Stranglehold

by Ed Gorman

  “We’ll be issuing a statement very soon.”

  “Maybe the congresswoman doesn’t know as much about her son as she thinks.”

  “We’ll be issuing a statement very soon.”

  “Any chance she might withdraw?”

  “Any chance I could get you to leave?”

  “You getting tough?”

  “No. You asked me a question. Then I asked you one.”

  “So you won’t say anything on the record.”

  But we were at the door now. “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to go have a very strong cup of coffee. I wish we had enough to go around, but I guess we’re all out.” Behind me I heard Ben laugh.

  The reporter and his microphone finally left.

  The volunteers had collected in a far corner. They resembled the stunned people you see immediately after tornados, intense distress that as yet they couldn’t put into words. Hopes and dreams were collapsing, and they knew they were helpless to do anything about it.

  Ben and I went back to the staff office. Kristin was alone there. She sat at her desk punching numbers into the phone with violent authority.

  Ben and I listened.

  Kristin spoke into the receiver: “Nick Rainey, please. This is Kristin Daly. Thank you.” She cupped the phone and said to me: “The news director at Channel 4. He has a son-in-law who’s a detective. His daughter is a big supporter of Susan’s.” Then: “Hi, Nick. I don’t have to tell you why I’m calling. We just heard. I wondered if you could give me some background. All we got is that the police are looking for Bobby Flaherty to question him.”

  He spoke for a couple of minutes. All we heard was Kristin saying, “Yes” and “I see” and “Oh.” Finally she said, “Thanks, Nick. I really appreciate this.”

  She turned her chair to face us. “Seems this Craig Donovan was sleeping with this local woman. She found him dead in his room. He’d been shot twice. The police think he was killed sometime last night.”

  “What the hell is going on?” Ben said. “This is crazy.”

  “Maybe not,” I said. “Just stay focused on the money. Monica and Donovan were partners in blackmailing Susan. Wyatt delivers the money to Monica. Donovan wants it all for himself. He kills Monica.”

  “Then who killed Donovan?”

  “Somebody who knew about the money and figured out that Donovan must have it. This person waits until Donovan is alone and then goes in, kills him, and takes the money.”

  “A quarter of a million dollars,” Kristin said.

  “Tax-free,” Ben said.

  “The stranglehold.”

  “What stranglehold, Dev?”

  “Natalie’s money. That’s why Wyatt and Manning, and even Susan to a degree, stay with her. They need her money. And she extracts her fee by humiliating and degrading them. But this time it was Donovan who had Natalie in the stranglehold. This time she got to know what it feels like.”

  “Don’t try and make me feel sorry for Natalie,” Kristin said. “I don’t have that much empathy in me.”

  “I want to talk to Donovan’s girlfriend,” I said as I walked over and took my coat from the coat tree. “I’ll stay in touch, but I probably won’t be back for a while.”

  “I’ll get a statement ready, and I’ll read it to you over the phone for your changes.”

  “Thanks, Ben.”

  “I’m still thinking about Natalie being at somebody else’s mercy. I’m a terrible person, I know, Dev. But I enjoy imagining how miserable she must be.”

  “I’m just as bad as you are, Kristin,” I said, pulling on my coat. “The only good thing in all this is that maybe it’ll teach Natalie a little humility.”

  When I got to the door, Kristin laughed and said, “Yeah, right.”

  . . .

  The Stay-Rite hadn’t changed, still the stucco-cracked, window-cracked hellhole it would always be. I wondered if Heather’s black eye had faded any.

  I parked my rental in the nearest slot I could find. There were still several official vehicles taking up the other spaces and uniforms and forensic people combing the littered parking lot.

  A battered SUV pulled in next to me, one of those despondent metal animals that would soon be laid to rest in a scrap yard. It had been red once, but now it was a pinkish color. And when the side door opened the hinges made a noise not unlike a scream.

  Out stepped one of those ragged little women you always see in church basements where free food is given to the indigent. She wore a rumpled white Western hat, a Toby Keith T-shirt, and a pair of jeans that were ripped from age, not fashion. The sallow unhealthy skin and the desperate brown gaze made guessing her age impossible. She was likely a skinny, beaten forty going on seventy.

  She had been facing me without looking at me. She went back to the SUV and reached in and withdrew a child of maybe three or four, a chubby but pretty kid. She took the little girl’s hand, and they moved to the walk running in front of the motel.

  The husband appeared then and he was a perfect match for his wife. The same unhealthy grayness of skin, the same forlorn look in the eyes. His T-shirt was from NASCAR. His Western hat was flat and black. And when he started to walk it was shocking and grotesque to see. He limped with such violence that most of his body was jerked about when he moved. The woman, still holding the little girl’s hand, went over and slid her arm through her husband’s. And it was the sort of thing that could break your goddamned heart because it was so simple and loving and said so much about their years together. They were playing a shitty hand, one the dark Lovecraftian gods were probably still laughing about, but they were bound up and redeemed by their loyalty.

  The little girl smiled at me as they crossed in front of my windshield. I waved back. Then her mother saw me and smiled, too.

  I didn’t have any problem finding Detective Kapoor. She appeared to be the only Indian woman in sight. She stood just inside the yellow crime-scene tape talking to a uniform. When she saw me she nodded in my direction. I doubted that she’d tell me much, but I waited her out.

  The crowd was sparse. From what I’d been able to gather on the radio reports coming over here, the body had been discovered three hours ago. People had most likely drifted back to work. The crowd seemed to be residents here. A number of them stood in front of open motel doors. A baby bawled. A wind carried the scent of forensic chemicals from inside the murder room.

  When Kapoor walked to the edge of the tape, she had her sleek head attached to a cell phone. She was laughing, but as soon as she clicked off the laugh died and she frowned at me.

  I stood on my side of the tape.

  “Unless you’ve come to answer my questions, I don’t know why you’re here, Mr. Conrad. You’ve been no help in the death of Monica Davies, and I’m sure you’ll be no help with this one.”

  “You’ve already decided that Bobby Flaherty is guilty of this one, too.”

  She wore a dusky gray silk jacket and black skirt. The white blouse revealed small upscale breasts. “There is a connection between these two. As a citizen, I’d think you’d want to help us find out what that connection is.”

  “As I said, you’ve convicted him already.”

  “He’s wanted for questioning.” The dark eyes seemed amused now. “Just because he was seen at Monica Davies’s room on the night of her murder and now we learn that he had several physical altercations with his father—why do you think I’ve convicted him already?”

  I tried not to look surprised. I probably didn’t pull it off.

  A woman in a white lab coat appeared in the doorway of Donovan’s room. “Detective Kapoor, would you come in here for a minute?”

  “If you decide to be honest with me, Mr. Conrad, you can get hold of me day or night.”

  With that she was gone. In another situation I would have stayed to admire the elegant way she walked back to the room. For now, curiosity triumphed over idle lust. I needed to find Heather, the beautician who’d been staying with Donovan.

&n
bsp; Hair Fare was located in a strip mall between a video shop and a pawn shop. One step inside I knew that this wasn’t a place for men. Four women under hair dryers and four women in barber chairs gaped at me as if I were something rarely seen in this shop. The odors of the sprays and oils and lotions suffused my nostrils. I counted three Chicago Bears calendars and four Bears pennants.

  The place was filled with posters and counter displays for hair products. At a line of sinks against the back wall a woman was getting her hair washed. The beauticians wore their own clothes, no kind of uniforms at all. The last of them to look up from cutting hair was Heather. When she saw me her body jerked, as if she was going to bolt. “Sorry,” said the older woman who was clearly Heather’s sister. “We just cut for women here. Cost Cutters is just two blocks down.”

  “I’d like to see Heather when she’s free. My name’s Dev Conrad.”

  “Oh, yeah?” She was chewing gum. At the mention of Heather, she cracked it. She was heavier than Heather and not as pretty. She wore something that resembled a bouffant hairstyle and was dyed an orangish red. In her Bears sweatshirt and jeans she looked ready for a tailgater. She angled her head back to Heather and said, “You hear, this guy wants to see you.”

  “Well, I don’t want to see him.”

  Sister smiled at me. The customers were intrigued by the potential for some nasty fun. “My sister’s got a bad disposition.”

  “Really? I hardly noticed that.”

  A number of the customers laughed.

  “I don’t have to talk to you if I don’t want to,” Heather said.

  Sister said, “She drop you, did she? You’re better dressed than most of the bums she hangs out with. She should’ve hung on to you. She’s always trying to find a rich one. You look like you might get lucky someday.”

  “I hope that’s coming up soon.”

  She had an amazing female smile. “I didn’t mean to give you a bad time. It’s just that my little sister never stops getting into trouble.”

  “I don’t want to talk to him and you can’t make me.”

  “I think he’s cute,” said a woman in one of the barber’s chairs. Three or four others laughed.

  I was in a world of women and I didn’t know the rules. Should I press the issue or just go away?

  “I’m trying to help somebody who’s in trouble, Heather. I need to talk to you.”

  “He’s talking about the kid that killed Craig,” Heather said from down the row, silver scissors poised to snip away at the garishly dyed red hair of her customer.

  Sister said, “Didn’t surprise me when somebody killed him. Man who hits women has got it coming. My sister’s too dumb to understand that.”

  A woman in one of the chairs said, “I told my husband if he ever lays a hand on me I’m gone for good and I’m taking the savings account with me.”

  “I wish I could convince my next-door neighbor of that,” another woman said. “The son of a bitch she’s married to is always hittin’ her.”

  “You a friend of this kid Heather is talking about?” Sister asked.

  “He’s twenty. His wife is pregnant. He isn’t really a kid.”

  “Heather likes ’em in their forties.” Sister smiled. “That’s why she thinks this guy is a kid.” She glanced back at Heather again. “You get done with Shirley’s hair there, you go in the back room and talk to this man.”

  “You don’t have no right to boss me around like that.”

  “He’s tryin’ to help somebody, honey.” There was an odd sweetness to her tone, as if she’d spent years hoping that her little sister would change her ways.

  Sister pointed to a row of chairs lined across the front window. “There’re some magazines there for you to read and you’re welcome to help yourself to the coffee. She should be done in fifteen minutes or so.”

  “Thanks,” I said, surprised at her largesse.

  “All she can give you is a few minutes, though, Mr. Conrad. We’re real busy today.”

  Heather scowled at me every thirty seconds or so as she cut her customer’s hair. She seemed a lot more interested in me than her customer. This woman might end up with a very strange hairdo.

  I tried reading an issue of Cosmopolitan, but I could only slog through a couple of the articles. Whatever happened to feminism? This was all man-pleasing stuff. I remembered reading my smart-ass uncle’s magazines when I was in my teens. When he’d been in his teens, National Lampoon was at its height. They did a parody issue of Cosmopolitan and one of the articles was titled “Ten Ways to Decorate Your Uterine Wall.” The magazine hadn’t changed much.

  “Mr. Conrad.”

  I’d switched to an elderly issue of Time and was engrossed in their predictions about the next election. Looked like Giuliani was a shoo-in for el presidente. I put the magazine down and looked up to see that Heather’s customer was finished and walking toward the cash register. Sister was letting me know that Heather was ready for me. Or had damned well better be.

  “This is really bullshit.” As she spoke, Heather was sweeping up the floor around her chair. Sister ran a clean, tight shop. “The guy’s a jerk.” The ladies were getting a full measure of daytime drama right here in the beauty shop.

  “You’re the jerk,” Sister said. “I told you not to get involved with that bastard.”

  By now I was getting used to the idea that the argument was public business. This whole salon was sort of like one big family. The other kids obviously sided with Sister.

  “Thanks,” I said as I walked past Sister toward a closed door in the back of the place. When I reached Heather’s chair I stopped. She glared at me and shook her head. Then she gave up and flounced to the door, opened it, and disappeared inside.

  It was a storeroom and office combined. There was a desk, a table for a computer and printer, a noisy refrigerator, and boxes piled floor to ceiling. Heather sat behind the desk and lit a cigarette. So much for the No Smoking law.

  “This is really bullshit.”

  “You said that.”

  “That Bobby’s an asshole. He came to the room three or four times. Craig always made me leave. I’d wait outside. I couldn’t hear their words, but I could hear their voices. Bobby was always yelling. My opinion is that he snuck in and killed him. I want to see that little prick go to prison.”

  “And you told the police that?”

  Exhaled ice-blue smoke. “Damn right, that’s what I told them.”

  “Did anybody else ever visit Donovan while you were there? That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  “I don’t have to answer any of your questions.”

  “Didn’t the police ask you the same question?”

  “Yeah. So what?”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I didn’t tell them anything because it didn’t matter. Bobby killed him and that’s all there is to it.”

  “So somebody else came there, too?”

  Another ice-blue stream of smoke. “Bobby killed him. Two nights me ’n’ Craig were really getting along good, and then Bobby barges in and starts yelling and ruins the whole thing. Craig was in a shitty mood afterward. He gave me the black eye one of those nights. I blame Bobby for that. He had another fight with him the night before last.”

  A knock on the door. Sister peeked in. “Just wanted to see how it’s going.”

  “He’s tryin’ to tell me that Bobby didn’t kill Craig when I know damned well he did.”

  Sister said, “She being any help?”

  “Not really. She wants to see Bobby get charged with the murder whether he did it or not.” Heather watched me with the fleshy face of a bellicose infant. “I’m pretty sure somebody else came to see Donovan while she was there, but she won’t tell me who it was.”

  “That true, Heather?”

  “How the hell would I know who came to see him? I wasn’t there all the time.”

  Sister frowned. “I’m sorry, Mr. Conrad. She’s got three more appointments back to back. Best I
can do is give you a few more minutes.” She closed the door. I listened to her walk back up front.

  “He was gonna marry me.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “Yeah, for your fucking information, I really did. He told me he’d come into a lot of money. A lot of money. He said he had these friends way down in Mexico, where the drug people would leave him alone. That’s where he was gonna take me—until Bobby killed him.”

  Then she was up and charging around the side of the desk. She went right for the door. She had it open before I could stand up. “You heard my sister. We’re real busy. Now, you quit botherin’ me or I’m gonna call that detective, that colored one or whatever she is.”

  “She’s Indian.”

  “Well, I’m gonna call her and tell her you’re botherin’ me. I’ll bet she won’t like that at all.”

  She walked out front. By the time I crossed the threshold, she was at her barber chair, feigning profound interest in her scissors.

  I was on parade as I walked up to the cash register. As I passed Sister I said, “Thanks for trying to help.”

  “She’s some piece of work, isn’t she?”

  A couple of the customers laughed.

  As I opened the front door, two women whispered behind me. I didn’t pick up on the words but I heard the giggles.

  The motel had a central office and two wings that formed a V. After the Oklahoma City bombing we became aware of shadowy men who moved across the country staying in motels like this one, vague members of even vaguer groups that hated the government and hoped to destroy it. The feds began to miss the days when most of these people could be found in racist or seditionist compounds and were much easier to keep track of. Now they were scattered and impossible to track, much like the days before and during the Civil War when seditionists were hiding in the mazes of lodging houses in Washington, D.C., and other Northern cities.

  Gwen had given me the room number. It was second from the end on the west half of the V. The newest car I could see was at least fifteen years old. A baby cried in one room, in another a TV preacher shouted Bible words, and in a third a woman wept. I knocked on Gwen’s door. She opened it immediately.