by Dorien Grey
“Well, I just thought you might want to make a police report.”
“They took a report at the scene.”
“Yeah, but did they know somebody cut your brake fluid hoses?”
CHAPTER 13
My first reaction was surprise, which quickly segued into a mild shock. No one had ever seriously tried to kill me before—and I had to assume cutting someone’s brake hoses had to be considered serious.
Nothing gets by you, does it, Hardesty? a mind-voice observed.
And if whoever did it knew I would be going down that hill toward a train track, I’d say it was pretty damned serious.
My second reaction was anger, which blossomed into near fury. What if Jonathan and/or Joshua had been in the car with me and those bushes hadn’t been there? If anyone has a grudge against me, they can take their best shot…but they’d damned well better keep everyone else out of it, especially people I care about.
If whoever had done this had just left well enough alone, I’d have put the whole matter behind me. I’d just resigned myself to the fact that with no client paying the bills, I’d simply have to let it drop. Ah, but that was before it became really personal, and I had very little doubt that when I found whoever was responsible for the brakes, I’d also find who killed—or was responsible for killing—Carlene DeNuncio.
I wanted a cigarette, and that alone told me I was more shaken up than I thought. I hadn’t had a cigarette, or wanted one, literally in years.
I put in a call to Marty Gresham at police headquarters, just to let him know what was going on, but he wasn’t in the office, so I just decided to try again in the morning.
I closed up the office, and walked to the bus stop.
*
I wasn’t really aware of the ride home—almost missed my stop, as a matter of fact—for thinking about who might have cut my brake lines, and why. Well, the “why” was fairly obvious: someone suspected I knew more than, in fact, I did know, and didn’t want me to find out any more. As to who that “someone” might be, though….
Bonnie Bronson? She’d always been a sort of peripheral suspect as far as I was concerned, and she had obviously talked Estelle into firing me. So why not let it go at that?
Well, maybe she was covering her ass with Estelle and anyone else who might follow up on my movements/activities prior to my demise, had the attempt to kill me succeeded. I still wasn’t certain about the relationship between the two sisters, but it struck me that Estelle might be a tad suspicious of her sister if I suddenly turned up dead. I couldn’t really picture Bonnie with a pair of clippers cutting the lines herself—she didn’t strike me as the mechanical type. But if Eddie Styles was still around somewhere, she—or Jan Houston—could have had him do it for her. Roy D’Angelo could easily have done it himself, but it was highly unlikely he was still in town.
Jan Houston hadn’t been too happy with me when I last talked to her. Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if Jan knew her way around an engine. Had I asked her if she by any chance knew Eddie Styles? I wasn’t sure, but if I hadn’t, I would.
I remembered mentioning him to both Roy D’Angelo and his mother, and getting some sort of vibes from them, which I hadn’t followed up on. I’d make a point to do that now.
*
I was a little concerned, when I got off the bus and was walking to the apartment, to see Jonathan’s car parked on the street, then remembered that it was his school night and he probably didn’t want to take the time to put it in the garage and then take it out again. I gathered they were through working on the alley. Though the car was about three doors past our building, I walked over to it and looked underneath for any signs of pooled liquid. There wasn’t any, of course. I checked his tires while I was at it. All seemed to be well.
Better paranoid than sorry.
Joshua was obviously feeling much better. Just about every book and toy he owned were scattered around the living room when I got home. I was quite sure he’d been playing his “I’ve been very, very sick” card with Jonathan, who otherwise would have seen to it that at least most of the toys were put away before he got out more.
Joshua was doing his little dance-of-impatience when I came in, demanding a cookie before dinner.
“It’ll spoil your appetite,” Jonathan was saying over his shoulder as he took ice cubes out of the freezer for my Manhattan.
“No it won’t!” Joshua insisted. “I’m hungry.”
“We’ll be eating in a little while.”
“I’m hungry now!” the boy insisted, and Jonathan relented, taking out a wrapped piece of sliced American cheese and, laying the ice cube tray on the counter, peeled the wrapper and handed it to Joshua.
“That’s not a cookie!”
“Yes, it is. It’s a cheese cookie. Do you want it or not?”
With a look of resigned nobility, Joshua took the slice of cheese.
They obviously hadn’t noticed my entrance, but when they did, both came over for our group hug.
“What did the garage man want?” Jonathan asked as I set Joshua down to finish his slice of cheese.
“Nothing much,” I lied, and he gave me a raised eyebrow look.
“Uh-huh. So what did he want?”
Shit! I didn’t want to lie to him, but I didn’t want to worry him, either. Still, he had a right to know.
“Well, he claims somebody cut my brake lines—probably just some local random vandalism. I’m really going to have to start keeping it in the garage.”
“Jeez!” He was obviously distressed, as I feared he would be. “You could have been killed! And what if Joshua had been with you? Did you report it to the police?”
I shook my head. “No, but I will in the morning. Let’s just be sure you keep your car in the garage tonight as soon as you get home.”
From the look on his face, I could tell he didn’t believe my “random vandalism” theory, but he didn’t say anything, probably because he didn’t want to worry me in case I bought into it.
*
I took Jonathan’s car in the morning, dropping Joshua off at Happy Day and Jonathan at Evergreens. Since I parked in a guarded lot at work, I wasn’t too concerned that anything would happen to it, even if whoever was out to get me was aware I was driving it, a thought I realized had more than a little paranoia in it.
Though I was still a little shaken by the idea that someone might really have tried to kill me, it didn’t keep me from my coffee/paper/crossword puzzle routine first thing when I got to the office. That done, I typed up my report on the previous day’s research, put everything in an envelope, and decided to hand deliver it to the lawyer’s office. It was a fair distance, but I could walk it.
And save having to take the car out of its nice, safe lot? a mind-voice asked.
Of course not! I mentally replied. I need the exercise.
Sure.
I spent the time on the walk over and back to think about the case, which was now not Estelle Bronson’s case but mine. I realized I had no fewer than four people pissed off at me, and every one of them was, I had no doubt, capable of acting on their displeasure. But attempted murder? If I were to rank them in order, I’d probably put Roy D’Angelo at the top of the list, Jan Houston right below him, Bonnie Bronson next, and Angelina D’Angelo at the bottom. But it was a pretty flimsy list, at best, and of the four on it, only two were really likely, Roy and Jan, because they each had by far the strongest motivation: Kelly. Bonnie Bronson…well, I still wasn’t perfectly clear on her motivation. Killing someone is a tad extreme a method to “protect” a sister. And Angelina D’Angelo…well, motherly love and wanting to have her grandson be with her son might be a motive, except that she didn’t strike me as the kind of mom who would go too far out of her way to help a son she obviously didn’t get along with in the first place.
But I’ve learned that logic is not a necessary component of motivation.
So Roy wanted Kelly. Why? I’ve seen guppies with a stronger paternal instinct than I
sensed in this guy. And having a kid would certainly put a crimp in his lifestyle. Probably he saw Kelly as a way to oil his way into his mother’s good graces—and her checkbook. And Angelina D’Angelo certainly did not strike me as the grandmotherly type.
I decided I’d really like to have a talk with Mildred Collins. I wasn’t exactly quite sure why, but perhaps she could give me a third-party insight into Angelina and Roy. I’d have to think about exactly how to get to her without letting Angelina know. I’d sensed that Mildred was to Angelina as Estelle was to Bonnie—in other words, under the thumb of her sister.
In the meantime, though, I thought it best to give Marty Gresham a call at police headquarters, just to let him know what was going on. Part of me—the “I’m a big boy and can take care of myself” part—hated running to anyone else with my problems, but then attempted murder is a bit more than a “problem.”
“Officer Gresham.”
“Marty, hi, it’s Dick Hardesty.”
He sounded surprised. “Dick! Small world! I was going to give you a call.”
For some reason my crotch was very happy to hear that. So what if Marty was irredeemably straight? So what if I’m happily involved? Fantasies are fantasies, and my crotch has a mind of its own.
“What’s up?”
“I think we might have a lead on Eddie Styles. We think he might be back in town.”
“Well, talk about small worlds.” I told him about my recent close encounter with the commuter train.
Marty was quiet for a moment when I’d finished, then said, “I guess that pretty much resolves any question of whether or not the DeNuncio woman’s death was more than a hit-and-run.” There was another pause, then, “I think I’d better talk to Lieutenant Richman about intensifying our investigation. To be honest with you, our preliminary investigation really didn’t indicate even a remote connection between her and Styles. From what we know of Styles, his services don’t come cheap, and the only one close to Miss DeNuncio we considered was her ex roommate. We found out the roommate had taken an insurance policy out on her, but it wasn’t all that big a policy and she accounted for all of it.”
We talked for a few more minutes, then hung up.
That the police had looked into Jan closely enough to find out about the insurance, and had questioned her about what she’d done with it was all news to me. Not that the police were obligated in any way to let me know everything they were doing, but it would have been nice to know. Whereas I’d been wondering whether the insurance money might have been enough to hire Styles, I now doubted very much that Jan could have afforded it. So unless she had another source of income I didn’t know about….
I realize, too, that sometimes I tend to hang some pretty heavy assumptions on some very weak strings. How would Jan even have known about Styles in the first place? How would Bonnie? I mean, the yellow pages don’t usually carry a “Hit Men” listing. But there was something Marty had told me about Styles when he first entered the picture….What was it?
Oh, yeah. Styles’ rap sheet went back to when he was 17…in Kentucky…and he had served time in prison there. Jan met Carlene in Kentucky. A bit of a stretch right there, but I probably hooked subconsciously onto the Kentucky link. But then again, the D’Angelos were from Kentucky, too! Jan knew Roy—I still wasn’t sure how, but I’d find out. And Roy’s father had a rather shady past, and…
And, and, and to the end of recorded time, one of my mind-voices said wearily.
I pulled myself back to reality and reached for the phone, hoping I remembered Mildred Collins’ number, and hoping Angelina didn’t answer the phone. I wasn’t at all sure I could tell them apart. Well, if there was any throat-clearing, I’d know.
“Mrs. Collins?” I asked in response to a “Hello?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“This is Dick Hardesty.” I assumed she’d remember me, but didn’t want to take any chances. “We met the other day at lunch. I’m sorry not to have recognized your voice, but you and your sister sound so very much alike.”
“Oh, yes. Everyone says that. Just a moment, I’ll go call Angelina.”
“No,” I hastened to say before she put the phone down, “it was you I wanted to talk to. Do you have a moment?”
Her voice reflected her hesitation. “Well, I don’t know, Mr. Hardesty. Angelina is out on the patio, reading, and I just came in to fix our lunch. What is it you wanted? Are you sure you wouldn’t like to speak to Angelina?”
“Actually, I did want to talk with you. I’m trying to understand the relationship between Mrs. D’Angelo and Roy.”
“Why?”
Good question, I thought. Now let’s try for a good answer.
“Well, as I explained at lunch, I’d like to be able to tell the police that I doubt Roy had anything to do with Carlene’s death, but I’m afraid I didn’t get all that much assurance on that point from Mrs. D’Angelo. I gather there is some tension between her and Roy.”
There was a significant pause, then, “Yes, I think you might say that. I fear our entire family is somewhat dysfunctional.”
Can I assume you’re including yourself? I wondered.
“Angelina can be very…difficult…at times. She has her own agendas in life. Roy inherited many of Angelina’s traits.”
I was getting the distinct impression that, like with the Bronsons, there was a lot more going on beneath the surface of her relationship with her sister than Mildred Collins cared to make known. Being an only child, I never did really understand the dynamics between siblings, but I suspected that neither the Bronsons nor Mildred and Angelina were typical examples.
“What do you think of Roy’s seeking custody of Carlene DeNuncio’s son?”
There was a very long pause, then, “I…I…I really can’t talk about that.” She sounded mildly flustered.
I decided to push it. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand. Is there some reason why?”
Another pause. “It…it’s not that I can’t, it’s that I really don’t want to. And I really must go fix lunch now.”
“Of course. I’ll let you go. But I was wondering, since I still have several questions, if I could give you my work number and perhaps you might call me when you have time.”
To be honest, I was a little surprised when she said, “Let me get a pencil.”
I heard the phone being set down, and when she returned I gave her my number.
There was a slight pause while she apparently wrote it down, then, “I really must go now.”
And she hung up.
Well, that was an intriguing conversation. And I’d say it was pretty much a dysfunctional family, all right. And while I didn’t have a conscious clue as to what that was all about, somewhere in the far corners of my mind I could hear whispers.
Daughters. Agendas. Abandoned. Roy D’Angelo. Jan Houston. Carlene said…
Oh, the hell with it! When they got louder, I’d listen to them. I went to lunch.
*
As usual, it didn’t work. The whispers were there for a reason, and trying to ignore them was pointless. So I just left them as much to themselves as I could. But I kept coming back to something Carlene had said at one time about…about being abandoned.
Jan Houston! Carlene had said Jan’s mother had abandoned her when she was very young.
Yeah, that was rough. But what did that have to do with what was going on now?
Jan had been raised by an aunt.
Okay, so…?
Oh, come on, Hardesty! my mind-voice said, disgustedly. Surely you’re not trying to make a link between Jan and the D’Angelos? You’ve done some pretty illogical stretching in the past, but…!
Well, why not? There was a link between Jan and Roy D’Angelo. She really hated him, though from what I knew of Roy, there could have been any number of reasons for that. And true, Jan had never given me any indication that she even knew who Angelina D’Angelo was, but then the woman’s name had never come up when I talked to her. So…?
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Well, there was one way to find out.
*
I didn’t want to try to reach Jan at work, so made a mental note to call her from home.
The afternoon passed, and I left the office early enough to swing by and pick up Jonathan before going to Happy Day for Joshua. Not particularly wanting to see either of the Bronson sisters at the moment, I waited in the car while Jonathan went in to get him. He was gone what seemed like a very long time, and when he came out with Joshua, he did not look happy.
“Something wrong?” I asked after Jonathan had put Joshua in the back seat and gotten in the front seat beside me.
“We’ll talk about it later.”
I didn’t think I liked the sound of that. And when Joshua wanted to get in the front seat with us, Jonathan firmly told him “No.”
I had no idea what was going on, but didn’t want to step into anything until I knew more about it.
When we got home, Jonathan told Joshua to go play in his room while Jonathan and I talked about grown-up things. I followed Jonathan into the kitchen and fixed my Manhattan, opened a can of Coke for him, then joined him at the kitchen table.
“Okay, what’s the problem?”
“He got into a fight today with another boy.”
“He’s four years old. How much of a fight could it have been?”
Jonathan scowled at me. “That’s not the point! He gave the boy a bloody nose!”
“So what was it all about?”
He took a long drink of his Coke before replying. “Apparently the other boy said something about the fact that while every other kid there has a mother or a father, Joshua doesn’t, and Joshua just lit into him! I’m not going to have him turning into a bully!”
“That hardly sounds like being a bully to me.”
“You’re defending him?” Jonathan asked, obviously not pleased.
“No, I’m not defending him. He shouldn’t have hit the kid, but I can understand why he did. He’s four years old! He doesn’t know how else to react.”
“Well he’d damned well better learn,” Jonathan said firmly.