Razzamatazz (A Crime Novel)

by Sandra Scoppettone

  "That is out-and-out blackmail."

  "I guess it is. Even so, that's what I'm asking." He grinned boyishly.

  Fran stared at him not smiling. "I'll think about it."

  "Time is of the essence."

  "I need to think about it."

  "Two hours?"

  "Three."

  "Right."

  She picked up her knife and fork, cut a good-size piece of steak, popped it into her mouth, chewed, swallowed. "Not going to let this go to waste."

  He'd be damned if she wouldn't sit down to a five-course meal after a nuclear attack warning. Nothing could put Fran off her feed. A nice slice of Crawford's cheesecake ought to clinch the deal. Ten- to-one by tomorrow morning Fran and her friends would be making their lists.

  LOOKING BACK—25 YEARS AGO

  Miss Harriet Laine, who had previously appeared before the board to register complaints about the dogs roaming the village, presented a petition signed by many residents and non-residents. Mayor Nichols said there was reason to believe an item might be placed in the town budget providing for a well-equipped dogcatcher. The board was not unanimous that the problem had been solved.

  SEVENTEEN

  Colin hadn't slept well the night before. He'd had bad dreams— Nancy begging him to save her, calling him a traitor. Once awake, thoughts of Annie kept him from going back to sleep. Now, as he went over the material for an article about Seaville Hospital's deficits, his eyes kept closing.

  Picking up his coffee cup, he left his office. He stopped at David Wenshaw's desk. "All ready to cover the big meeting tonight?"

  Wenshaw gave an exaggerated yawn. "Ready as I'll ever be. I don't even need to go. I could write that shit in my sleep. Same damn stuff every time."

  "Think of it as experience, Dave."

  "Experience for what?"

  "Maybe it'll make its way into your novel."

  Wenshaw gave a weak smile. The novel was a sensitive subject and he wasn't sure if Colin was making fun of him.

  Colin picked up on Wenshaw's expression. "I'm serious. You never know what might be material."

  "Believe me, I know. Whether we're going to have condos at the end of Fourth Street or not is never going to make it into any novel I write."

  "You promise?"

  "I promise."

  He gave Dave a friendly slap on the shoulder and continued toward the front. The coffee machine was near the receptionist's desk. Sarah was filling in for the regular, who was out sick.

  Colin poured himself a cup. "I can't stay awake today."

  "Did you have a bad night?" Sarah asked.

  "Yeah." He ran his fingers down his mustache.

  "Mark told me about you not wanting to do the story. I don't blame you, Colin."

  He'd finally gone to Mark, said he couldn't write the Mary Beth Higbee story. He'd keep on with the rest, follow-ups, anything new. Mark had said okay. "I just couldn't hack it," he said to Sarah.

  "That's understandable."

  He nodded, feeling lousy.

  "I hear you went to church yesterday. How'd you like it?"

  "Annie told you?" he asked, slightly annoyed.

  "Everyone but. People saw your car. Or you. You can't do anything in secret here."

  "Except kill people."

  "I guess," she sighed.

  "Church was interesting. A lot different from what I grew up with. I never heard a woman preacher before. She's good."

  "The best."

  "Is she seeing anyone?"

  "You mean dating?"

  He nodded.

  "No. I think she's still getting over her husband's death. A few men have asked her out but she hasn't been interested."

  "She seems nice."

  Sarah smiled. "She is nice, Colin. And so are you."

  "Matchmaker." He smiled.

  "Sorry."

  "It's okay. See you later." At the typesetter's room he stuck his head in the door. "Sparky, let me know when you have Page Three set."

  "Yo," Sparky answered.

  In his office Colin pushed aside the hospital material and began shuffling through items for the back of the book, but he still couldn't concentrate. He kept thinking about Annie and—Nancy. Dr. Safier had warned him about this. It was inevitable, he'd said, that when Colin met a woman whom he found appealing, he would compare her to Nancy.

  Colin couldn't believe he was doing it already. There really was nothing to compare. He'd spent forty-five minutes alone with Annie. But even in that short time he'd found he liked her. She was smart and funny, interesting and attractive. So had Nancy been. Fuck it.

  He switched over to the bound issue of the Seaville Gazette of twenty-five years before, opened it up and ran his finger over the columns until he came to one that looked interesting.

  Due to numerous complaints regarding the speeding of motorcars and the disturbance caused by blaring car radios and exhaust cutouts by teenaged motorists, the Seaville Police Department started a drive this week against teenaged motorists who create disturbances late at night.

  As they said in his youth, Colin thought, rots of ruck! Twenty-five years later they still had the same problem in Seaville. It was just like the dog leash law. According to Mark, an article on that subject had been in the paper every year at the beginning of summer for the last thirty years. He decided to use the teenage-motorists piece and marked the place with an index card. As he was opening the book for fifty years before, Babe Parkinson came into his office.

  "You're looking mighty dour," she said.

  "Am I?"

  "Mmmm. Rough weekend?" She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

  "A rough weekend for everybody."

  "Ah, yes, that. Terrible. You were on the scene again, I hear."

  Had he heard an incriminating hint in what she said or was he just imagining it? "Me and about two hundred other people," he responded.

  She touched a hand to the back of her hair. "Don't get testy, sport."

  "I'm not. It's just that your lack of sensitivity boggles the mind."

  "Really? Well, my mind's boggled by your lack of ambition."

  "What's that mean?"

  "Mark's given me the Higbee kid story to write. How come?"

  He played with a paper clip. "I guess he thinks you'd do a good job. Why look a gift horse—"

  "Puleeze, Maguire, don't treat me like some asshole just 'cause I was born and bred here. I've been to the big city, you know."

  He felt uneasy, under fire. And he was pissed off at Mark; he'd thought he'd write the story himself, not draw attention to Colin's abdication. "I didn't want to write it."

  Babe said, "Clearly. The question is, why not?"

  "I don't think I have to answer to you, Babe."

  She leveled her green eyes at him. "You can't blame me for wondering, can you?"

  He couldn't. Had it been reversed he would have had the same questions. Still, he didn't know what reason to give her, so he remained silent.

  She said, "No, Babe, can't say that I blame you. Good, Maguire, I'm glad you see it my way. Sure thing, Babe. So, Maguire, how about answering why you gave up a super story, something that doesn't come around too often in the career of a small-town journalist? Well, Babe, its like this—" she gestured toward him, palm up, indicating he was on.

  "Give me a break," he said softly.

  "No, you have it backwards. It's you who's given me a break. And I appreciate it, I do. But what's the catch?"

  "No catch."

  "You just didn't feel like writing this story. You'd rather do something fascinating like covering the zoning board meeting or maybe another little piece on how Temik is polluting our water? Sure, that makes perfect sense."

  "It's really none of your business why I don't want to do the story, but I'll tell you anyway." He took a deep breath, having no idea what he was going to say. "Something happened when I was a kid, to my sister," he lied. "I'm not going into it. Suffice it to say I have a hard time writing things—bad things—ab
out kids. Okay? Can we leave it at that?"

  "Sure. I'm sorry."

  She didn't look sorry, Colin noted.

  "Want to have lunch?" she asked.

  "Can't. I have too much work."

  "You have to eat."

  "Not today."

  She stretched, giving him an eyeful of her breasts. "Catch you later."

  He watched her walk away, ass swinging. Now he found himself comparing Annie to Babe. Feature by feature maybe Babe was better looking but Annie had class, sweetness, and strength. Babe was strong but had no vulnerability. What bothered him most about Babe was her ruthlessness. There were reporters like that in Chicago and he'd never liked any of them. When his family was murdered there were two of them who'd taken advantage of their relationship with him; he'd expected it from one but the other surprised him. And it had hurt. At least Babe could never hurt him; he knew exactly what to expect.

  In a moment Annie was back in his mind. Then it hit him. How the hell was he going to explain why he had to meet her at the restaurant instead of picking her up? And what about after dinner? Would she invite him back to her house even though they were in separate cars? Maybe he should forget the whole damn thing. But that wasn't acceptable. Besides, she undoubtedly knew about his problem from the way he'd behaved the first day they met.

  Recalling her laugh, her eyes, her mouth, he decided that nothing was going to stop him from seeing her Saturday night. Not nerves, panic attacks, revelations, or comparisons. Nothing.

  At the counter of the Paradise, Babe Parkinson stared down at her scoop of tuna on a leaf of worn lettuce. She kept going over her little chat with Colin. About the sister. Why couldn't he tell her what had happened? Babe could only think of two reasons: Either the sister had died some terrible way and Colin was responsible for it, or he was lying and there was a whole other reason he couldn't write the Higbee story. She didn't know why but she favored the second.

  Then she got an idea and smiled, thinking if somebody was drawing this they'd put a light bulb over her head. She reached inside her red Sportsac bag and pulled out a battered address book, turned to R, and ran her finger down the page. There it was: Susan Rice, her old journalism school chum. She hadn't talked to her in a dog's age, but so what? They were good enough friends for that not to matter. Susan lived in Chicago and worked for the Sun-Times. Why hadn't she thought of this sooner? By tomorrow night she'd know everything there was to know about Colin Maguire. Babe paid her check, leaving her tuna uneaten. She wanted to get to a phone in a hurry.

  There were three cars ahead of him at the Drive-Thru window when Hallock stopped at the bank on his way back to the station. Crawford's, like everything else, had gotten more expensive than the last time. It was a dumb thing to do when every cent counted, Stephanie being one year away from college. Still, he'd achieved what he'd set out to do: Fran was going to help him. Even though she had the appetite of a truck driver, he didn't believe the steak had done the trick, but it hadn't hurt. Crummy business bribing your own wife. Crummy business being a cop, the things you sometimes had to do, all in the name of law and order.

  He moved up one car, looked at his watch. He was late. Damn! Late for what? Late for Schufeldt? Christ Almighty! Since when did he have to answer to some snotty twenty-eight-year-old kid? Gildersleeve had called the bastard in and told Hallock Schufeldt was to be given every cooperation. Did that mean the kid was in charge? Not in his book. Checking the time again, he decided to skip the bank, but when he glanced in his rearview he saw that there were two cars behind him and he couldn't move out of the line. Naturally he could pull rank, order the cars to back up, pretend something important was going on, but he didn't want to play that game—not with a triple murder worrying everybody.

  What if his phone book plan didn't work? he wondered. He'd told Fran the job would take about five days, but he thought it'd be more like ten. And just what the hell was that questionnaire going to be? Maybe he could get Maguire to help him with it on the QT.

  The car in front of him pulled out, and Hallock eased his cruiser into place at the window. Debbie Van Tuyl was on duty.

  "Morning, Chief," she said through her microphone.

  "Afternoon, Debbie."

  She looked startled, then giggled. "I'm just all discombobulated today."

  He placed his check in the drawer she'd pushed open. "Must be in love." He'd known Debbie all her life, delivered her on the way to the hospital in the back seat of Henry Van Tuyl's Ford.

  "How'd you know, Chief?"

  "There's nothing goes on that Chief Hallock doesn't know," he said, then immediately was embarrassed seeing her smile fade. They were both aware that he didn't know a damn thing about three murders. Quickly he got back to the love subject. "Anybody I know, this fella you're in love with?"

  "Well, you probably do," she answered, counting out his money. "Joe Carroll."

  "Ted Carroll's son?"

  She nodded, held up her left hand, and showed him an engagement ring with a small diamond.

  Hallock admired it, thinking about Ted, wondering if he'd stopped boozing and if Debbie was going to like being married to an undertaker. She pushed out the drawer again and Hallock picked up the envelope with his money.

  "'Course, Dad's having fits 'cause he doesn't care for Joe's profession. He says I'll be depressed all the time but I can't see it. I mean, I'm not going to be hanging around with dead bodies, after all." She pulled the drawer back in.

  "Well, Debbie, you got to lead your own life. Henry'll come around, you'll see."

  "I hope so."

  He put the cruiser in gear. "He will. See you. And congratulations."

  "Thanks, Chief. Have a good day."

  He was past her window by then, so she couldn't see the irritation that settled on his craggy face. If there was one thing Hallock hated it was people telling him to have a good day. He would or he wouldn't, and so far it had been mixed. Waiting for the light to change, he figured the rest wasn't going to be too bright since he had to spend it with Schufeldt and the sex offenders.

  As the light turned to green Hallock waved to Tug Wilson and his cronies standing in front of Wilson's stationery store. OTB coming in hadn't changed anything in Seaville. The boys still made their bets with Tug and all of them, including himself, pretended innocence to the offense. What the hell, nobody was getting hurt. It was just easier than driving the twenty-five miles down to Riverhead and besides, if they were going to lose, they'd rather lose to Tug than to OTB. Keeping it in the family, so to speak.

  Hallock pulled up in front of the station. Inside he was confronted with six men standing around the small front room. Al Wiggins was with them.

  "This everybody?" Hallock asked.

  "Two've already been in," he motioned to the rear door with his head, "one's in there now, and I couldn't locate two."

  "Hey, Chief, what this all about, huh?"

  "Don't worry about it, Willie, it's just routine."

  Willie Smith didn't look relieved. "This guy pull me outta work. I gonna get dock now 'cause you peoples got you routine."

  Hallock said, "If you didn't have a routine of your own you wouldn't be here now."

  The other men laughed.

  "Ah, shit, Chief. I knowed that what it was. I'm clean, ain't touched nobody. You peoples like elephants, never forget nothin'."

  "That's right, we forget nothing."

  "But I been good, jus' ax my old lady, she tell you I been good."

  "So if you've been good, Willie, then you've got nothing to worry about. Just relax."

  Willie's brown face tightened. The other men began mumbling among themselves, and Hallock told them all to shut up.

  Schufeldt was sitting at Hallock's desk, feet up on the edge. In front of him was Fred "Barbecue" Riley. He got his nickname because he'd been in a fire and had third-degree burns on his back and legs. Barbecue was a flasher, last offense two months before.

  "Have a good long lunch, Chief?" Schufeldt asked.
/>   "Good, long, and delicious. How about yours?"

  "Short and lousy. You got taste up the ass."

  Hallock bit the inside of his cheek to keep from responding. It wouldn't do to let Barbecue see any animosity between himself and Schufeldt. Word would spread like butter on toast. But it was damn hard not to say anything about Schufeldt sitting at his desk, dirty shoes on his papers.

  Barbecue said, "I ain't done nothin', Chief."

  "Anybody say you have?"

  "Well, no." He was a small man, but muscular. His ginger hair was lank, looking like it hadn't been washed in a long time. He had grubby hands, too, the nails black.

  Schufeldt said, "Let's get on with this, okay?" He glared at Hallock who sat on a chair facing the back, arms akimbo on top. "Okay. Where were we before we were interrupted?" he asked Barbecue.

  "Beats me, Officer."

  Schufeldt's face tensed. "Special Agent. How many times I got to tell ya? Special Agent."

  "You want me to say, 'beats me, Special Agent'?" Barbecue shook his head. "That sounds dumb. Don't it sound dumb, Chief? Beats me, Special Agent. Don't it just make you wanna laugh, Chief?"

  Hallock couldn't agree more. "Just do what the special agent asks, Barbecue."

  Schufeldt cleared his throat. "Let's get on with it. So where were you the night of May twenty-ninth?"

  "Me?"

  "Yeah, you, who the hell you think I'm askin', Donald Duck?"

  "Huh?"

  "Just answer the question, Fred."

  "Could you repeat the question?"

  "You cocksucker, did you burn your brains in that fuckin' fire?"

  "No, sir, Special Agent." He looked over at Hallock. "Now that sounds dumb, don't it, Chief?"

  Schufeldt spoke before Hallock could respond. "Just shut up, Riley. Okay? Just shut up."

  "Okay."