by Ed Gorman
“Be still my heart.”
“It’d be real easy not to like you, McCain.”
“Ditto. Why don’t you just take this to Cliffie?”
“That dumb ass? Are you kidding? He’s already got Murdoch good for it. You know Cliffie. Case closed. He won’t even consider anybody else now.”
I leaned back in my chair. Watched him tilt his flask up again. Watched him set it back down on the desk. Watched him watching me.
“You going to help me clear Ross? Ross said you were working for him.”
“What if I find out you killed her?”
His jowls got red before the rest of his face did. An interesting visual display. “Why would I kill her?”
“Well, Cliffie thinks Ross killed her. You say Carlson killed her. And I’m sure somebody’ll tell me they think Mike Hardin killed her. Your name’s bound to come up sometime.”
“Well, I didn’t and I can prove it. I was in a poker game till almost two o’clock. And I was drunk enough that I had one of the other guys give me a ride home.”
“He got a name, this guy?”
“You’re a jerk, you know that, McCain.”
“You want me to help Ross, I’m helping Ross. I’m trying to find the killer.”
“I’m not the killer.”
“I need the name of the guy who drove you home.”
He sat back. He seemed to shrink. He aged by a few years. He looked embarrassed. “I was making that up about the poker game.”
“You got any other alibis? Shacked up with Jackie Kennedy or something like that?”
He stood up. “I was home. Watching TV and pretty drunk. The wife was upstairs asleep.”
“So you don’t have an alibi.”
“I was home.”
“You could always leave home.”
“I was drunk.”
“So you say.”
“This is all because of that sewer thing, isn’t it?”
“A good part of it, anyway.”
“I don’t vote for sewer improvement so you’re going to hang a murder rap on me?”
“You even voted against extending services to the people down by the river. Of any kind. That’s pretty shitty.” I leaned forward on my elbows again. “I’m not going to hang anything on you that doesn’t fit. But it wouldn’t break my heart if it turned out you killed those two people.”
He walked to the door. Started to say something. Got all red-faced again. And then left.
I spent the next hour working on my notebook list. I hadn’t been kidding when I said that I expected to hear from Peter Carlson and Mike Hardin. They’d be implicating one of their friends just as Wheeler had. The panic had crazed them. It didn’t matter who was ultimately blamed as far as their reputations went. They were already destroyed merely by association with the dead woman and her brother.
The phone rang.
“What time you coming home?” The beautiful Pamela Forrest said.
“I don’t know. Another couple hours. Why?”
“We, uh, wondered if we could make you a business offer.”
“‘We’ being?”
“We being Stu and me.”
“What kind of business offer?”
“Well, we’re still at your apartment. And we started talking. And—well, we wondered if we paid you motel rates, could we stay here?”
“You mean sleep there and everything?”
“Yes. You could take the couch. And it’d only be a few nights.”
“Why don’t you just get a motel room?”
“Because somebody’d spot us for sure. And we’re not ready to face up to everything yet. It’s going to be terrible. It’s going to be like the Salem Witch Trials. And guess who’s the witch?”
“Oh, man, I don’t know.”
“You don’t have to worry about the sex. I mean we kinda caught up during the day today.”
“That’s nice to know. I’m glad I’m not in love with you any more. I mean, if I was, that’s not the sort of thing I’d want to hear.”
“Well, you told me you weren’t in love with me so I’m taking you at your word.”
“Well, maybe I’m still in love with you a little bit. A smidge. An iota.”
“Well, I took that into account. That’s why I didn’t go into any details. You know, tell you how many times we did it or anything.”
“That was very nice of you.”
I could hear her getting a cigarette going. “Stu’s not here right now. He took the back road into Iowa City. He’s getting groceries. He’s going to fix dinner for all three of us. He makes the best steaks I’ve ever had.”
“You know, I used to hate Stu. And now he’ll be sleeping in my bed. And with you.”
“Well, he used to hate you, too. In fact, I think he still does in a small sort of way.”
“Well, since we’re being honest here, I think I still hate him in a small sort of way.”
“Well, there you have it.”
“Have what?”
“You’re even up. He still hates you in a small sort of way and you still hate him in a small sort of way.”
“I want a new bed.”
“What?”
“Before you leave, I want $75 for a new bed. I know where I can get a good one for that.” I’d been planning on replacing the lumpy bed I had. And here was a chance to get a new one for free.
“I’ll have to ask Stu.”
As we hung up, I tried very hard not to picture Pamela and Stu in my bed. You really never can predict life’s twists and turns. And that’s what makes life so exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. And if you don’t believe me, just ask the Three Stooges. Curly almost never knows when Mo’s going to hit him.
For two hours I canvassed the apartment complex where Karen Hastings had lived. The three buildings were red brick with a central section between that held a swimming pool and flagstone-floored social area. It was getting cold for outdoor activities. Most of the residents were in their twenties, single, and worked in either Cedar Rapids or Iowa City. Several of the apartments were rented by small groups of young women who couldn’t afford the address otherwise. It was all piss elegant. Striving is the correct word here. It strove to be fancy and big city and sexy but it didn’t quite make it because the design was strictly Apartment House 101 and the workmanship was terrible. Joints didn’t fit right. Door handles were loose. The indoor carpeting was already worn thin. And pieces of the hall trim had already fallen off and not been replaced.
Two of the young women were stewardesses who flew out of Cedar Rapids. Joan Cawlings was the one I talked to. Her roommate was in the shower the whole time I was there.
Joan was a slight blonde with enormous blue eyes. She wore a U of Illinois T-shirt. She had very merry, happy little breasts that looked as though they’d be a lot of fun to play with. She wore a pair of jeans that fit her wonderfully as only jeans can. Her small feet—pert as baby rabbits—were bare.
“I think I talked to her once in the seven months I’ve been living here. Everybody said that she was almost hostile. A lot of people thought she was a prostitute. Different men were always coming here.”
I described them.
She nodded. “Yes. Those men and one other.”
“Could you describe him?”
“He looked like a boxer. Not mean or a crook or anything like that. But his nose was sort of flattened and just the way he carried himself—he was probably in his forties but one of the guys I was seeing said ‘That’s somebody to walk wide of.’ I remember his exact words because they sounded like something from a cowboy movie. Walking wide of somebody, I mean.”
“How often did you see him?”
“Well, when I first moved in, I didn’t see him that much. With my schedule, it’s hard to say. Maybe he came a lot when I was working. But the last couple months, I’ve seen him a lot more often.”
“Anything different you notice about him?”
“His Corvette.”
I wrote that down in my notebook. “What about it?”
“He had one of those little things you put on your license plate. It says ‘MD.’ You know, medical doctor. That’s why he always struck me as interesting. He sort of looked like a boxer but he was always dressed in very good suits. And he drove this black Corvette. And you could tell he took very good care of it.”
“How’s that?”
“You never saw a speck of dust on it. And it always looked like he’d just gotten done shining it.” Then: “God, when I heard her name on the radio this morning—and heard how those four men had set her up here—I’m from Cleveland so I guess I always thought of this area as kind of hicky if you know what I mean. And no offense if you grew up here or anything. But I’ve never heard of anything like this even in Cleveland. You know, you wouldn’t be surprised if it happened in Paris or Hollywood or some place like that. But here—”
“This is great.”
“It is?”
“Finding a doctor who drives a black Corvette shouldn’t be too tough.”
“I actually thought he was the coolest guy of all of them. The ones who called on her, I mean. He’s kinda sexy, actually.”
I thanked her and walked to the door.
“Say,” she said, “anything new with the missiles?”
“Nothing that I’ve heard of.”
“The company is warning us what to do if a missile hits a city we’re supposed to land in. It’s really scary.”
That detail made the whole crisis even more real. You never think of things like that. You’re in a plane thirty thousand feet up and the city below you becomes a mushroom cloud. Then what?
“Thanks again,” I said.
TWELVE
I HAD A BEER AT a tavern with animal heads on the wall. The way I feel about hunting is I’d rather see the hunters’ heads on the wall. But I don’t suppose I’ll ever get to be president of the United States saying things like that now, will I? Or didn’t I tell you that I have this diabolical plan to take over the United States?
I called a friend of mine on the Cedar Rapids police force and asked him to run a check on the black Corvette driven by a doctor.
Then I dawdled over a second beer, not wanting to go back to my apartment, which was turning into a crime scene, the crime being French farce. The woman I’d loved most of my life sleeping with the man I’d hated most of my life under my roof? God either has a great sense of humor or none at all. When I figure out which it is, I’ll get back to you.
On the third and final beer—I am not a great drinker—I decided, and I think truthfully, that I didn’t love Pamela any more. I know you’re not supposed to trust beery revelations but there was something dead inside me now where she was concerned—I started thinking of all the F. Scott Fitzgerald short stories I’d read in college where the protagonist ends with something dead inside where his woman is concerned—but when I thought of her now I just felt a sadness. Even though she’d never loved me, she’d been the center of my life all those years. But she wasn’t now and never would be again and I felt alone in a way I’d never felt before.
Screw it, I thought. They could have my apartment. I’d stay at a motel. I’d only go over there in the morning to shower and change clothes. Hell, I’d get a new bed out of it for my trouble and a good motel room would be eight, nine bucks was all. I’d come out ahead.
Stu answered when I called and I told him what I had in mind.
“But I’m making steaks.”
“More for you.”
“Jeez, McCain, this doesn’t seem right. Kicking you out of your own apartment.”
“You’re not kicking me out. I am. And by the way, the bed you’re going to buy me?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I want a one hundred dollar bed.”
“That’s no problem.”
“Great. Then I’ll see you in the morning. Oh—did I get any calls?”
“Hang on a sec.” Though he cupped the phone, I heard him say, “Did he get any calls?”
“Kenny Thibodeau. That dirty book writer.” She’d never much approved of Kenny.
“That dirty book writer. You know, Kenny.”
“Fine. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
There wasn’t any answer at Kenny’s place so I walked down the street to an Italian restaurant, the only ethnic restaurant in town except the one where they serve buffalo burgers. I’m not sure which ethnicity that is. Eskimo?
I ate a plate full of damned good spaghetti and started pouring down coffee. I don’t like the feeling of being drunk. The coffee and a bunch of Luckies helped me sober up. My dad has the same problem. When you’re as small as we are, you don’t hold your booze well. It’s a shameful thing for a Celt to admit.
One table away, a working class family of five were discussing the missile crisis. The littlest girl was so scared she started to cry. She crawled up in her daddy’s lap and he kissed her on top of her blonde curly head and then he sort of rocked her as he probably had when she was a baby. It broke my heart. And made me angry. Some guy somewhere in this place called Russia gets pissed off because some guy somewhere in this place called America was stupid enough to listen to the CIA and invade Cuba. Or try to. It sure as hell wasn’t much of an invasion. And so this guy in Russia, in a snit because of it, decides to play poker with nuclear warheads as chips. And maybe destroy or at least alter life on this planet for the next 50,000 years. Awfully damned hard to explain that to a little girl in Black River Falls, Iowa who’s too young to understand where Russia is or why the CIA was run by zealots who didn’t much care about lives, American or otherwise, or why her mom suddenly started crying last night when they all got down on their knees and said the rosary for world peace.
I got up and went for a walk. The cold night air felt good. The Johnny Cash song wailing out of the tavern sounded mighty lonely.
After my walk, I went to a corner grocery store and bought two Pepsis, a package of smokes and a paperback by a new guy named Dan J. Marlowe, who was one mighty fine writer. Fifteen minutes later, I was in my motel room in my underwear and under the blankets, reading my book.
After fifty excellent pages, I tried Kenny again. This time he answered.
“Heard something I thought I’d pass on.”
“Great. What is it?”
“Mrs. Murdoch tried to pay off Karen Hastings. To get her out of town. Mrs. Murdoch has plenty of money of her own. Her husband didn’t know anything about it. She started at ten thousand but the Hastings woman said no. So eventually she went to twenty thousand. I think she copped to the whole thing, man. The four guys and Karen Hastings, I mean.”
“Hold on a sec.”
I dug out my notebook and wrote it down.
“That’s useful. Thanks. I don’t suppose you’ll tell me who you heard it from?”
“Can’t. I took the Boy Scout oath.”
“You could be making all this stuff up. How would I know?”
“Would the author of The Torrid Twins ever lie to you?”
“I thought that was The Tempting Twins.”
“They changed the title for the second edition.”
“Ah.”
“See what you can do with it, anyway. She might have iced the Hastings dame.”
“Boy, you’re really picking up on the tough-guy talk.”
“Yeah, I’m digging the hell out of this detective gig, man.”
I tried to go back to reading, I wanted to go back to reading, I told myself that I should go back to reading and put everything else out of my mind for the evening—
But since I already had my notebook at hand—I started going through motives that might lead an unstable mind to commit two murders.
Mike Hardin
Gavin Wheeler
Peter Carlson
Wanted her for himself
Ross Murdoch
Brother shaking him down for money
Mrs. Murdoch
Wanted her out of town
I
fell asleep just before the ten o’clock news, not waking up until just before six. I dressed in yesterday’s clothes and drove over to my place.
I let myself in, being as quiet as possible. I opened the door to the meows of the three cats who stared up at me with long, guilt-inducing gazes. How dare I spend the night somewhere else? But I could see their bowls from here. They’d been fed well and their water had been refreshed and filled to the brim in the bowl.
A voice said, “Don’t worry about us. We’ve been up all night.”
I walked into the area that I used as the living room. Stu sat on the couch, smoking a cigarette. He wore pajamas and his hair was mussed and he needed a shave. A pillow was propped up against the arm of the couch. On the opposite end was a blanket.
“I slept on the couch.”
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you why. Because I’m leaving him.”
The beautiful Pamela Forrest was sitting up in the middle of my bed. She too wore pajamas and her hair was mussed. She didn’t need a shave.
“Why’re you leaving him?”
“Why? We patched things up last night and I told him I loved him and was glad he’d come back to get me. And then I told him about this art class I was taking and it started all over again.”
“What started all over again?”
She gave him a disgusted look and said, “You tell him, Stu. And then just listen to yourself.”
Stu seemed embarrassed. “Well.”
“Well, he got jealous. As usual. That’s why I left him. When I said our marriage wasn’t what I’d imagined it would be? Well, that’s the real reason. All those other reasons I gave you all boil down to this, McCain. He’s so jealous he wants to keep me locked up all the time.”
“What’s wrong with art classes, Stu?”
“You don’t know her, McCain. The way she flirts. She takes an art class—especially one at night—I’ll lose her for sure. I mean, back here, I didn’t have any competition. No offense, McCain. I mean, nothing personal. But I was the only guy she was interested in. But in Chicago—”