That was when I saw the Sandman.
He was lying a few feet in front of me, a human form covered by a thin layer of sand, and as I watched, the sand dissolved in the sea wind, revealing a man.
The man lay motionless, like a mannikin, until the last sand was gone, and I realized he was dressed in a coat and tie, not bathing trunks, and I wondered what he was doing out here.
As I watched he raised himself to a half-sitting position and then struggled to rise.
“Help me,” he said and I gave him a hand. He pulled himself upright.
“I’ve been out here a long time,” he told me, halfway apologetic. “I need to go home.”
I nodded, unsure of what would happen next.
“They took my leg,” he said then, nodding down at the flapping cloth of his trousers. We started forward and suddenly I caught a glimpse of white bone jutting from the pant leg. My eyes went down to the hand I was holding and I let out a cry: I was holding the hand of a skeleton.
I woke up screaming.
When I got my wits back I got up and padded into the kitchen for a glass of milk. It was still dark outside and the luminous hands of the clock told me it was just after two.
I sat on the edge of the bed, drinking my milk and thinking.
I’m sorry, Max. You probably deserve better than to become the fodder for ghoulish dreams. You’ve got to realize, I miss her.
My God, I asked myself then, am I going crazy? Talking to a dead man?
If Katherine were here she would have listened gravely and then soothed me until I went back to sleep. But if Katherine were here I wouldn’t have had the dream.
I put the empty milk glass on the table and walked back through the kitchen into my office and looked out the window at Barracks Street.
The only sign of life was a lone drunk, who stumbled along from parking meter to parking meter, deftly missing each one at the last second and drifting back toward the shadow of the building.
He might be somebody’s father or husband. But he might also just be a member of the great class of homeless people, and if he dropped from the face of the earth nobody would ever know he was gone.
That wasn’t the case with Max. He was missed the day he didn’t come home.
And yet when he turned up it was on a beach a hundred miles away, thirty miles from land.
Why? Why not just dump him in the bayou, weighted with chains? Why not dump him in the Gulf, halfway to Ship Island? Why take him all the way out and then bury him where he might always be found?
Why, Max, why?
CHAPTER 7
The next morning I brought John O’Rourke up to date and asked him to check out Julius Chantry. He told me that Julius was in real estate law and that their paths had never crossed except for a few social functions. He promised to call some friends in Julius’s field and get back to me. I thought about Jake Kelso and wondered if I’d turned him away too quickly: He probably had some names from the late forties that I could track down. But I didn’t really need an old man bumbling into something that could end up with more bodies along the way.
At nine-thirty I went by Geofind, but nobody was there. Then I remembered that Carol had talked to some man at the funeral parlor. That seemed the only way the Gourrier and Chantry cases could be linked: He had reported her casual remark about writing a book to whoever stood to lose the most by reopening the Chantry thing—and so Madeline Gourrier had been brought in to divert Carol’s energies. If the funeral home was the link, then stirring them up might provoke a reaction on their part. If it wasn’t, and we were wrong about Max being the problem, then all I’d get would be a few odd looks. I thought it was an off chance, but I drove over to the funeral home to see if anything would jump out at me.
Gulfland Funeral Home on Claiborne was one of the older establishments. The lot was filled with cars from what appeared to be a funeral in the offing, and two motorcycle cops sat out in front, ready to halt traffic. I parked down the street and walked back half a block. It was already getting hot and my clothes were sticking to me, so I was glad for the air-conditioned interior, even if it had the stink of death flowers.
“Are you here for the Righetti funeral?” a man asked me as I walked in.
“No,” I said, and he stepped back.
I made my way through the crowd, trying to remember where I’d heard the name Righetti. Whoever he was, he seemed to have been a popular person. I went to the cashier’s window and asked where the office was. She pointed me up a set of steps.
The man I found in the office was in his late thirties but already bald. His eyes were exaggerated by thick lenses and I remembered what Carol Busby had said: “Just an ordinary man, maybe your age, but with a bald head and glasses. He asked if he could help me. I thought he worked there.”
I figured I’d found the man.
He gave me a professional mourner’s smile, as if to let me know he felt grieved at my loss, and I smiled back.
“May I help you, sir?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I hope so. I was wondering about a funeral plan,” I said.
“Yes, of course. My name is Harville Gillis. Would you sit down, Mr.…”
“Dunn.”
“Mr. Dunn. Is this for your family, or …”
“Just myself,” I said. “I want to be sure I’m taken care of when the time comes.”
“Certainly. A wise precaution.” He reached for a loose-leaf folder and opened it. I saw an array of caskets.
“Your service was recommended to me,” I said. “I heard you did a very good job.”
“Oh! And who recommended us, if I may ask?”
“The Chantry family,” I said, and watched his eyes.
He looked down and away. “I see. Well, these are our various options.”
“Do you know Mrs. Goodfather well?” I asked. “A lovely lady.”
Harville Gillis squirmed.
“Yes. Of course. Now many people choose the option shown here …”
“What about the funeral book?”
“The what?”
“You know, the book where visitors write their names.”
“Well, of course, one will be provided.”
“Do you still have Mr. Chantry’s?”
“Mr. Chantry’s was a private service. And I’ve returned the book to the family. Mr. Dunn, I have to say …”
“Tell me, is Miss Gourrier coming here?”
“I beg your pardon?” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.
“Miss Madeline Gourrier. She was deceased yesterday. Is she coming here?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You know if any arrangements have been made?”
“I have no idea.” His eyes dipped to my belt, where my coat was open. “You’re carrying a gun.”
“Right. Somebody got killed. That’s why I’m so anxious about a funeral.”
He shifted position and something about his hand made me suspicious. He had it under the table, and my own hand went over to my belt, but he brought his hand back up, empty.
“Mr. Dunn, or whoever you are, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
I heard footsteps on the stairs behind me and when I looked over my shoulder I saw a man the size of Mount Rushmore, with an expression as hard as one of the stone faces.
I rose from my chair.
“This place licensed by the state?” I asked. “Remind me to check.”
The mountain moved across the rug toward me.
“On second thought, I’ll take cremation,” I said, sliding past him. “But only if he tests the burners first.”
Their eyes burned holes in my back as I went down the steps. The Righetti service had already started, and organ music floated out into the hallway. I ducked around the corner and into the rest room. Ten minutes later I came back out, saw the coast was clear, and walked over to the Righetti guest book. I scanned the names and wished I had my Minox. As it was, I had to make do with my pen. I pulled it off
the magnetic pad cover, dropped the pad onto the guest register, and wrote as quickly as I could. I only had a chance to get the names I recognized, and then I headed for the door.
A couple of judges, a deputy police chief, some lawyers, and a member of the Racing Commission. Now I knew where I had heard Righetti’s name.
I went back out into the stifling humidity and looked at the cars in the lot. I hadn’t noticed before how many Lincolns and Caddies there were. I started to write down some plate numbers, but the two motorcycle cops were looking my way, so I went on to my car and drove back to the office.
Sandy was already there, typing a memo on one of our cases.
“Man named Kelso called,” she said.
I shook my head. It was going to be hard to disentangle myself gracefully.
“He can wait,” I told her. “Ever hear of a guy named Anselmo Righetti?”
“Mamma mia, isn’t he a soldier with one of the families? Why?”
“He’s dead,” I said. “I was just at his funeral. He seemed to have a lot of influential friends.”
“That’s when you have ’em, all right,” she said. “Never when you’re alive.”
I brought out my list.
“Mind typing up these names and then running an ownership check on the Gulfland Funeral Parlor on Claiborne? I’d like to know who’s behind it.”
“No problema,” she said. “I’ll call the secretary of state’s office in Baton Rouge. It may have a hidden owner, though.”
“See what you can do,” I said. “Then go check on the Busby girl. Stick with her.”
She nodded. “This Kelso who called: He said it was urgent. Maybe you ought to get back to him.”
I took the slip of paper she handed me and punched in the number.
He answered on the third ring.
“Kelso.”
I exhaled. “Chief Kelso? This is Micah Dunn.”
“Right. Thanks for calling. Look, I got a lead for you on your case.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Is that right?”
“Yeah. Can I come by?”
“I’m going out right now, Chief. Maybe you can give it to me on the phone.”
“I hate to do that. You never can tell about telephones. Nowadays anybody can tap one.”
“I had mine swept,” I said, not adding that it had been for another case a year ago.
“Okay. Well then, the name you want is Frake. Ted Frake. Out of St. Louis.”
“Pardon?”
“The man you’re looking for. The one with the white face. The murderer of the Gourrier woman. The man half the city’s after. I found him for you, don’t you see?”
CHAPTER 8
There was a long silence while I tried to swallow my surprise.
“How did you manage that?”
“A lot of phone calls. I called Hymie Epstein in Manhattan, and Jay Fellows in San Francisco, and Ed Martinez in Houston, and finally I hit it with Dan Doolittle in St. Louis.”
“Friends of yours,” I said.
“Sure. Ex-cops, high up in the force. I asked ’em if they remembered anybody with that description and Dan said he did, said this guy was a small-time shooter with one of the outfits there. Said he liked closeup work with a knife, but he’d use anything.
“Of course, the police’ll come up with the same information sooner or later, but they may not share it with you,” Kelso went on.
“Why did you do all this?” I asked skeptically.
“When you get to be my age you’ll figure it out. Damn, son, can’t you see I’m going crazy, with nothing to do?”
I nodded. “Do you know where this Frake is now?”
“Jesus Christ, son, I can’t do everything for you. My guess is he’s on a plane back to St. Louis. Or, more likely, with a face like that, he’s driving. It’s only ten hours.”
“Then we’ll have to call St. Louis,” I said.
“But then, you never can tell. He may’ve gone to ground around here, to wait until the heat cools. So maybe you could use some help.”
“I’ve got some backup,” I said quickly. “Thanks anyway.”
“Look, I’m not too old,” Kelso insisted.
“I’m sure you aren’t.”
“Anyway, if this guy’s involved, you’re not up against one man: Somebody from the family brought him in, and if they brought him in, they can bring in somebody else.”
“I’d thought about that. The question is, Why? What is it that makes Chantry a threat to them?”
“Hell, they killed him.”
“Sure, but who can prove it this much later?”
“I dunno. You got to do some legwork. It ain’t going to jump out at you. Meet some people that were around then, that knew the case.”
It was too late; I knew he had trapped me.
“That’s where you come in, I guess,” I told him.
“That’s right. I can find people I used to know back then, we can go talk to ’em together. If you want me.”
I thought of the odds of digging up answers on a forty-three-year-old case alone and gave up.
“All right, Chief. It looks like you’ve got a deal.”
“I thought you’d see it my way.” He was having trouble keeping the elation from his voice. His tone dropped to a conspiratorial whisper: “That’s why I told Elaine I didn’t want to go to the camp tomorrow. Claimed I had rheumatism.”
“You’re a sly one.”
“I’m sly, all right,” he cackled. “It’s Big Blue that does the blunt talk.”
“Who?”
“Big Blue, I call him. My magnum. I’ve been polishing it all day.”
“Chief, do us both a favor and leave it at home.”
“You carry one, don’t you?”
I glanced down at the .38 in my belt. “Only when somebody threatens me.”
“Well, boy, just walking down the streets in this city is a threat.” He wasn’t wrong there.
“Tell you what,” he went on, “lemme make a few calls, see if I can run down anybody from the old days. I’ll come by your place and we can go talk to ’em.”
Sandy smiled at me from the doorway. “Looks like I don’t have to stick around to keep an eye on you.”
What the hell, I thought. It was a start.
Half an hour later I heard his footsteps on my stair. This time he was coming up the front way, which was just as well. I opened the door to receive him and got a broad Irish smile.
“Private Kelso reporting, sir.” He gave me a mock salute and limped into the room, rubbing his left thigh. “Gonna get more rain today. I can feel it in my leg where Willie the Weasel Williams shot me.” He boomed out a laugh. “Poor Weasel. Went back for fifteen years for that one. Died behind bars.”
“Sounds like interesting times,” I said.
“They were, boyo. Back then, you knew every man on the force. And you knew the neighborhoods where you worked. And you didn’t have all this racial shit, if you know what I mean. The politicians hadn’t started to help the poor by building ghettos for ’em.”
“Right.” I leaned back on my desk. “Well, the ball’s in your court, Chief. Where do we start?”
He smiled. “No sense being half-assed. I thought we’d pay a little visit on Mr. No Toes himself.”
“Tommy Noto?” I asked, surprised. “The capo?”
“II capo,” Kelso confirmed. “But not the capo di tutti capi. Big Al Silvano was the only maximo capo around here. No Toes, if you’ll excuse the expression, has never been able to fill his shoes.”
“Okay, but if the Mob killed Chantry, what good will it do to go to them? They aren’t going to admit it.”
“There’s mobs and mobs,” Kelso said. “Who knows what faction did the job? Omertà, the law of silence, isn’t what it used to be. If it wasn’t Noto’s operation, he might point us in the right direction. Remember, he was just a street punk when all this went down. He may have heard something. These guys have a network. If it was City Hall did
it, why should he keep his mouth shut? They’re probably all dead. Just like the old don, Silvano. And if he does know something, and holds it back, I’ll know if he’s lying. Tommy Noto never could keep a straight face.”
I took a deep breath. “All right, Chief. But how are we going to get in to see this minor gangland figure? I hear he has a fence with guards.”
Kelso winked. “Just leave that part to me.”
Tommy Noto lived in a big Spanish-style house facing the lake, about two blocks north of City Park. There was nothing to distinguish it from any of the other houses in the neighborhood; they all had alarms and late-model foreign cars in the driveways. What they didn’t have was a couple of goons standing behind the maid in the foyer. I watched them through the open door as the maid listened to Kelso’s spiel:
“Tell Mr. Noto it’s the man who gave him the scar on the side of his head in 1950. He’ll know who I am.”
The goons heard this and came forward. The maid turned toward them for advice.
“Tell him,” Kelso ordered.
One of the goons, a dark man with a tattoo, nodded.
“It’s okay.”
The maid scurried off and the head goon came over to where we stood.
“Check the hardware, gents. You’re in Mr. Noto’s home, not the cop house.”
Kelso smiled like a wolf and spread his coat.
I handed them my .38 and the man took it and placed it in the coat closet. I started to ask him for a ticket but decided to keep quiet.
They didn’t invite us in past the hallway, but I got a look over their shoulders at the house. There were some Italian swords on one wall, over a leather couch. The air smelled faintly of lemons—probably a deodorizer, I thought.
There was a faint noise somewhere in front of us, and the two men turned. The main bodyguard walked quickly out of sight but the other, smaller man held his position, blocking our entrance. A moment later the first man reappeared, and his sidekick stepped aside.
“You can come in,” Number One said.
We walked into a sala that looked like something from Better Homes and Gardens—all space and light and no dust anywhere. Through a glass door to the rear I caught a glimpse of patio and greenery. But it was the wheelchair at the left that caught my attention. The chair and the old man in it.
The Last Man to Die (The Micah Dunn Mysteries) Page 6