Midnight Rain: A Detective Jack Dunning Novel

by Arlette Lees

  “Frances! Where did you come from? My god, you just saved my life.”

  “Not really,” she says. “Here’s one for Red,” and she sinks a bullet into his chest. He looks in disbelief at the red flower blossoming over his heart. He crumples to his knees, then onto his face. Frances Dietrich has just blown away two men as casually as most women cut a tea cake. I was a little slow to react, but what the heck? Looks like it was a one woman job.

  “Okay, Mrs. Dietrich, hold it right there,” I say. “Drop the gun.”

  She pivots and sprints back toward her car, coughing hoarsely, snapping off bullets in my direction. One hits the tree about three inches from my ear. As she peels out I pump three slugs into the trunk of her car. I don’t intend to shoot her. I just want to be able to prove she was here. I’d failed to identify myself as S.P.P.D. She probably thought I was just another anonymous threat.

  I check both men for vitals. They’re dead. There’s no need to rush as I walk back over the bridge. I call Jim from the Blue Rose. I call Chief Garvey at home. He says he’ll be right down with the coroner. We seal off the perimeter. The press shows up. Flash bulbs explode. The Chief says we’ll make a formal statement in the morning after we sort things out.

  After the scene has been processed and the bodies taken off in the bread truck, I go back to the station to type up my report. Frances Dietrich sits at my desk, having a smoke, her gun on the desktop in front of her. If she’d intended to shoot me, I’d have been dead when I walked through the door.

  “Hey, Frances, what’s up?”

  She laughs and coughs in the same breath and I see blood on her lips.

  “Sorry, Dunning. I didn’t know it was you at first.” She sets a tape on my desk. “Get out your pencil,” she says. “I’m going to spill my guts.”

  After taking a formal statement and scrutinizing the notebook belonging to the Pinkerton detective, everything falls into place…Dietrich shooting Singleton…Dietrich torching the synagogue…Dietrich’s affiliation with the German Bund. After three hours, I’m seeing double. I set my pen down, close my notebook and exhale.

  “Just for the record,” she says, “I shot von Stroheim to protect my husband and I accidentally shot Leland in the process. You know how inept we women are with fire arms.” I try hard as hell not to smile. Her story could be hard to disprove and I’m not exactly going to go into mourning over a child rapist and a low-level Nazi. “If you have a problem with that,” she says, “book me so my lawyer can bail me out and I can go home and get some sleep.”

  For all of thirty seconds, I’m engaged in a moral tug of war.

  “I’ll hang onto the gun,” I say. “Go home, Mrs. Dietrich.”

  CHAPTER 26

  The refurbished dining room at the Rexford opens just in time for Cookie and Joe’s wedding reception. The room is decorated with carnations and red poinsettias. There are candle globes on the tables, good restaurant china, sparkling glassware and shining silver plate. The long buffet table is spread with golden roasted chickens, mountains of wild rice, artichokes and brussels sprouts trucked in from Castroville and dozens of potluck dishes. The centerpiece is a white four-tiered cake decorated with frosting roses that Joe baked himself and in the front window of the lounge is a Christmas tree full of tinsel and lights.

  Now that the dining room will be open for nightly meals, Agnes Peel and two other women from the housekeeping staff have been reassigned kitchen duty as dishwasher and assistant cook. Angel oversees the operation, plans the menus and acts as hostess. Tonight she wears a tailored powder pink suit with a string of dime store pearls, her hair swept off the nape of her neck in a honey-blonde swirl.

  “You’ve got your dining room.” I say. “You pulled it off.”

  She smiles. “I did, didn’t I.”

  “I imagine Cookie will be moving into the big house now,” I say.

  “That’s what I thought too, but Joe’s going to sell it. He’s moving into the apartment with Cookie. He’ll be right above the bakery and she’ll be able to continue reading fortunes. They’re honeymooning in San Francisco so Cookie can consult with a headache specialist.”

  “Let’s hope something works this time.”

  “Did her clue pan out, you know the one about the little girl by the sunflowers?”

  “It did. It’s uncanny. I don’t know how she does it.”

  “Neither does she.”

  With dinner over everyone is circulating with cups of coffee and slices of cake, young and old mixing together, the elderly shut-ins come out of their shells. Roland is out of his cast and spinning around the room in a wheelchair.

  “I’m so happy, Jack. This is my home and these people are family.”

  “Marry me, Angel.”

  She searches my face.

  “You were the one with reservations,” she says. “What’s changed?”

  “I was afraid of letting you down.”

  She touches my cheek. “You could never do that. You’re the one who gave me my life back, remember?”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Jack, I said ‘yes’ the night we walked to the Rexford in the midnight rain. I’ve been saying ‘yes’ ever since.”

  Jake and Albie join us, as does Bo with velvet reindeer antlers on his head.

  “Albie, do you ever smell good,” says Angel.

  Albie giggles. That’s not me, Miss Angel! That’s Bo. Roland give me LuLu’s bottle of coconut shampoo and I give him a bath. Hank says he smells like the fancy girls at Candy O’Toole’s boardinghouse.”

  “I better not catch you going near that place,” says Jake. “Go show Bo the Christmas tree so us grownups can talk.” As he walks away I can see the pride on Jake’s face. “Next month he starts school, first little colored boy at St. Finney’s. I’m still trying to visualize him in his green blazer and Irish plaid tie. Gives new meaning to black Irish, don’t it?”

  “I’m way ahead of you Jake. I see him on a scholarship to Notre Dame.”

  “Everybody, everybody come quick! Hurry, hurry! It’s snowing!” cries Cantor Nemschoff.

  We pile into the lobby. Big flakes of snow are wheeling tpast the streetlights silvering the holiday decorations strung above the street. We follow the crowd outside and watch the snow collect like powdered sugar on the sidewalk and rooftops.

  “Have you ever seen anything more beautiful?” says Angel.

  “It hasn’t snowed here in thirteen years,” says Hank. It’s a good omen. Maybe we’ll live long enough to see the end of the Depression.”

  “I guess this is the big one we’ve been waiting for,” says Roland, his wheelchair spinning circles on the sidewalk.

  The Cantor stands next to us, leaning heavily on his cane.

  “Did you hear the news about the synagogue?” he asks.

  “Tell us,” says Angel.

  “A secret benefactor is building us a new one. Construction starts as soon as the plans are drawn up.”

  “That’s wonderful news. Congratulations.”

  Albie looks up at the snow swirling past the face of the moon and spins in dizzying circles. Bo races up and down the sidewalk snapping at the flakes and sliding on the slippery concrete. Tom pulls up to the curb in his cab and lets out a fare. I walk over.

  “Tom, get inside and grab a piece of cake. There’s plenty of food left too.”

  “You sure, Jack?” he says, a trace of uncertainty in his voice.

  I smile and give him a friendly clap on the shoulder. “I’m sure, Tom.”

  He nods and goes inside.

  Joe and Cookie come through the door in their traveling clothes. We cheer and throw rice as they pull away from the curb in Joe’s big car.

  “You want to go up?” says Angel. “I’d like to get out of these shoes.” />
  I know what that means and I don’t need a second invitation.

  We slip away from the crowd and take the elevator to the room. The lights are low, the pink and purple neon from the theater flickering across the ceiling. When I turn back into the room Angel is in her slip, her hair tumbling soft and golden over her shoulders. I put my arm around her and she leans into my side. We stand in silence and watch the snowflakes blow past the window. I’m happier than an alcoholic, over-the-hill cop has a right to be.

  I tap two cigarettes from the pack. When I take out my lighter, Angel takes it from my hand and sets it on the lamp table with a smile. She looks up at me with eyes bluer than rain…a little more than kitten…a little less than cat. She takes my hand and leads me to the bed.

  I still know how to make her purr.