to stop it. I could hear an alarm sound off in the distance. I figured we might not have forever, so I spoke quickly and to the point for Cyler.

  “Cyler, I don’t work for the funeral home that handled Joey Malone’s services. I’m a private investigator working for Craven Malone to find out who killed his son. I need you to answer some questions for me so I can get on with my work of solving this murder. Are we communicating?”

  Cyler’s expression was priceless. His mouth was open a little too wide to be normal. His eyes showed some degree of shock. It was hard to tell what impression all of this had made on him. He didn’t answer right away. No doubt my personality had mesmerized him.

  I hit the button that made the elevator continue down and the alarm stopped ringing off in the distance. When the doors opened on the main floor, there was an army of people waiting to see if we were okay.

  Two or three women fussed over Cyler as if he had just survived the collapse of the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center. One man stood aloof and asked me if I was all right. I smiled and nodded at him. Cyler allowed the women to practically carry him to his office and put him on the sofa. I followed along since I felt responsible for his dramatic behavior. The one he kept calling Babe retrieved him a glass of water from the bar. When they finally could see that he was probably going to live, they left the room. Babe shut the door behind her.

  He held his right hand over his eyes and forehead for a moment after Babe had left.

  “Talk to me, Cyler. I need to know some things.”

  He sat up quickly.

  “You could have told me the truth earlier and not scared the bejeebers out of me. I’m petrified of enclosed spaces, like elevators. Especially when they stop in mid-movement! I’m not a well man, I tell you. That was so frightening.”

  I thought that Cyler should spend some time on the job with me.

  “If Joey Malone had such a setup here at the office, why did he also have a hotel suite away from here?”

  “I don’t know,” his tone changed. He walked to the bar and made himself a Whiskey Sour without asking me if I wanted anything. He took a quick sip before returning to the couch. Then he downed the whole drink with one gulp.

  “Mr. Malone never confided his reasons for having so many places to sleep. I figured it must have been to entertain.”

  “He did a lot of that?”

  “Entertaining? O, my yes, Dearie. Oodles of that. All the time. Sometimes all day and all night. I made the arrangements.”

  “He didn’t make his own arrangements?”

  “I am the personal assistant, Miss Evans, Private Detective. I do everything…. well, … did …. everything for Joey Malone. Everything.”

  He went back to the bar. This time he poured a double scotch. No rocks. He came back to the couch, sat down, and then gulped down the double. One gulp again.

  “Excitement like this causes me to drink a little too much. Forgive me. It helps to steady my nerves.”

  “So you keep records of all the women he slept with?”

  “Women?” he said and surprise was all over his face. “Women, you say. Oh, my, Dearie, you didn’t know Joey Malone at all did you? He was as queer as a three dollar bill, Lovey. Just like me. Two birds of a feather. Made for each other. Except for one thing.”

  He waddled to the bar once more. Fixed another double scotch. Sipped a little and waddled back to the couch.

  “What one thing, Cyler?”

  “Oh,” he held his drink high above his head as if to toast the dearly departed, “he liked little boys.”

  44

  There was more to talk over with Cyler, but I had a dinner meeting with Morland and Scarletti at the Rattlesnake Club near the river. Cyler invited me to his place for drinks around ten. He finally got around to offering me a drink. Well, the promise of one anyway. Later, at his place.

  Scarletti and I were sitting at a table waiting for Morland to arrive. He was drinking a club soda and I was staring at my very dry Martini. I ate the olive.

  “You and Tom Smith close?”

  “Tom Smith?” he said.

  “Yeah, your brother-in-law who works for the Norfolk Police Department and gave you the report on me. That Tom Smith.”

  I was tired of dancing around these guys and letting them think that they were so smart and I was so inferior. It was enough to gall a woman. I was sufficiently galled.

  “Well, you’ve been busy.”

  “It’s what I do.”

  “Yeah, we’re sort of close. So what else do you know?”

  “More than you wish I knew.”

  “You been talking to Morland?”

  “If Morland knows anything about Tom Smith, he’s said nothing to me.”

  “What’s Tom got to do with this case anyway?”

  “You tell me. Why would a police veteran working with Internal Affairs up and transfer to a smaller police unit in another state with a lower salary?”

  Before Tony Scarletti could figure out how to answer my question, Morland arrived.

  “You two discussing the finer points of law enforcement?” he said.

  Scarletti ordered another club soda and grunted something as Morland sat down.

  “You got anything for me?” I said to Morland.

  “Yeah, but let’s order first. I’m starved.”

  They both ordered sixteen-ounce monster steaks and I opted for the petite filet minón, barely six ounces. With all the sides that come with a meal, I couldn’t finish the smaller steak. Finally I stopped and wa
tched Morland and Scarletti finish off their whoppers. They ate all of their sides as well.

  “Wow,” Morland began, “that was great. Can’t beat the steaks at this place. Good meat. Now, some good news, Clancy Evans. You can go home and tell Mr. Malone that the Detroit Police have solved another grisly murder, and that tonight all is right with the world.”

  “Really. And who is the culprit this time?”

  “We got a tip about this prostitute, a long time pro, and when we called on her we found Joey Malone’s wallet in her apartment.”

  Malone gulped down his beer and caught the waitress’ eye to bring him another one. Scarletti was still nursing his first beer. He seemed to be enjoying the conversation.

  “So she lifted the wallet from him. Probably not the first wallet she’s taken. Doesn’t prove she killed him.”

  “Probably right about that. Some pros out there aren’t satisfied with the easy money they make, they have to steal more,” Morland said.

  I let that one slide since I wasn’t generally in the business of defending hookers. The easy money line was a tad sexist.

  “That wasn’t the thing,” Scarletti finally spoke.

  “What was?”

  “The bottle of Percocet we found in her apartment,” Morland said. “We also found Dilantin in her medicine cabinet as well. The Medical Examiner said that there was an excessive amount of Percocet in Joey Malone’s body. Said it caused some kind of heart failure, and that killed him. Also found a small amount of Dilantin in him. The doc said that Dilantin helps the Percocet to work faster.”

  “How’d she get him to take so much Percocet? Make him think he was taking something to stimulate his libido?” I said.

  “Something like that,” Morland. “There’s this wonderful stuff on the market called Gerilive Formula 12 that is supposed to slow down the aging process.”

  “Snake oil,” Scarletti said.

  “Yeah,” Morland agreed. “But instead of finding Gerilive tablets in the bottle in Malone’s penthouse, we found Percocet pills. The hooker, Bimbi Love, was the last one to see him alive. Plus we found her fingerprints everywhere in that suite of his. So we got a search warrant to check her place and bingo, we got lucky.”

  “Lucky, hell. We’re good detectives, Morland. Don’t discount that,” Scarletti said.

  “And her motive?”

  “Robbery-homicide,” Scarletti said. “Likely she was on something and maybe did it for meanness. Who knows? The D.A. will figure it out. Our job is done here.”

  “Case closed,” I said.

  “Yes, ma’am. Shut tight. When you find the smoking gun, you smile and go eat steaks on the smuck who hired some fancy detective to solve a routine murder committed by a prostitute. Sometimes I love this work,” Scarletti was riding high this evening.

  “Looks like all the pieces fit, Miss Evans,” Morland said.

  “Looks that way,” I said. My head was swimming in questions to ask, but I decided against asking anything.

  It was close to 8:30 by the time Morland and Scarletti left the restaurant. I took a cab back to the Pontchartrain. I had time to talk with Rogers before my late evening event with Cyler. The fancy detective had some work to do.

  “What’s cooking, sweetheart?” Rogers said.

  “The police detectives believe the case on Joey Malone is solved. They have arrested a prostitute named Bimbi Love. She supposedly got Malone to take excessive amounts of Percocet and Dilantin. They say she put the pills in his anti-aging medicine and he simply took too many over a short period. Plausible, but I don’t think all the dots connect for me.”

  “So you want me to check on one Bimbi Love as well as report to you on the meds she used to do him in.”

  “Supposedly used, sweets,” I said. “And, I love it when you are a step ahead of me.”

  “Tsk, tsk, precious. I’m always a step ahead of you. Give me an hour and I’ll get back to you on Bimbi and the meds.”

  I let her step ahead remark slide.

  “I’ll be having drinks with Cyler Conroy this evening. Cyler told me earlier today that Joey Malone was gay and that he preferred little boys. Not what I’d call the surprise of the century, but it does make me wonder why he had a prostitute in his penthouse apartment.”

  “It could be that he liked to swing both ways.”

  “Possible. That means I need you to do some background work on Cyler Conroy.”

  “Do you know that old adage … something about all work and no play?”

  “Does not apply to computers.”

  45

  Cyler Conroy’s place was as lavishly decorated as I had imagined. His colors were wild and bright, if I wanted to understate the obvious. It was easy to see that lavenders and pinks were the ones that lit his fire. His large living area had low-level lighting and that helped to hold the screaming colors down for me. His furniture was all white leather with lots of colorful cushions thrown around. Easy to recline. Relaxing for me was out of the question.

  His condo was in an upscale neighborhood about five miles from his downtown office. He was paid well for his personal assisting.

  I was on the sofa surrounded by a crowd of pillows.

  “Well?” he said.

  “Well?”

  “What do you think of my place, Honey Buns?”

  Apparently he had known me long enough to use terms of endearment.

  “Lively, Cyler. Wild and imaginative.”

  “I know, I know. Don’t you just love the mood these colors put you in?”

  “Quite the mood.”

  “What can I get you to drink, Clancy?” He was standing behind the bar.

  “You have any white wine?”

  “Let me see. I think I have …” he disappeared behind the bar counter for a few moments. “No,” he emerged once again, “but … oh, good. What about a light, dry White Zinfandel?”

  “Sounds manageable.”

  He poured my wine. He was drinking a Whiskey Sour. He reclined in a white leather easy chair close to the sofa.

  “So, I imagine you want to know all about my boss Joey Malone and his escapades with little boys.”

  “Not really, as delightful a discussion as that would be. I’ll pass on the details. Did Joey Malone swing both ways?”

  “Wow, for a classy female detective, you sure can talk dirty when you want to.”

  Probably a compliment coming from Cyler, but I let it pass.

  “Only for show. He was a closet Homo, but I spotted him during our interview some twenty years ago. I have this inner-radar thing that just sort of lights up when I get close to my kind of people.”

  “I’ll bet you do. So he did entertain female prostitutes in his apartment?”

  “Like I said, only for show. He would have them come up and drink with him, but he never had sex with them or anything like that. Little boys were his thing.”

  “So you and Joey Malone were not lovers?”

  “Never, Honey Buns. Business relationship all the way.”

  “Then how did you know of his preference for little boys?”

  “I made all the arrangements for him, Sister. Personal Assistant means what it says.”

  “So you arranged for Bimbi Love to be at his apartment the night he was killed?”

  “Yes and no, on that one. I introduced him to Bimbi some years ago, you know. Sort of set them up the first time. He probably called her this last time. They had some type of special arrangement. I don’t recall making the call to get her over there. But she was a regular, you know. Don’t really know what he saw in her. Honest I don’t. Not a looker at all. You know some female hookers are dynamite. Great dressers and all. Style, real style. But not Bimbi. Must have been some chemistry between them.”

  “So why would she kill him? He paid her well, right?”

  “I paid her well. I took care of all his finances. And you bet your sweet little butt he paid her well. Gave her a thousand dollars a night to keep him company.”

  H
e sipped his Whiskey Sour. My White Zinfandel was not quite cold enough to suit my taste.

  “So why would she kill her Sugar Daddy?”

  “I don’t begin to know the inner-workings of a female, Sweetheart. Maybe he pissed her off about something. Who knows? But the police have all that stuff that ties her to the murder. Isn’t it just awful? I mean, well, I suppose it was a peaceful way to go and all. He probably just went to sleep, right?”

  “Not before he had a cardiac arrest. I’d say the last few seconds could have been horrible for him, unless the Dilantin had caused him to fall asleep. Then, as you say, it could have been almost peaceful. Better than a gun to the head.”

  “Oh my God, don’t talk like that. What a wretched thought. Ohhh ….” Cyler returned to the bar and made himself another drink.

  “More wine?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve had my limit. Tell me where you found the boys you arranged for Malone.”

  “Honey, I would love to do that. But you and I both know that I could get into big trouble with that. I mean B-I-G trouble. I don’t even want to go there. Let’s just say I have my sources and I did a good job of keeping the lid on that side of Joey Malone. I was paid well for my discretion.”

  We finished the evening talking about furniture and colors and clothes. For Cyler it was a lively discussion. For me it was killing time. I finally excused myself and left for the hotel.

  I entered the elevator at the Pontchartrain and Scarletti came up behind me gently pushing me in the back. I could feel the hardness of something in the small of my back. I decided to assume that he had a small gun on me and that I might want to do what he said.

  We exited the elevator and headed towards my suite.

  “Have a nice meeting with Cyler Conroy?”

  “Enlightening.”

  “I’ll bet. Let’s go inside your room and you can tell me all about it.”

  As soon as I had opened the door, Scarletti shoved me hard in the back and caused me to stumble across the room. I caught myself on one of the chairs in the sitting area. Scarletti approached me quickly and slapped me across the back of my head with his fist. It hurt. Would’ve been worst pain if he had used the gun.