AND A TIME TO DIE

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AND A TIME TO DIE Page 5

by Walter Erickson


  “Thank you, ma’am,” I said. “I learned how to talk that way in eye school.”

  “So you’ve been doing it a long time,” she said, apparently missing the humor. “My name is Ann Driscoll Latham. I am Louise Driscoll’s mother. I believe Cathy Cerullo spoke to you of my concerns.”

  “She did, Mrs. Latham. What can I do for you?”

  “I believe the death of my daughter is connected to the death of a Mr. DeMarco. I’d like to speak to you about it. Come to my home, Mr. Doyle. Louise said something shortly before she died, something that leads me to believe someone had reason to murder my daughter. I have told the police, but have the feeling they attach no significance to it.”

  “Tell me where you are, Mrs. Latham.”

  She told me and we hung up.

  Kelley called the kids and said we wouldn’t be home for dinner. Mike is seventeen and Carol fifteen, and they’re used to fending for themselves. Mike says he’s going to join the Marines when he graduates from high school, and I can’t think of a better place than the United States Marine Corps for a man to begin his education.

  “High society, babe,” I smiled. “Murder on the Main Line.” I grabbed Buster and we got the car out of the garage, heading for Villanova.

  “Rich people,” I said happily, listening to Buster bouncing around on the back seat, listening to the tires on the concrete, the hum of the engine. “Somebody once said they were different from you and me, but I can’t remember who.”

  “F. Scott Fitzgerald.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “The Great Gatsby, wasn’t it? Read it while I was in the Marines. Did he write anything else?”

  “I don’t know, I was more into the visual arts, you know, the movies. Almost there. What a neighborhood.”

  We stopped and Kelley said, “My God, it’s an estate. There’s a wall around it. We’re sitting in a driveway, facing a huge wrought iron gate, all scroll work. Nothing nouveau about this place. Looks like it’s been here for years.”

  Kelley has the knack of describing things to me in just a few words. I saw the whole thing in my mind’s eye, because I’d seen many such estate entrances on television. Back when I could still see, I loved those old Columbo reruns. Columbo was always after Jack Cassidy or some other rich guy, and they all had driveways with wrought iron gates. I don’t know if it was because I was in the business and so noticed such things, but television murderers always seemed to have a lot of money. Kelley says driveway and wrought iron gate and the old brain instantly rummages around in the file cabinets, looking for a suitably appropriate memory, which it then displays on the back of my eyelids. The whole thing is pretty amazing.

  “Is there a gatehouse?” I asked.

  “I don’t see one,” she said. “The drive goes through two big, round stone towers, the ivy so thick you can hardly see the stone.”

  “Do you see an intercom?”

  “There’s a box on one of the stone towers. I’ll go see.”

  I put the window down. By my calculations it was early evening, still daylight, and I wanted to hear what the house was like. A cooling breeze blew through the open window, bringing with it the sounds of birds, and summer insects, and the smell of new cut grass. Above it all a squirrel was giving something some lip.

  “Remember all this, Buster,” I said. “One day, when I hit it big, you’ll have a place like this to run around in.” He licked my ear, probably telling me he’d believe it when he saw it.

  Kelley got back in the car, said, “All set,” and put the car in gear. “Mrs. Latham is expecting us.”

  “Mrs. Driscoll Latham,” I corrected. “She evidently didn’t discard her first husband’s name.”

  “Maybe he died and willed it to her.”

  “Maybe he did.”

  I heard the gates open and we started up, tires making a wonderful gravel crunching sound. We stopped again and Kelley said, “We’re by the garages. We’ll just walk around and knock on the front door.”

  I listened to my feet crunch the gravel, not as satisfying as a tire crunch perhaps, but a lot more personal. Kelley said, “Step,” but Buster was way ahead of her. We changed from gravel to stone, or concrete, I couldn’t tell which, though stone is usually smoother than concrete. If it was concrete, somebody did a first class float job. I counted two more steps, filing the data away in the event I had to come back out this way.

  “What do we have?” I said. “Two storey stone house, slate roof, kind of rambly?”

  “Close. Front door coming up.” A chime went off somewhere in the house.

  “Ten bucks it’s a butler.”

  I heard the door open and a young woman’s accented voice said, “Mrs. Doyle? Mr. Doyle? Will you come this way, please?” I placed her from somewhere in the Caribbean.

  I asked about Buster and she said she didn’t think it would be a problem. We followed her into the cool interior, across a hard surfaced area of some sort, probably marble judging by the smoothness of it, and then onto a carpeted surface. From the echoing sound of our footsteps on the hard surface, I knew we were in a fairly large space.

  “Right in here, please,” the young woman said pleasantly. “Mrs. Latham will be with you shortly.” She smelled faintly of pine scented cleaning fluid, so I guess in addition to answering the door she did other things as well.

  “A drawing room,” Kelley said, voice bright with wonder. “I’ve never seen one except in those old Ginger Rogers movies. And that’ll be ten bucks. That was no butler. She’s an old fashioned maid, black uniform with frilly collar and all.”

  The most dominant smell was furniture polish. I guess nobody else notices it, but they sure must sell an awful lot of it.

  Footsteps came into the room and a voice I recognized as the one I’d spoken to on the phone said, “Thank you so much for coming. Will you have tea? Something to drink? Sherry perhaps?” She didn’t offer Buster anything, and I didn’t mention him.

  Ann Latham apparently wore no perfume, though perhaps she did on other occasions. I couldn’t imagine her appearing in public without some expensive perfume with matching mink and diamonds.

  We said no thanks to the offer of a drink, and Ann Latham said, “That will be all, Felicia.”

  Felicia said, “Yes, ma’am,” and I can only presume she turned into a pine scented mist and drifted away, because I heard not a footstep, not a whisper of sound.

  “Please be seated,” Mrs. Latham said. Kelley guided me to a chair and we sat, waiting expectantly.

  “Please tell me, Mr. Doyle,” Mrs. Latham began, “how it is my daughter’s death has not elicited more of an effort from the police department? They have done nothing that I can see.” She used the same tone of voice she used when speaking to Felicia, and I have no doubt it was the same tone of voice she used when speaking to all her social inferiors.

  “I’m sure they’re doing all they can, Mrs. Latham,” I said uncomfortably. I hoped she hadn’t brought us all the way out here just to bitch about the police.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” she said crisply. “In any event, I told the detectives something I considered extremely significant, something my daughter said, and nothing seems to have come of it. They have made up their minds and cannot find room for anything that may alter their perceptions.”

  “Sometimes it’s like that, Mrs. Latham,” I agreed. “What was it your daughter said?”

  “She had recently begun seeing a Mr. DeMarco,” she said. From the tone of voice she took a dim view of Mr. DeMarco. “The man was another in a succession of those horrid South Philadelphia mafiosi. I disapproved of these relationships, Mr. Doyle, but Louise was a grown woman, and so I said not a word.”

  “What did she say, Mrs. Latham?” I said gently.

  “She said she had found out something about Mr. DeMarco and had threatened to tell Mr. Senna. I am aware of who Mr. Senna is, Mr. Doyle, through my daughter’s long time association with those people.”

  “Did she say what it was she’
d found out?”

  “Eventually. She did not confide in me much, I don’t believe she confided much in anyone. We were having a telephone conversation. I was merely being pleasant and asked how Mr. DeMarco was, knowing she was currently seeing him, and that’s when she said she didn’t know what to do.”

  “She didn’t know what to do?”

  “I was struck by that. Louise has always known what to do. She said she had discovered something about Mr. DeMarco, and had told him she’d tell Mr. Senna if he didn’t stop, but she didn’t know if she should tell Mr. Senna or not.”

  “Did she tell you what she’d discovered?”

  “Yes, eventually, as I have said. I had the feeling she was reluctant to say anything to me, even though I was her mother. I had the distinct impression she was afraid, and that was not like Louise. Louise has never been afraid of anything.”

  “Do you know what she was afraid of?”

  “No, but I feel it had something to do with Mr. DeMarco.”

  “What was there about Mr. DeMarco?” I said patiently. Some people take longer to tell a story than others.

  “She said Mr. DeMarco was engaged in the sale of child pornography, and when she discovered it, quite by chance, she became quite angry and confronted him with it. Louise had had a long association with those people, Mr. Doyle, she knew they were engaged in criminal activities, and I believe it was that which attracted her to them. She had always been rebellious, even as a child. My daughter would not have cared that her friends were engaged in prostitution, or drugs, or even murder, I am sorry to say, but child pornography was beyond the pale.”

  “Did she say she was going to tell the police, or was it only Mr. Senna she was going to tell?”

  “She was prepared to tell Mr. Senna. I gathered Mr. Senna would not have approved.”

  “Do you know if she told Mr. Senna?”

  “I have no way of knowing.”

  “How long before her death was this conversation?”

  “About a week before.”

  “You’ve told the police of this conversation?”

  “Yes, Mr. Doyle, I have,” she said sternly. “A Mr. Kopf and his partner sat in this very room and took notes. They know all about Mr. DeMarco and his child pornography, they know all about the threat of exposure. I believe my daughter was killed to keep her from exposing Mr. DeMarco’s dirty secret.”

  “Mr. DeMarco was killed the same night your daughter was killed, Mrs. Latham.”

  “So I have heard.”

  I tried again. “I don’t think Mr. DeMarco killed your daughter and then committed suicide.”

  “I daresay Mr. DeMarco was not alone,” she said dismissively. “Whoever he was associated with in this filthy enterprise killed Louise. I do not know who killed Mr. DeMarco, and care not at all. I care only about my daughter. I want my daughter’s murderer punished, Mr. Doyle. I don’t want him walking the streets while my daughter is in her grave. I am prepared to offer a ten thousand dollar reward for the arrest and conviction of my daughter’s murderer.”

  “Whoever killed your daughter, Mrs. Latham,” I said gently, “the police will find him. They’re generally pretty good about that sort of thing.”

  “Perhaps, but to this point nothing is being done. I talked to Warren Clotherman within hours of being notified of my daughter’s death, and he told me he didn’t think Louise was killed by anyone associated with Mr. DeMarco.”

  “Warren Clotherman the District Attorney?”

  “Yes. Warren listened politely, and said I was mistaken. I want you to see that someone pays for killing my daughter, Mr. Doyle. Find the evidence linking Mr. DeMarco to my daughter’s death and give it to the police. To the authorities, even my nephew, I am just another old woman, the mother of the deceased. In the minds of the young, old women ramble, Mr. Doyle, they see phantasms, and are not to be taken seriously.”

  I began to feel sorry for her. Daughter dead, and no one listens. “If the District Attorney is your nephew,” I said, “then he and Louise were cousins.”

  “They are. Warren and I are related by marriage. Charles Driscoll was Warren’s mother’s brother. He and Louise were close, in spite of her associations.”

  “All right, Mrs. Latham,” I said, ready to wrap it up. “Would Louise have written anything down? Is there anything, other than your telephone conversation with her, that would point to someone?”

  “I have gone through her effects, and could find nothing. No diary, no letters. But there must be something somewhere. I believe she may have kept a journal. I want you to find the evidence that will lead to the murderer of my daughter, Mr. Doyle. The police are not actively looking for that evidence. Louise was my only child. She was flawed, I have no doubt, but she was my only child.”

  “All right, Mrs. Latham, I’ll look into it for you. Kelley will draw up a contract and put it in the mail. If we find there’s evidence that an associate of Tommy DeMarco killed your daughter, we’ll turn it over to the police.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Doyle,” she said. “That evidence is in her apartment, I am sure of it, but I could find nothing. Let me know when you wish to search the apartment so I can call the building security people. I shall arrange for them to give you a key.”

  “Call them today, Mrs. Latham,” I said. “The sooner I search the apartment, the sooner we’ll find whatever she has to tell us.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Doyle,” she said. I sensed she was no longer sitting. “Felicia will show you out.”

  5

  Kelley drives us in from the Northeast nearly every morning, and we have an arrangement with the parking garage, so she can go in and out whenever she wants. Driving in city traffic is a large pain, and I did my share of it back when. We wouldn’t bring the car into the city at all, but Kelley needs it when she’s doing work for the Public Defender’s Office. There are times, though, when Kelley goes straight to an assignment, and on those days Buster and I take public transportation. I enjoy taking the El into town, and so does Buster. People make a fuss over him, especially the ladies, and Buster makes the most of it.

  Center city traffic is hellacious, even at ten o’clock in the morning. I’ve gotten used to the sound of vehicles roaring by, and I guess Buster has too, but it took a while. We made it through the crowded streets without mishap, not that I thought we wouldn’t. They have things designed to help the blind, but nobody ever designed anything better than Buster. About a year ago I bought an ultrasound gadget called a Walk-Mate. You strap it to your belt, set it for distance, and it will beep if you come within six feet of a large object, ten feet if you’re the nervous type, but I found it unsatisfactory. The damn thing was always going off, because you’re always within six feet of something. You can put it on a silent setting, so that it vibrates against your body instead of beeping, but that was worse. I put it in my desk drawer, just another gadget that promised more than it could deliver. I prefer to rely on my own instincts, a sense of increased pressure that comes when I’m near a large, stationary object like a building or a wall. And of course Buster wouldn’t dream of letting me walk into anything.

  Architecture was in a circular mood when the Police Administration Building was built, and so was the building, leading inevitably to its being called the Roundhouse. I left the envelope with the glossy of Maureen at the desk. A pleasant smelling, pleasant voiced young woman assured me Mr. Kopf would get it.

  That done, I headed for the office, a nice hike in good weather. Our journey took us past the old State House, Independence Hall. The Liberty Bell Center is right there, and I stopped in, as I often do when I’m down this way. Just being in the presence of the Liberty Bell is enough to give me pleasure, and judging by the comments of people around us, there are others who feel the same way.

  Back in the office, my talking clock telling me it was after eleven, I was just taking my shoes off when the phone rang.

  “Found a guy knows a blond Maureen, Mr. Doyle,” Bobby Micelli said. “He wants a hundred
bucks for the name. Are you interested?”

  I was interested. “Is he there now?”

  “No, he stopped in for a before lunch or late breakfast drink and left. Name’s Leon. I have a phone number if you want it.”

  I dialed the number and it was picked up on the third ring. A voice that had seen a lot of whisky said, “Leon.”

  I identified myself and Leon said, “Bobby gave me your name. You ain’t the Matt Doyle used to be with Homicide, are you?”

  “A long time ago, Leon,” I said. The voice didn’t sound familiar.

  “Bobby says you’re looking for a blond hooker named Maureen,” Leon continued. “I used to see her in Jack’s once in a while. Never saw her outside the bar, I never engaged her services.”

  “If it checks out, Leon, you got your hundred,” I said. “What’s her name and address?”

  “I don’t know the address, like I said, I never engaged her services, but I know her name. We used to talk, I bought her a drink now and then. I don’t remember ever seeing anybody at the bar leave with her. I think she plied her trade elsewhere, just stopped in Jack’s once in a while for a drink.”

  “Okay,” I said, “what’s her name?”

  The voice turned cagey. “How do I get my hundred?”

  “If you give me a name and I’m able to track it down, I’ll give it to you personally.”

  “I need the hundred up front. How do I know I can trust you?”

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “Good question,” he agreed. “You give the hundred to Bobby Micelli to hold. If the name’s right, Bobby gives me the hundred. If the name’s wrong, he gives it back to you. Fair enough?”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Okay, when Bobby calls and tells me he has the hundred, I’ll call you and give you the name.”

  I gave him my number and called Bobby and told him of the arrangement.

  “Okay, Mr. Doyle,” Bobby said, “I’ll call and tell him I got the dough. If you find her, you can give me the hundred then.”

 

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