by Chris Wiltz
I drove back to the hospital. There was a slight chill in the air that almost convinced me fall was on its way. Catherine stopped as we walked through the parking lot, her hands clutching her bare upper arms.
“Neal,” she whispered, “I'm frightened.” She didn't resist my arm around her shoulders.
24
* * *
After Dinner
Catherine's car was at the hospital so I followed her back to the house after her ten minutes with her mother. Mrs. Garber's condition was still the same and that wasn't saying a lot for it, but somehow she was managing to hold on.
The air in the house was stagnant and hot. Catherine moved around adjusting thermostats. I sat down on the living room sofa and lit a cigarette. She came in with a cut-glass decanter of brandy and two glasses perched on a silver tray. She sat the tray on the coffee table in front of the sofa and remained standing opposite me. “It may take me a while to find the letter,” she said. “It's probably buried at the bottom of my cedar chest.”
“Why don't I keep you company while you look?” I suggested.
“If you'd like,” she said and headed toward the hallway.
I picked up the tray and followed her slim form in its silky powder blue dress. Her hair was pulled back and wrapped into a design on the back of her head. I studied it and her bare, not quite boney shoulders as she led me through the house. She turned into a doorway, switched on a light and we entered a large, sparsely furnished bedroom. The draperies and bedspread were cream colored. The floor was completely covered by a thick Oriental rug with a red and green border and oval center on a cream background. There were several dark wooden statuettes of primitive men and cats sitting on the low bookcases around the room, and above them framed pictures with brown and beige tones. I put the tray on top of a bureau and poured the brandy. Catherine went through another door that opened into a small dressing area with a bathroom right off it. She crouched in front of a cedar chest. I crossed the solid oyster carpet of the dressing room and handed her a glass of brandy, then went back and sat on the foot of the bed where I could see her as she unloaded woolen sweaters, old papers and magazines from the chest. After a while she took off her shoes and transferred her weight to her knees. She moved with the grace of a practiced dancer. I glanced around at the extreme understated attractiveness of the room. Except for the books, and maybe the cats, it was devoid of anything personal. There was nothing to give away even a small characteristic of the occupant.
“There must have been more letters than just this one, don't you think?” Catherine called to me. “Though it is strange that I wouldn't have seen any of them arrive, not even this one. I always looked at the mail first.”
“Maybe the other communications were by phone,” I said finishing off the brandy. I got up and poured myself a tad more which I didn't need. The house had cooled down, but I felt hot around the collar. I went back to my post loosening my tie and unbuttoning the top button of my shirt.
Catherine leaned back against the chest, stretching out her legs and crossing them at the ankles. She was holding a polished cherry wood box. As she lifted off its top she looked up at me. “It's in here,” she said. I went over and sat beside her on the floor. She handed me a folded envelope and turned to place the box back in the chest. I took out the letter and read its short message.
Stan—
Think about what I said. I need some money and depend on your friendship.
There is no reason for your two daughters to know about each other.
I will be in touch in a couple of weeks.
It was typed on dime-store variety typing paper and had been mailed in a cheap business envelope. It was addressed to Stan Garber at the bookstore and there was no return address, of course. I started examining the smudged postmark.
“Well, what do you think?” Catherine asked impatiently.
“It must be a clue of some kind,” I answered. Her head was bent close to mine as she looked at the envelope. I touched my lips to her temple.
“Is that all?” She moved her head so that our eyes were level.
I stuffed the letter in the envelope, folded it, and put it in my shirt pocket. “For right now,” I said, and let my lips wander over her eyebrows. Her lashes brushed my face and I kissed her closed lids. She started moving her right arm away from me, but I clasped it at the elbow, planting kisses everywhere on her face but her mouth. She broke my hold and moved her hand to the back of her head and released her hair, her eyes still closed. As her hair fell forward, it hit the side of my face. I began to stroke it, feeling her cheek with my cheek and reaching for her hand. She cautiously twined her fingers loosely around mine, making no other movement. I put my hand on the back of her neck under her hair and kissed her very gently. Her grasp tightened. I kissed her harder, then moved back slightly to watch her face. Her eyes opened and looked at me like great gray lanterns. They closed again. She let go of my hand and moved hers to my arm. I smoothed her hair and ran my hands down her neck to her shoulders. I pulled her to me. Her lips parted as they reached mine. As we kissed, her hand found its way inside my jacket where it wandered over my chest, rubbing, caressing until it ran into my gun and holster. She held the holster. I started to move away so I could discard it, but the other arm had come up around my neck and held me to keep our lips pressed tightly together I let her hold me there, my tongue moving deeper inside her mouth. I felt her remove my gun, her arm brushing past my coat, holding the gun off to the side. I slid my hand down her arm to reach the gun, but as I got to her wrist, she tossed it and I heard it thud against the opposite wall. The intensity of our kiss had lessened during the movement. I tried to take her back in my arms, but she pushed away from me and lithely lifted herself from the floor. She turned off the light and walked into the bedroom, stopping in the middle of it, her back to me. I went up behind her and put one hand on her shoulder, but she moved forward again, to the door, and switched off the light. The room went pitch dark. I stood still, trying to see through the darkness. My heart was beating hard enough to shake the house. I waited and heard a zipper moving almost soundlessly and material swishing lightly. And then her full, firm body was in my arms, bare and warm. My fingertips slid down her back. I imagined the trails they softly etched in her silky bronze skin. They stopped when they reached the small depressions right above her buttocks. I hadn't touched anyone like this for a long time. It seemed like I had been waiting all my life for her, but now that I had her, something a lot like fear was tugging at the base of my spine. The feeling drifted away as her hands weightlessly caressed my neck and moved down my chest and around my waist. We kissed full, strong kisses, pressing our chests and hips close to each other, until she took my hand and guided me over to the bed. She stretched out in the center of it. I could vaguely see the pale outline of her body and her hair spilled over the white spread. I shed my coat and tie and started fumbling with buttons, but she reached up and pulled me down beside her. I held her to me and my hand went over the curve of her hip to her thigh. Her breasts felt hard against me, her heart was beating wildly. I liked how solid she felt. I put my hand between her thighs, moving it up to feel her coarse, curly hair, then back to the smooth, bare recesses of her thighs. Her body started trembling slightly and then shaking. I eased the pressure between us and stroked her hair and back, but the shaking got more intense. She suddenly twisted away from me and sat up on the other side of the bed. I went around and sat on my heels. Her face was in her hands and every muscle was shivering.
I put my hand on her neck as if to stop the shiver “Catherine,” I said softly.
“Leave.” The command was low and hoarse.
I held my position stiffly. My muscles felt like rocks.
“Please get out,” she whispered.
I dropped my hand and rose like an automaton, the nerve endings dancing in my face. I picked up my coat and tie and left the room, closing the door quietly behind me.
25
* * *
> The Scam
Stunned is the word. It was a while before I realized where I was or that I was driving. I didn't want to think about it. I never wanted to think about it. Someone's hand lifted off the steering wheel and drifted to my shirt pocket, feeling the letter there. It looked like mine. I tried to concentrate on the letter, but it was no good. I kept driving, wandering aimlessly through the park at maybe fifteen miles an hour
About a quarter of an hour later I managed to shake off the tentacles that had been clutching at my chest. My thoughts slowly returned to the letter and the idea that I had earlier started forming again like it was new. The letter had been postmarked in Gulf Breeze, Florida. Now I was driving with a purpose.
I headed downtown to the district headquarters to pay Uncle Roddy a friendly return visit. A group of cops was congregated on the corner. The neon map of the Americas on the side of the building was still winking the Alabama—Florida line, but they'd given up replacing the rest of the tubes long ago.
Inside the building it smelled as sour as a lineup of beaten suspects. The muscles above my lips flexed involuntarily. Sitting on a high stool, the cop behind the small counter raised one eyebrow at me in question.
“Lieutenant Rankin in?” I asked.
“Second floor,” he said, indicating the stairs with the side of his mouth, and went back to studying the scarred countertop.
Behind the swinging fire door at the top of the stairs was a small bustle of activity. Unnoticed, I went to Uncle Roddy's closed office door, knocked once, and stepped in.
Uncle Roddy had the phone to his ear, his huge bulk perched on a tilted chair behind a metal desk. “Call ya back later,” he said into the mouthpiece, smartly righting the chair. “Well, well, Neal,” he said heaving air through his nostrils. “What's new on the street?”
“Not much action to live up to this morning's,” I commented. “Any word on the McDermott woman?” I sat across from him in a wooden chair.
“Naw. That broad's working a real neat undercover operation.” He gave me the foxy eye. “What've you got?”
“Maybe something, maybe nothing,” I said. “Have you got an APB out in Florida?”
“Why?” He put a slim cigar in his mouth, keeping his eyes on me.
“I hear she used to spend a lot of time there.” He touched a match to the cigar's tip and the smoke drifted up into his right eye. In case I noticed things like that and thought it gave me an edge, he turned his left profile to me and fumbled with some papers in a drawer.
“Would it do any good to ask where you get your info?” He peered slyly over his shoulder at me.
“Same place you probably already got it,” I said diplomatically. “Robert André.”
The air whizzed through his nose. “You tailing me or something, Neal?” I laughed. The old fox, I thought.
We sat and smoked and gave each other amused expressions. I liked the way he wasn't going to tell me if he had the APB out or not.
I stubbed out my cigarette and slapped my knees. “Well, Uncle Roddy,” I said rising, “it's been fun. I'll let you know if I hear anything else.”
“You do that, Neal, you do that.” He sat back with half-closed eyes and a smile like he was anticipating a geisha girl walking up and down his back.
I got to the door, put my hand on the knob and turned back like I'd had a brilliant second thought. “Say, Uncle Roddy, do you mind if I take a look at Lucy McDermott's things?”
“Come on, Neal,” he kidded. “You trying to tell me you ain't never seen that stuff before?”
I smiled sheepishly. “Not close up, no.”
“Well, then, sure, sure. Go to the basement and get Timmy to show you.” I got the door open a few inches when he called, “And, Neal, if you find any clues, you'll let me know, won't you?”
“You got it, Uncle Roddy.” I let myself out.
Timmy was an old friend from days long ago when I was on the force. His clipped white head was bent over a stack of green computer printouts.
I walked up to the desk. “Hi there, Timmy. It's been a long time.”
He looked up uncertainly and then his face broke into a wide grin that was only partially filled with teeth. “You're right there, Neal.” He stood up shakily and put a thin gray hand in mine. “What you been up to, Neal? How's the business?”
“Still making a living off everybody else's troubles,” I said.
“And getting some for yourself, too, huh?” He wheezed out a laugh. Old Timmy had been in the basement since a bullet in the chest had taken him off the front line. He started reminiscing. “Yeah, Neal, you was some bullheaded young thing. How come you never laid off that Angelesi case when the Cap'n told you?”
“Like you say, Timmy, just bullheaded.”
“You gotta lay off them politicos, Neal. They can put the pressure where it hurts. There ain't nobody big enough to play with them boys. You gotta learn that young.”
“That's the problem, Timmy, everyone learns it so well that those boys can get away with murder.”
“Yeah,” he nodded knowingly. “Like Angelesi. The Cap'n, he sure was sorry to lose you. Said you was one of the best, but you didn't know how to keep your eyes closed.”
It had taken the Crime Commission over two years to take Angelesi out of the big league. They had gotten him for taking payoffs, though, not for the murder of Myra. They were skeptical, too, and didn't even try to pin that one on him—it had been at least two steps away from him. But Myra had told me how Angelesi used to brag about this racketeering while they were in bed together. She had made the mistake of trying to squeeze a little more money out of him. She told me that, too. By telling me, Myra had her revenge. I raised enough of a stink—and there had been other accusations—that the investigation had been started, and Myra had made good her threat to ruin Angelesi after all. But that came much later. It had all started right before the elections and he had still managed to take the polls by storm. It was one of those things I never wanted to think about. The list was getting long.
“Timmy, give me a gander at Lucy McDermott's things. Rankin gave the okay.”
“Sure thing, Neal.” He looked through the green sheets, took out a ring of keys, and shuffled down the hall like he should have retired five years ago. “You take your time, Neal, and let me know when you go,” he said as he opened the door. “The stuff is tagged on that right-hand shelf.”
I pulled the door behind me. It was the typewriter I was interested in. I took a scrap of paper from my coat pocket, wound it in the machine and typed some of the letters from Garber's name and address on it. But not in order, in case Uncle Roddy decided to check up on what I'd been doing. It didn't take a magnifying glass or an expert to see that the letter Catherine had given me had been typed on the same Underwood. The serifs were all the same, the top of the d was lighter than the rest of the letter, and the hump on the n was broken.
Timmy asked about the old man and then we farewelled each other for a while before I went over to Garber's store. Lucy McDermott's two-bit blackmail scheme had me more than curious. I wanted to see if she had fleeced Garber of any more money than her three-hundred-dollar-a-week salary. If a job with a good salary was all she wanted, where was her motive for murder? Unless she had wanted more and on Garber's promises had waited around for it for a year, realized he wasn't going to or couldn't cough up, got demented over the fact, and killed him in a moment of fury. I didn't much like the theory, but there didn't seem to be any place to go for another one, and Uncle Roddy was sitting back waiting for her a little too calmly. No telling what that old fox had up his sleeve, though.
Kids on dates and a few fancy ladies and gents moved slowly up and down Royal Street looking in the windows. Across the street from the store a wandering minstrel with sunglasses on plucked at a banjo and sang like he was being tortured. A sparse group of onlookers watched. I pulled out the key Catherine had given me and slid stealthily into the black, fetid shop. I didn't want to turn on any lights yet, so I gr
oped along the bookcases hunting for the hidden doorknob to the back room. I was ready to chuck the no lights idea when my hand hit it. I swung the door back, went in, closed it behind me, groped again for the string to the bare bulb. Then I settled down with the ledger of monies paid out. I started at the beginning. Lucy had been hired for two twenty-five the previous August and three months later had been raised to three hundred. The sum stayed stationary until the Saturday before she had left. I guessed Garber had paid her on Saturdays so that he could get some of his money's worth by at least having her show up for the larger clientele the weekend would bring.
There was certainly nothing outrageous here. I closed the book and put it back on the shelf and ran my eye over the rest of the ledgers. He seemed to have one for everything, money received, money paid, even a separate one labeled money for supplies. Not exactly a proper bookkeeping system. I spotted a spiral binding among the other books and pulled it out. It was a checkbook with three checks to the page and stubs. I riffled through the stubs. Most of them were paid to different London publishers. Then, the same August as Lucy's juncture, five hundred dollars had been paid to L.M. On the memo line was scratched bonus. I kept going. Three months later, November, there was another five-hundred-dollar bonus. The same the next month, a Christmas bonus. The next April Lucy finally hit some pay dirt, a thousand-dollar bonus. But the best was yet to come. One year later, on August 19, Lucy got a ten-thousand-dollar bonus. Garber had been killed on August 19.
“That old fox,” I said out loud. So this was where Rankin's theory that Lucy had indeed not left on Sunday afternoon came from. It made sense in view of the fact that Garber had written her a check for salary on Saturday. Why not write the bonus the same day? But this only confused matters. Why kill a man who had just written you a check for ten grand? That was killing the goose. The same set-up would yield some more gold in a few months. Or had Garber written the check and pulled the final curtain? The whole bit was screwy, but wait calmly for Lucy to turn up I would not. It was Gulf Breeze or bust. Tomorrow.