“Apparently. The guy at the carwash gave the police a statement, plus there was a credit card receipt for that date in the glove compartment.”
“So we have Jimmy’s prints on the door and a palm print on the window opening, all places where they would’ve been washed off the previous Wednesday.”
“All that means is they got there sometime in the next couple of days.”
“When was the last time Jimmy saw Tommy?”
“Jimmy says he saw him a couple of days before he died. He stopped into the jewelry store just to shoot the shit.”
“Well, Sammy,” I said slowly, letting him know I’d given everything due consideration, “I’ve seen people go to jail with less physical evidence. Juries believe in fingerprints. Fingerprints are sacred. Sammy, the DA is gonna take that jury right up to that car, put them right outside the driver’s side door, gonna make them see and feel that rolled down window, make them see the left hand resting on the sill, see the right hand bring up that little twenty-two target pistol.”
“I know,” Sammy said softly. “That’s why you’ve got to find the killer. The cops have Jimmy Pompo and they’re not about to let him go.”
I was conflicted. My guts were turning somersaults. We needed this fee, but what price would I put on honor? Jimmy Pompo was guilty of the murder of Tommy DeMarco, and I couldn’t imagine trying to find some loophole to let him wriggle out of it.
“He deserves to be put away,” I said. “Why should I try to prevent it?”
“Because he didn’t do it,” Sammy said urgently. “He didn’t do it. Maureen could’ve cleared Jimmy, but she didn’t come forward because she was afraid. Find out who she was afraid of, and you’ve found the murderer of Tommy DeMarco and Maureen Zobranski.”
If there was one thing I was absolutely sure of, it was that the same person did not kill DeMarco and Zobranski. Sammy obviously had no knowledge of the details of how Zobranski died, and I didn’t feel it was my place to enlighten him.
“All right,” I said, “I’ll look into it. But if I find anything at all pointing to Jimmy, I take it to the cops.”
“Fair enough,” Sammy said. He must’ve leaned forward for emphasis, because the scent of aftershave became noticeably stronger. “If you find evidence Jimmy killed Tommy DeMarco, you go to the cops. But I don’t think you will. Jimmy Pompo did not kill Tommy DeMarco. I want you to get down to Atlantic City as soon as you can, check out the blackjack dealers. Talk to Maureen’s neighbors, maybe she said something to one of them. Check out Tommy’s movements the night he was killed.”
“One other thing,” I said. “I’ll need some help. I want to bring in Eddie Westphal. What’s the budget?”
“Whatever’s reasonable. Do what you have to do. Jimmy won’t get to spend his money if he’s sent away for murder.”
“Does he remember the names of anybody he might have met in the casino last Thursday night?”
“He met a lot of people, he talked to the other players at the table, but has no idea who they were or where they were from.”
“How about casino employees?”
“He says there were a number of young ladies brought drinks to the table, but he doesn’t know who they were. Maybe one of them will remember him, he was there so long.”
“What about the dealer?”
“He says there was more than one dealer at the table in the course of the night, and the only one he remembers by name is a young black woman named Bernice. He saw her nametag, and the only reason he remembers it is because his mother has a sister named Bernice. Unfortunately, she’s the only one whose name he remembers.”
“All right, Sammy, we’ll go to Harrah’s and ask for Bernice. I’ll need a recent picture of Jimmy.”
“Way ahead of you,” he said. “There’s a manila folder right in front of you. Good likeness. Smiling and everything. You already have glossies of Maureen.”
“Plus, I’ll need a list of Tommy’s friends and acquaintances.”
“Ahead of you again. There’s a complete list in the folder. A couple of Tommy’s girlfriends, his wife, and some business associates. If you’ve any questions about any of these people, just give me a call and I’ll try and get the answers. And oh, by the way, one of the girlfriends is interesting.”
He sounded amused, but I heard the chair being pushed back so I didn’t get a chance to ask him why. I stood up and held out my hand. Sammy grabbed it and we said solong.
Back in the office, I had just gotten Buster comfortable when the phone rang.
“Nothing on Tamika Johnson yet,” Kelley said, “but I might have a lead on our Youssef Paul.”
“Okay, toots. Hurry back and I’ll treat you to lunch, then we’ll see who’s on the list.”
“What list?”
“Sammy gave me a list of Tommy’s friends, girlfriends and business associates. We have to talk to them sooner or later.”
“All right,” she sighed. “I’ll be right in.”
She was as good as her word, and twenty minutes later I heard the door open and close.
“Lunch first, or look at the list first?” she said.
“Look at the list first. That way we can talk about it over lunch.”
I heard opening manila folder sounds, heard the satisfying rustle of crisp paper.
“All right,” Kelley said, “there are twelve names here, four men, eight women. Didn’t you say they called him Handsome Tommy?”
“They did.”
“One of them is Irene DeMarco, probably the wife, and the rest are either acquaintances or girlfriends. One of them is a familiar name. I wonder if she’s any relation?”
“Relation to whom?” I said patiently.
“To the District Attorney. One of the names is Adele Clotherman.”
“Sammy did seem pleased with himself.”
“I guess we’ll have to find out if Adele Clotherman is Warren Clotherman’s wife, or sister, or cousin or whatever.”
“Well, we are detectives,” I reminded her. “She must be connected somehow, why else would Sammy be amused? Do the names come with addresses and phone numbers?”
“Yes, they do. A Relinda Smith lives in the Rittenhouse Towers. She’s the closest. Do you want me to call her, or do you want to talk to Tommy DeMarco’s wife first?”
“Let’s try Miss Smith. If she’s home we can mosey on over after lunch. She’s right on the Square, so it’ll be convenient for Buster too.”
She was home and would expect us at two.
“We’ll soon know if Relinda Smith has anything interesting to say,” I said happily. I hadn’t interrogated a witness in a long time, and was looking forward to it.
The Rittenhouse Towers was one of the older buildings on the square, and was what has been described as quietly elegant. The lobby was cool and quiet, and smelled of furniture polish. We walked through the coolness, and when Buster stopped so did I. I heard Kelley say Relinda Smith, heard a youngish sounding woman talk quietly on the phone, heard her say, Ms Smith is expecting you, and we headed for the elevators.
“This building had elevator operators once,” I said on our way up. “I kinda miss the old ways. Self service elevators don’t say good afternoon, sir.”
“Or anything else,” Kelley said. “Here we are, twenty-second floor, the high rent district. Did you notice how quiet the elevator was without those chatty operators?”
“This whole place is quiet. I don’t think I’d like to live here. I like a little buzz from time to time. Incidentally, Louise Driscoll lived here as well. Not this building, but on the Square. I wonder if they know each other?”
“Probably. Money talks to money.”
The corridor was as silent as every place else in the building. Lush carpeting absorbed our footsteps, the only sound the distant hum of the air handling equipment. We stopped and I felt for the buzzer.
I like having Kelley along on these occasions because she has the knack of smelling the truth. I ask the questions and she watche
s the faces, and afterward we compare notes.
The door opened and a husky voice said, “Mrs. Doyle? Mr. Doyle? Please come in. I’m Relinda Smith.”
I smiled and said, “Buster can stay in the hall if you have allergies, Miss Smith.” That’s my stock line in such situations, giving people who don’t want a dog in their house a chance to be graceful.
“No, that’s fine, Mr. Doyle. I like dogs.”
We went in and Buster led me to a chair.
“What can I do for you?” Relinda Smith asked, in a voice that set my libido racing. She’d apparently had vocal training of some sort, for her voice was modulated and controlled, low and full of timbre. She was wearing a scent that, coupled with the voice, caused the hairs on my arms to rustle. She smelled nothing at all like Cathy Cerullo, or even Kelley. Whatever she had on was the real article.
“Thank you for seeing us at such short notice, Miss Smith,” I said. “We’ve been engaged by Mr. Jimmy Pompo’s attorney to look into the matter of Tommy DeMarco’s death.”
“A terrible thing,” she said in her captivating voice, “but not at all unexpected. I’ve told the police all I know, which isn’t much. You’ve been engaged by Mr. Weese?”
“Yes.”
Her voice became even lower and silkier than before. “I understand Jimmy Pompo has been arrested.”
“Yes, he has. Kelley and I are looking into the matter, trying to see if there might be something that points to someone else.”
“Jimmy Pompo did not kill Tommy DeMarco, Mr. Doyle,” she said firmly. “They were friends, business associates.”
Maybe she knew something, maybe she didn’t. “How well did you know Tommy DeMarco, Miss Smith?”
“Tommy and I dated occasionally, usually to fill out a foursome with Louise Driscoll and her current beau.”
So that answered that. Louise Driscoll and Tommy DeMarco knew one another, but it wasn’t all that surprising if you thought about it. She was, after all, well acquainted with the local mob. I didn’t know Relinda Smith knew Louise Driscoll, but there was no reason why she shouldn’t. From her voice I suspected Relinda was fairly upper crust herself.
“You knew Louise Driscoll?”
“Yes. We were good friends. Louise and I met at Bryn Mawr, and have remained friends ever since. There were three of us, Bryn Mawr girls, and I suppose Louise and Adele were a bit closer. I married soon after graduation and moved to California for eight years. I kept in touch, letters, the occasional visit home to see my parents, that sort of thing, but Louise and Adele remained in the Philadelphia area, and so saw a great deal of each other. Being cousins, they would naturally be close. Louise’s father and Adele’s mother were brother and sister.”
“Would that be Adele Clotherman?”
“Yes. Do you know her? A lovely woman. Her brother is District Attorney. She resumed her maiden name after each of her divorces, as did I, a very sensible thing to do, I believe.”
“Did Adele know Tommy DeMarco?”
“Oh yes. Adele and Tommy were an item for a while. Adele would know more about Tommy DeMarco than I would, Mr. Doyle. I only saw Tommy occasionally.”
“Did Adele know Jimmy Pompo?”
“Yes, she did. Louise knew a great many men of that sort, and Adele and I were friends of Louise’s. We all knew Jimmy and Tommy, some more intimately than others.”
Every answer crisp, assured, not a moment’s hesitation. “How well did Louise know Jimmy Pompo and Tommy DeMarco?” I asked.
“Intimately, in both cases. Louise had been seeing Jimmy recently, until she left him and took up with Tommy. Louise didn’t stay with one man very long, Mr. Doyle. Louise loved excitement, she loved danger. That’s why she found people like Jimmy Pompo and Tommy DeMarco so attractive.”
I wasn’t happy. I didn’t like it when coincidence piled upon coincidence. I had come to ask about Tommy DeMarco, only to find Louise Driscoll. Would Jimmy and Tommy be in her computer files? And if so, what of it? She was killed by a maniac, not a disgruntled lover. “Both you and Louise knew Tommy DeMarco intimately?”
She laughed. “Very intimately.”
Her frankness left me uncomfortable. “He’s known to his friends as Handsome Tommy,” I said.
She laughed again and said, “He is that.” A low, throaty laugh. I’d have been disappointed had it been anything else. She stopped suddenly, as if remembering Tommy was no longer in the present tense.
She’d given me a great deal to think about, more than I’d expected. “Do you know if there was a specific reason Louise broke off the relationship with Jimmy?”
She hesitated for the first time, probably deciding if she wanted to tell me. “Not a specific reason,” she said slowly. “Louise didn’t need reasons. She’d been seeing him for seven or eight months, the standard length of time for Louise. She liked men, and she especially liked new men.”
“How would you characterize the relationship?”
She hesitated again. She had seemed perfectly willing to describe the relationship between Louise and Tommy, but seemed reluctant to talk about Jimmy. Maybe the dispute between Jimmy and Tommy wasn’t business, but Louise.
“Jimmy was younger than Louise,” Relinda Smith said, “but that didn’t seem to make any difference to Jimmy. He seemed to be genuinely fond of her. I can only go by what I observed. Louise never confided in me about the particulars of the relationship.”
“When did the relationship end?”
“About a month ago, perhaps three weeks ago.”
“When did she start seeing Tommy DeMarco?”
“Knowing Louise,” she laughed, “she probably started seeing Tommy seriously before she ended the relationship with Jimmy.”
Back on track, easy answers. “How long would you say she’d known Tommy DeMarco before she started seeing him seriously?”
“Oh, years. Louise knew most of them, going back many years. Did you know she was once close to Carlo Senna?”
“Yes, I’ve heard that,” I said. “When you say she knew most of them, are you referring to the Philadelphia mafia?”
“Yes. Louise was attracted to men of violence, in the same way she was attracted to anything dangerous. Louise was quite compartmentalized, Mr. Doyle. You saw only a part of her, and only that part she wanted you to see.”
“Is it possible, in your view, that Jimmy could’ve killed Tommy out of jealousy or wounded pride?”
“Lord no. Jimmy was fond of Louise, but Jimmy was fond of a lot of women. Jimmy wouldn’t kill for love, Mr. Doyle.”
An awful lot of threads connected the four of them, Louise Driscoll, Maureen Zobranski, Tommy DeMarco and Jimmy Pompo. Of the four, three met violent deaths, with only Jimmy still alive. I knew he didn’t kill Zobranski or Driscoll, that was Leon, but could he have killed Tommy out of jealousy? I didn’t think so. Still, there was one disturbing discrepancy. I was confident Leon killed Driscoll, but all his other victims were prostitutes, and Louise Driscoll was no prostitute.
“Did Louise ever mention any fears?” I said. “Was she afraid of anyone? Did she ever say anything at all that might lead you, in retrospect, to think she thought something might happen to her?”
“Nothing like that at all, Mr. Doyle. Louise Driscoll was as unafraid as any woman I know, and less afraid than most men. She was a rock climber, a hot air balloonist, a scuba diver. She belonged to a sky diving club. She has done things that would terrify most people, including me. If she had any idea at all that something might happen to her, she never mentioned it, at least not to me.”
“Did you see Louise the night she died?”
“No. I saw her the day before, a Wednesday, for lunch.”
“Where was that?”
“At her athletic club. She was into exercise, health food, that sort of thing. Trying to forestall the inevitable. Why do men age more gracefully than women, Mr. Doyle?”
“I don’t know, Miss Smith. Maybe we’re so pleased we lived to see it that we don’t care as muc
h how we look.”
“That could be,” she said seriously. “At a certain point, a woman’s greatest fear is looking her age. You asked me if Louise had any fears, and I said no. But she had one. She wasn’t looking forward to being fifty.”
“Well, someone saw that she wouldn’t. Have you any knowledge of her activities the following night, the night she died? Do you know what she was doing in a rundown motel in West Philly?”
“No idea whatsoever, Mr. Doyle.”
“Did you see DeMarco the night he died?”
“I haven’t seen Tommy DeMarco in months.”
“Would you have any idea why he’d be sitting in his car on a South Philly corner at one in the morning?”
“None whatever.”
“I’d like to talk to Adele Clotherman, Miss Smith. Do you know if she’s in town?”
“Louise’s death has upset her, Mr. Doyle,” she said, her voice concerned. “I doubt she’d want to speak to anyone about it.”
“Perhaps if you spoke to her she’d consent to talk to us. We’re trying to find Tommy DeMarco’s killer, and we’re interested in everyone who knows both Tommy and Jimmy.”
“Yes,” she said, “we all want to find Tommy’s killer. I’ll call now, Mr. Doyle. When would you want to speak to her?”
“This afternoon, if possible.”
There was silence, and I gathered she had walked away.
“She’s gone,” Kelley whispered. “Probably one of those people who think telephone conversations should be private.”
The faintest of footsteps on deep pile carpeting told me she was back.
“I’ve spoken to Adele,” Mr. Doyle,” she said. “She says she will see you now if you can be in Radnor in thirty minutes.”
“Thank you, Miss Smith,” I said. “One last question. What sort of man would you say Tommy DeMarco was?”
“Have you heard the expression, a wife at home and a bit on the side? That’s Tommy DeMarco, and I was one of the bits, one of the many bits. I don’t know his wife, but I think she deserved better.”
I stood up. Buster got up and leaned against me, letting me know he was ready when I was. I grabbed the harness and said, “Thank you again, Miss Smith. May I feel free to speak to you again if the occasion arises?”
AND A TIME TO DIE Page 9