The Visible Suspect (A Frank Randall Mystery)

by Steven Ehrman

  I told him I didn’t know, and I don’t think he knew either, but he hung up with a promise to call me if he heard anything. He still wanted an interview on Peterson, but I told him it would have to wait until I had talked to my client.

  I spent most of the rest of the day sitting at my desk waiting for a message from Mrs. Peterson, or even Rodgers, but it was a waste of time as there was no call. I had left three messages with the security people and decided that was enough. I grabbed my jacket and decided to drive to the mansion.

  It was a sunny day and I had the windows down for the drive. I figured no one had a reason to be following me anymore, so I didn’t bother to check for a tail. A traffic accident and some new construction took me a half an hour out of my way however, I soon spotted the home sitting atop the hill as if it was Olympus on high. I looked at the iron fence and wondered if rich people sometimes thought that they were closed in as much as people outside felt closed off. I arrived at the gate and stopped.

  The guard came out of his shack and ambled up to the car.

  “Now, Mr. Randall, I told you on the phone that no one was to be admitted to the grounds,” he said as he pushed his cap back on his head. “Now, just back this heap up, and return when you get an invitation.”

  “Listen,” I said, as the engine roughly idled. “I want to talk to her and I’m not leaving until I do.”

  He leaned down in a menacing manner towards my window, his hand on his billy club.

  “Now, listen here, boy, “ he said. I could hear a southern accent slipping through that I hadn’t heard before. “Now, you don’t want me to get upset with you, so just do like I ask. This is the last time I say it nicely.”

  I turned off the ignition and stepped out of the car. The guard was a good three inches taller than me and probably outweighed me by twenty pounds, but I was in no mood to back down.

  “Now, you listen to me,” I said. “You get on that phone, let them know I’m coming, and then open this gate.”

  We stood almost nose-to-nose for a few seconds and then I saw his shoulders slump.

  “All right, mister. Just wait here.

  He walked back into the guard shack and lifted up the phone. I couldn’t hear what he said, but whatever it was it was enough. Without coming back out of the shack, he opened the gate with the push of a button and waved at me through the window. I climbed back into the car and headed up the winding drive.

  As I approached the house I saw the front door open. I parked my car, got out, and walked to the figure standing in the door. It was Rodgers. He seemed the same as ever with his face, perhaps drawn a little tighter than the last time I had seen him. He had his hands folded in front of him and nodded as I approached.

  “Sir, you should not have come here,” he said.

  “Why not? Has she taken a turn for the worse? I want to see her,” I said.

  “Madam is not here, sir,” said Rodgers.

  “Then where is she? Has she been hospitalized? Give.”

  “Madam has left the country, sir.”

  “What? What do mean left the country? Where?”

  Rodgers cleared his throat. “Madam felt there was nothing holding her here and she left yesterday for her villa in Italy.”

  Everything I had been told about her being sedated yesterday, suddenly sounded like a lie.

  “Was a doctor even here yesterday, Rodgers?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. It was at her physician’s suggestion that her nerves would benefit from a trip abroad. She flew out last night.”

  “When is she coming back?” I asked.

  “Madam did not admit me to her confidence on that, I am afraid. I am certain she will be back when she has recovered.”

  “Rodgers, this was a stupid move. Doesn’t she realize the police will drag her back once they know she has left? It makes her look like she’s running.”

  “That is not so, sir. I was in the room when madam spoke to the commissioner. She had the permission of the authorities to leave. My understanding is they have no further questions for her,” he said blandly.

  I was a little stunned. This was rich mans justice, or in this case, rich woman’s justice. A call straight to the commissioner and the next thing you know she’s winging her way out of the country.

  “Well, then I guess that’s okay. Mrs. Peterson advanced me a large sum of money. What do I do with it with her absent?”

  “Ah, yes, the retainer. Madam has instructed me on that matter,” he said. “She wants no refund.”

  “I didn’t begin to earn it.”

  “She was quite specific, sir. I am not authorized to accept anything from you.”

  “Can I speak with Helen? She must be broken up about Thomas. She might have been the only person who cared about him left in the world”

  “I am afraid she has accompanied madam on her trip. Madam always travels with her own cooking staff. Is there anything else, sir?”

  As he said this, he unfolded his arms and placed one hand one the door. It looked like a dismissal.

  “Its all right with me, Jeeves. I’m just a hired hand. If I’m done, then I’m done.”

  I walked back to my car and started back down the drive slowly. I looked in the rear view and saw the door was already closed. Just short of the gate I spotted the gray sedan of Homer Watkins across the street. He was slumped in the front seat. I stopped at the gate and waved at the guard to come out of the guard shack. He reluctantly stuck his head out of the door.

  “Now what?” he asked in a surly voice.

  “Did Mrs. Peterson see the other detective before she left?”

  “What other detective?”

  “You know. The other guy she hired.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, mister.”

  With that he pulled himself back into the guard shack and closed the door. I drove out into the street and tried to pretend not to see Watkins behind his newspaper. The guy was a master of disguise. I drove to a diner and had scrambled eggs and then went home. If he was following, he was getting better. I didn’t see him.

  For the next two weeks I stayed away from anything to do with the Peterson case. Woodward had sounded serious about it and I had no real reason to pursue it anyway. The office wasn’t very busy, but I showed up three or four days of the week. I took a case from a car dealer named Perkins who was having trouble with vandals. He suspected it was a rival dealer who had been trying to buy him out because of the choice corner lot he had. I staked out the place for a couple of nights and found it was a kid. He was the son of an ex employee that Perkins had fired. When I showed Perkins the pictures he just seemed sad. He didn’t want to turn the kid in, or get his father in trouble. He asked if I could take care of it quietly. I talked to the kid’s father the next night and told him the story. He was shocked and begged me not to bring in the police. I told him that Perkins was inclined to let it go, but it needed to stop. I didn’t hear anything else from Perkins, so I figured it was over.

  After that, a Kenneth Jorgensen had hired me to investigate the disappearance of some jewelry. His wife had told him that she had lost it when she had been out with her friends without him. She would not hear of him calling the police. It only took an afternoon to find all of it at a local pawnshop. For a small donation, the pawnbroker picked Mrs. Jorgensen’s photo as the seller. I bought it all back, with Jorgensen’s money, and made my report. He was plenty upset, and I heard later that he sued her for divorce. Something about alienation of affection.

  For some reason I wasn’t surprised when I saw Rodgers stroll through the door after those two weeks were up.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” he said. “May I sit?”

  “Sure, take a load off,” I said pointing to the client seat. “Do you need a detective, Rodgers?”

  “No, sir, I am afraid not,” he said. “I am here as madam’s agent.”

  “Is she back?”

  “She is not, sir. I am not certain she has a return date. That is part of the
reason she has entrusted me with this matter.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “Madam has been informed that your reputation has been bruised as a result of your involvement in her affairs.”

  It was true. In the weeks since the murder some of the local papers, especially the rags, had been giving me a hard time in print about a murder, practically in my own office, that I was in the dark about. Initially, they had lampooned the police, but the spotlight had been turned on me and it had gotten pretty hot for a while, but the public has a short memory and it was letting up a bit now.

  “Tell her that its part of the territory and that I can take care of myself.”

  “Nevertheless, I have been instructed to recompense you for the additional trouble.”

  He produced an envelope and pushed it across the desk. I opened it and looked in. It was full of hundred dollar bills. I whistled and looked up at the impassive Rodgers.

  “How much is here?”

  “It amounts to ten thousand dollars.”

  “Why cash though and not a check?”

  “Madam wishes to keep this confidential and I have access to a liquid deposit of money that it is my honor to manage for her.”

  “I suppose that means you’ll never starve, Rodgers,” I said. I thought I caught a hint of a smile on his face. “Does Mrs. Peterson have any instructions on how I should spend this money?”

  Rodgers stood up. “No special instructions, sir, but if I may be so bold, perhaps a vacation for yourself is in order. The islands, perhaps.”

  “You’d make a great travel agent, Rodgers,” I said. “That’s a field where you meet all sorts of interesting people. Maybe even that special someone you might settle down with. What do you say?”

  This time he definitely smiled.

  “If there is nothing further, sir,” he said.

  “Just one thing, Rodgers.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you know who killed Peterson?”

  The smile disappeared.

  “Good day, sir,” he said, and walked out of the office.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I decide to take Rodgers suggestion. I hadn’t been on a real vacation for years. Sitting on a beach in Mexico with a drink with an umbrella sounded like just the ticket. I didn’t bother to check with Woodward first. He had practically given me the “don’t leave town” speech, but he wasn’t taking my calls lately, so I decided to hell with him. By Tuesday morning I was on a flight to Acapulco and by that afternoon I had my umbrella drink.

  The first week was just what I needed. I ate too much and drank too much and danced with ladies too much. By the beginning of the second week the hot sun seemed to trigger an itch. There was always something that bothered me about the case and something Woodward said brought it back. Maybe it even explained it.

  That night and the next day I made some discreet long distance phone calls. They paid off. I sent a letter two days before I went home. I was pretty sure that it was going to stir up something. I hoped I was right. I spent the last two days in a stupor trying to forget a face. I couldn’t. I barely made my flight and slept all the way home. I hadn’t let anyone know I was coming in, so I caught a cab home. I was tired, but glad to be home and my sheets didn’t smell like sand. I passed a dreamless night.

  The next morning I ran out for a paper. I settled in at my kitchen table and read through it, while I went through a pot of coffee. I didn’t feel like food. I was brewing my second on the stove, when I heard a knock on the door. I glanced up at the clock and saw it was twenty minutes short of ten. Nobody knew I was back and I almost decided not to answer, when the knocks came again. This time more insistent. I turned the burner down under the percolator and walked to the door. I didn’t bother with the peephole. What did it matter?

  I opened the door and saw Agent Banner standing there. He was in dark slacks with a white button up shirt, no tie, and a sports jacket. He was smoking a pipe and had a paper under one arm.

  “I stopped for a paper, Randall,” he said. “I wasn’t sure you had time to get out this morning. I figured you might be sleeping in after your trip. Mind if I come in? Coffee smells good. I’ll have a cup.”

  He waltzed by me like it was his place and sat down in the living room in my leather chair.

  “By all means, come in agent. How rude of me to not have a refreshment ready for you.”

  He grinned, and I went back to the kitchen and poured a cup for each of us. When I got back to the living room Banner had turned the television on and had turned up the sound. It was one of those annoying game shows and it was blaring. I handed him the cup and sat on the sofa to his right.

  “It’s a little loud, don’t you think,” I said gesturing at the screen.

  Banner had his pipe out of his mouth and was banging the remnants of it into an ashtray on the table. He refilled it, and lit another bowlful before he answered. He leaned towards me.

  “I just want to make certain that we are having a private conversation,” he said blandly.

  “You think my place is bugged?” I asked incredulously. “What do I know that anyone else would want?’

  “Well, that’s just the question son. They don’t know until they find out. Just being cautious. Do you want me to turn it off?”

  “No. I guess not. I want to see if she wins the refrigerator anyway,” I said.

  At that moment a frumpy housewife was bouncing up and down on the TV screen clapping her hands. It looked degrading to me, but people will do almost anything for money.

  “Why are you here?’ I asked.

  “You ought to know. You invited me,” he said.

  “I sent you a letter and told you I wanted to talk some things over with you,” I said. “I didn’t expect to find you on my doorstop the day after I got home.”

  “Well, your letter intrigued me, Randall,” he said, rubbing his chin and taking a long draw on his pipe. “By the way, my address is not exactly public knowledge. How did you know where I was?”

  “I’m a detective,” I said. “How did you find my apartment, and how did you know I was back?”

  “I’m a detective too,” he said. “Besides, I have taken kind of a special interest in you since we met. Your address was easy to find and I had some friends of mine let me know when you got back in the country. You see how easy it was? And now here we are for a little chat, just like you wanted.”

  It wasn’t exactly like I had wanted, but I did have something to hash out with him.

  “Okay, agent,” I began. “Now that we’re friends at a coffee klatch, maybe we can get a few things straight.”

  “What is it you need, Randall? Didn’t I give you a pretty good steer the last time we met?” he asked puffing on his pipe.

  “You did. In fact the more I got to thinking about it, the odder it seemed. Now, as a private investigator I am used to running into hostility from the police, and the stone walls I get when I ask questions. My feelings don’t get hurt too easy, but you were different. Oh, you mouthed the right words. You didn’t like private dicks and all that stuff, but then something kind of surprising happened. You opened up to me, and even told me things that the local cops didn’t know.”

  “I told you then, Randall,” he protested. “I was just helping a private citizen, Mrs. Peterson, like I would any private citizen and yes, the fact that she is rich and politically connected, may have played a role in it.”

  “Yeah, I tried to convince myself that was the explanation too. I was so happy that I had uncovered something on the case I didn’t examine it too closely. The more I thought about it, the more unlikely your explanation seemed. A man in your position doesn’t just drop information like that for no reason, but then it hit me that you might have a reason. A reason that explained it pretty well.”

  “And what was that, Randall?” he asked in a bored voice. “I appreciate the coffee, but aren’t we kind of taking the long route?”

  “Oh, but it’s a good story. It wa
s Captain Woodward that gave me the idea, although, of course, he didn’t realize it. It happened when he told me that you had abruptly retired. He said that he remembered you as a real hotshot detective. He made it sound like you were a real comer. Do you remember how you described yourself to me?”

  “How?”

  “You said you were just an old beat cop. The act you put on with me fit into that description. I saw you as a tired old cop, stuck in a bureaucratic paper-pushing job, running the clock out until retirement, but if that wasn’t true, then it opened up another possibility. The only reason that covered the facts is that you were Peterson.”

  Banner looked at me with something unreadable in his face.

  “Are you accusing me of being connected with Vitale?”

  “It’s too late to play dumb with me, Banner. What I mean is that you were the undercover agent. It was your undercover name that Vitale appropriated. There’s something else I left out. After I started to consider you a possibility for the Peterson alias, I made a few phone calls into your background. It was sketchy, of course, but I found out that you were the hot shot Woodward remembered and that after a run of good arrests you ended up on some task force and then you disappeared, only to reappear years later at the Missing Persons Bureau, where you have been ever since. It made sense to me now. The bureau job wasn’t a dead end job it was just someplace to stash you because the streets were too hot for you. It kept you in the game, where you could still pull strings, but it was low profile. You even got to yank a private investigator around when he asked for your help.”

  Banner didn’t say anything for a minute. He finished his coffee and set it down on the table. He leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and puffed some more on his pipe.

  “I just didn’t like a killer like Vitale using my name and getting away with it,” he said finally.

  “But why me?” I asked. “Why did you tell me and not the local cops? They have more resources. I don’t get it.”

  “Randall, the big boys didn’t want him found. They would have been happy if he stayed disappeared. I didn’t lie to you about one thing. Whatever deal Vitale made with the feds was over my pay grade, but they didn’t want it coming to light. The lid was on the investigation.”