“What’s your take on this guy, Bobby?” I said. I don’t trust guys with a whisky voice. Most of them would do or say anything for the price of a drink. Leon could get stinking drunk for a week with a hundred bucks.
“Don’t have no take, Mr. Doyle. He’s just a guy who comes in once in a while, the kind of guy you see around but don’t really notice, you know what I mean?”
“Thanks, Bobby, give the guy a call.”
A few minutes later the phone rang, and Leon said, “Her name’s Zobranski. That was quick. You must want this one real bad.”
I did, but there was no need for him to know that. “You wanta spell that, Leon?”
“Z-O-B-R-A-N-S-K-I.”
I said, “Thanks, Leon,” and hung up.
I called Information and asked if there was a listing for a Maureen Zobranski, Z-O-B-R-A-N-S-K-I. The operator said there was an M. Zobranski listed on Franklin Street, and did I want the number? I said I did and a mechanical voice came on and spelled it out for me. They didn’t give me the street address, but I didn’t see that as a problem.
Franklin Street was a little street in center city, one block long, between 22nd and 23rd, so that much fit Jimmy Pompo’s description of where she lived. Chances were we were dealing with two different Maureens, but you never know till you check it out.
Kelley carries a cell phone and a 9 mm Smith & Wesson automatic in her purse, a heavy load to lug around all day, but she says she’s used to it, and wouldn’t feel right without it. She used to carry my old .357 mag Colt Python, but when she complained she was getting shoulders like Arnold Schwarzenegger, we bought her something almost a pound lighter. I keep the old Colt in my desk drawer, still in its shoulder holster, and once in a while I take it out and oil it and clean it. Just touching it, and smelling it, brings back memories. I like knowing the old piece of iron is nearby, even though it’s pretty much useless to someone who can’t see what he’s aiming at.
“Where are you now, babe?” I said when she answered.
“Still right here in North Philly, still trying to find somebody who will admit knowing where Tamika Johnson or Youssef Paul might be found. I don’t think I look like a cop, but they still won’t tell me anything, even when I say I’m with the Public Defender’s Office. It’s like I’m invisible or something.”
“Institutional suspicion,” I said. “We ran into it all the time. I’ve got a possible here on our blond Maureen. Guy named Leon says her name’s Zobranski. I got the number from Information, but I don’t want to call her. If she’s our lilac Maureen, she might not know someone’s looking for her, and I don’t want to take the chance on spooking her. If you’re still tied up in North Philly, me and Buster might just run over to Franklin Street, knock on a few doors and see if we can get an address.”
“You don’t have to knock on doors, dear,” she said. “There’s a computer in the office, remember? Put in the phone number and it’ll give you the address. I’ll be there when I can. Wait for me, I don’t want you visiting hookers without me, especially ones with lilac hair.”
“Leon says it’s the blond Maureen.”
“They’re the same Maureen,” she said. “Wait for me. I won’t be long. I’ll give it another hour or so up here.”
The phone rang and it was Frank Kopf. “Your Maureen is named Zobranski, 2206 Franklin Street. Bill Farber over in Vice recognized her right away, in case you wanta send him a thank you card. Says she used to work in a house over on Lombard, but lost a lot of weight, dyed her hair and went out on her own. Got a couple of prostitution priors, but nothing else.”
“Thanks, Frank.”
“Incidentally,” he said softly, “I checked this out with Acker, like I said. Danny’s already checked out the supposed alibi. Danny says your man wasn’t in Atlantic City when he says he was.”
“Thanks, Frank,” I said again.
A few minutes later Mrs. Latham called and asked if I was free to search her daughter’s apartment. I said I was, and she said she’d call the building manager and tell him I was coming. She sounded like she wanted it done right away, so I called Ed and told him to come over and I’d fill him in. I called Kelley back and told her Ed and I were going to search Louise Driscoll’s apartment.
“Incidentally,” I said, “Frank Kopf called, guy in Vice recognized the sketch. Turns out the thin lilac Maureen and the heavy blond Maureen are the same Maureen.”
“Just as I thought. Dyed her hair and lost some weight. Good for her.”
“The bad news is, Dan Acker’s already checked out Jimmy’s alibi. Dan says Jimmy wasn’t in Atlantic City last Thursday night.”
“Sammy didn’t hire us to take someone else’s word for it. When I get back we’ll go see Maureen.”
We said so long, and a few minutes later Eddie Westphal strolled in, pushing a cloud of licorice. Ed stopped smoking some time back, and now chews licorice more or less incessantly. Ed’s a widower, has been for years, and lives alone in an apartment on Pine Street, just a few blocks from the office, which makes it convenient when we need him.
I remembered the day I was introduced to him as his new partner. He was already a legend, and it was an honor to be his partner. He was in his early fifties then, a little guy, five seven or so, rail thin, hair still blond, with the most intense light blue eyes I ever saw. He was fifteen years older now, and I’d seen him many times over the years, had seen him grow older, but somehow the picture I have is always the same one, the slight smile, the firm handshake, the friendly look of that first meeting.
I filled him in on the Driscoll matter, put Buster’s harness on and checked my pockets for cane and phone.
“Been visiting some real good Internet sites lately, Matthew,” he said in the elevator. “CopTalk is getting real interesting. Hear from cops from all over, Europe even. Mostly war stories, probably retired guys like me, nothing better to do than relive the good times. You really oughta look into it. Seriously, they have equipment lets blind people into the world of computers. They have special software that lets you hear what’s written on the screen. Amazing stuff. I could find out about it for you if you want.”
“Thanks, Ed, but it’s just another gadget. I have an ultrasound beeper in my desk I never use. Supposed to warn me when something’s near. Sounds interesting, though.”
When we first started working together, fifteen years ago, I called him Mr. Westphal, until he told me we were partners, and he was Ed and I was Matthew. Why I wasn’t Matt I never knew. I always refer to him as Eddie, but when I speak to him it’s Ed.
The elevator doors opened and he said, “Beautiful day for a walk.”
Minutes later we entered Rittenhouse Square, the park cool under the trees, and headed down one of the side paths. The main path led to Buster’s favorite tree, and I didn’t want to confuse him, have him think he lost a couple of hours somewhere. Louise lived in the big glass ziggurat on the west end of the square.
“I think a summer cold is coming on, Matthew. What’s doing with the Jimmy Pompo matter?”
“Jimmy claims he has an alibi for the murder night, woman named Maureen. I’ve just found out her address and last name, and after we’re finished with Driscoll Kelley and I will pay her a visit.”
“Well, I’m here if you need me, not that I feel right working for the other side, you know what I mean? Even the Public Defender’s Office. We’re looking for exculpatory witnesses for guys you and I both know did the crime. It just doesn’t sit right.”
“I know what you mean,” I said, stopping when Buster stopped. “But it’s okay, it’s not up to us to say if a witness is lying, it’s up to a jury. We’re only gathering information, finding people who might have a story to tell. We aren’t trying to put guilty people back on the street.”
“I guess you’re right,” he sighed. I knew exactly how he felt. I felt that way every day, working for the enemy, working for defense lawyers, working against the people I worked for all those years. Eddie Westphal and I were two
peas in a pod, ex-cops, only there’s really no ex about it. The problem was, I could give Eddie absolution, but who was going to absolve me?
Eddie said, “Here we are,” and we passed through some doors into a cool interior. We collected the key and took the elevator.
Louise Driscoll’s apartment was cool and quiet. Eddie searched while I stood by a window, letting the sun warm my face, deep in thought, so deep Eddie’s voice startled me. I hadn’t heard him approach, hadn’t smelled any licorice.
“Looks like we have two bedrooms here, Matthew,” Eddie said. “Nice apartment, nice furniture. She used one of the bedrooms for an office. There’s a PC. The woman was wired, hooked up to the Internet. Come on back with me.”
I’m always apprehensive when I’m in a strange house, even with Buster guiding me. There are always tables with lamps and stands with plants and other bric-a-brac, all waiting for me to just brush them so they can fall to the floor and break in a million pieces. Nothing happened though, and we arrived uneventfully at the bedroom.
“Here we are,” Eddie said. “Watch the doorway. Stand right there.”
I stood right there and heard what sounded like a wheeled swivel chair being moved around. The office smelled different from the living room, though I couldn’t pinpoint the difference, except to say it smelled faintly of paper and printers and file cabinets. Or maybe I only imagine I can smell paper and file cabinets. Sometimes it’s hard to say.
“I didn’t boot up the PC yet,” Eddie said, “because I wanted you here with me. I don’t know what we have, but there’s a small dark green binder on the worktop that has her password, like she was afraid she’d forget it. Her username is LDSalome. I’m disappointed. Salome’s pretty unoriginal. That’s why she had to put an LD in front of it, to distinguish her from all the other Salomes. Even so, I’m surprised she doesn’t have a number, too, like LDSalome2678.”
“Maybe she was one of the first. Maybe she’s been there a long time.”
“Could be. I’m booting her up now.”
A switch clicked and I heard the machine come on.
“Windows XP,” Eddie said after a pause. “Getting a bit long in the tooth, but it still works. Better than Vista, anyway.” Typing sounds ensued. “I’m entering the password now, Matthew. According to the binder, it’s Ava58lon. Most people store their password so they don’t have to type it in every time they log on. Looks like she wanted to make sure nobody could get to it. Maybe there’s something here she doesn’t want people to see.”
“Then why would she leave the book with the password lying around?”
“Doesn’t make sense, does it? Maybe she keeps it someplace safe, but forgot and left it out when she went to meet the guy who killed her. She uses Outlook Express for mail. I’ll click the icon and see what we have.”
I shuffled my feet and felt useless. I couldn’t hear anything, and didn’t know what he was doing.
“Okay,” he said finally, “according to the Inbox, she has fifty-seven messages. The Inbox is where the unread messages are. We can also read any messages she’s sent and any she’s saved.”
I thought I better contribute something to this endeavor, so I said, “Fifty-seven sounds like a lot.”
“She’s been dead since Friday, Matthew, a lot of them are probably spam, and we don’t know how much traffic she normally gets in that amount of time.”
“So we have incoming, saved and sent. Sounds like everything’s there.”
“Everything. Even if she deleted something it’ll still be on the hard drive, and the police can get it if they need it.”
More silence ensued before he said, “We’re in luck, Matthew. Everything’s still here. Everything she’s read and everything she’s sent are right here.”
“How much mail are we talking about?”
“Lots, saved mail and sent mail going back months. Everything is still here. From what I see, she didn’t delete anything, except the spam. I’m going to open the Inbox, see if anything interesting is there.”
He hummed a few bars of something I didn’t recognize, and presently he said, “Okay, here we are. The Inbox gives us a list of mail received, with the date and the sender’s e-mail address.”
“I see,” I said, the import of what he was saying beginning to dawn on me. “We’ll know who sent the messages.”
“Well, it won’t give a name and street address, but it will give us the sender’s username and Internet address, which is just as good. If we find anything in these messages, we turn it over to the cops and they can get a court order and find out who the person is and where he lives. Let me read a couple, see what we have.”
He stopped humming and the silence was deafening. I shifted my feet a couple of times and thought of asking him if there was another chair in the room. Finally, he said, “Jesus, it looks like Louise Driscoll was into cybersex. This is all sex mail.”
“All of it?”
“All I’ve read so far. Listen to this, from somebody who calls himself Babycakes. ‘Thanks for your reply. I look forward to meeting you, especially if your pussy is as hot and wet as you say it is’.”
“Not exactly poetry, is it? But at least we know Babycakes didn’t kill her. He never met her.”
“Matthew,” Eddie said, “it looks like she was talking to these guys and meeting them for sex, and she met the wrong guy. That would explain why she was found in a roach trap motel. Her killer met Louise Driscoll on the Net and thought she was a hooker. She was playing games, Matthew. Maybe she was playing being a prostitute. We’ll know when we read the outgoing mail.”
Things were getting a lot clearer. I was getting a much better picture of who Louise Driscoll was, but I wasn’t sure it was one her mother would want to know.
“Hard to believe, though, isn’t it?” Eddie said. “You wonder why a woman like Louise Driscoll would get caught up in cybersex.”
“Getting old maybe. Felt the need for something new, something different.”
“Could be. The killer is in these messages, Matthew. Everybody makes one mistake, and this guy made his.” He sounded exultant, and I was feeling pretty good myself. “Every message she got has a username and an address, and there’s a real name and address connected to it. Plus, every message she sent is still in the file, and every one has the recipient’s username and address. We got him, Matthew, we got the sonofabitch!”
We called Frank Kopf and waited. We sat in Louise Driscoll’s living room, on a comfortable and no doubt expensive sofa, and congratulated each other.
I heard the door open, heard Frank say, “Hiya, Doyle, hiya, Ed. This is my partner, Steve Killarney. No kidding, Killarney’s his real name.”
Eddie explained what he’d found and took them back to the office. I was beginning to feel left out. When they came back out, Frank was jubilant.
“Good work, partner,” he cried, clapping me on the shoulder. “Now we can get the name and address of every guy who contacted her, and every guy she contacted. We’ve got the sonofabitch! It’s payback time for Maggie Swain and all the others.”
“I’ll get everything off her computer for you,” Eddie said. “Save you trying to find somebody computer literate.”
“Thanks, Ed,” Frank rasped. “We appreciate it.”
I left them there and went back to the office. I called Kelley and she said she wasn’t having any luck and might as well come in. Thirty minutes later I heard the door open.
“Had an interesting time at Driscoll’s, toots,” I said, and told her all about it.
“Cybersex, huh?” was all she said. “Just goes to show, you never know. Let’s go talk to our lilac Maureen.”
I put Buster’s harness back on and we headed for Jack’s Place, where I dropped off a hundred dollars for Leon. Frank Kopf gave me her name and address, but Leon gave me her name first, and a deal’s a deal. Besides, Sammy Weese was good for it.
We got to Franklin Street without mishap, and when Kelley stopped, Buster and I did too. Traffic o
n 22nd was fairly heavy, hissing by, engines revving, mufflers throbbing, horns blaring. I liked the sound of it.
“I thought I knew this town backward and forward,” I said, “but I don’t have a real clear picture of Franklin Street. Brownstones maybe?”
“You got it. Brownstones, three storey, both sides of the street. A gem of a street, just one block long, an oasis in the middle of the city. It’s beautiful, it looks like a movie set. I’ll bet it looked just like this in 1870.”
“I don’t remember walking on any cobblestones,” I said, and instantly wished I hadn’t.
“You didn’t,” she snapped. “They’ve been paved over. So it doesn’t look like a movie set. So it didn’t look just like this in 1870.”
“Temper, temper,” I said. “Which one are we?”
“We’re standing in front of it, the fourth from the corner. Shall we knock?”
“Let’s.”
“They sit pretty high up,” she said. I can tell when she’s worried I might have a problem. “There’s a bunch of steps and a big stone handrail.”
My free hand found the stone handrail and we started up. That’s the nice thing about handrails. They let you know where you are at all times. They let you know when you’re going up or going down, they let you know when to turn, they let you know when you’re at a landing. Terrific invention, handrails.
Kelley said, “There’s a pair of big, old fashioned wood and glass entrance doors. I’ll see if they’re open.” I heard her try the door handle. “Front door’s open, straight ahead. There’s a small step up into the vestibule.”
She tries hard not to guide me, recognizing that’s Buster’s job, but once in a while she points out something she thinks Buster might miss. Buster, of course, doesn’t miss a thing. I felt him step up, announcing an obstacle ahead. I stepped up into the vestibule and closed the door behind me.
“Six mailboxes,” Kelley said, “and six doorbells. One of them says Zobranski. She’s in 3B.”
She must have pushed the doorbell, because after what seemed like several minutes she said, “No answer. Maybe she’s out to dinner. Seems a trifle early to go to work.”
AND A TIME TO DIE Page 6