I nodded. “He was wearing his wedding band with his and Lydia’s names. And there wasn’t any doubt about his injury.”
“But did they find his prosthesis?”
It was the second time he had surprised me within the last few minutes. Of course. Why hadn’t I thought about that?
“There wasn’t any mention of it,” I said. “So my guess is they didn’t.”
“Well, Max wasn’t ever without it. He hated the idea of being handicapped. He wouldn’t have used a crutch, ever. So where was his leg?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Do you have any ideas?”
He nodded gravely. “Maybe. But you’re liable to think I’ve gone crazy.”
“Try me.”
Levinthal hunched forward over his desk. “Well, I’m an engineer, Mr. Dunn. I deal with facts and numbers. The facts here are that somebody’s running around killing people, but somebody else must’ve put him up to it. The fact is that nobody anybody can think of could have a reason for doing it. The fact is Max disappeared forty-three years ago and nobody found him until some bones were dug up on a beach miles from here, in another state. Now, I don’t pretend to know who did what, or why, or who’s behind this, but I’ve got to tell you I have a damn funny feeling about it all.”
“Meaning?”
He leaned further toward me, his eyes riveting my own.
“Mr. Dunn, I have to wonder if Max Chantry is still alive.”
CHAPTER 22
It was time to regroup. I went to Frankie and Johnny’s, a neighborhood bar-cum-restaurant near the levee, ordered a beer, and found a dark corner.
Max was dead. That was the premise we’d all started from. The bones had been identified and claimed.
But then they’d been cremated, as if they were a danger to somebody. There’d been no certain identification of Max’s dental records because they’d been misplaced by the army years before. But that was surely an accident: He could hardly have managed to lose his records himself, foreseeing his need to stage his death when he was out of the service.
And would Max play dead for so many years? Was he still afraid of the same people? They were all dead, and he would be very old. Maybe, I thought, he was in poor health and didn’t have the heart to fight it out all over again. But that didn’t explain the recent killings. A man trying to play dead doesn’t hire a killer to start eliminating people, because he can never be sure when the killer will turn on him. And a man who is already listed as dead would never be missed.…
No: Max was dead.
But in that case, what had the killers done with the prosthesis? If they’d killed him where he was found, why not leave the artificial limb with him? Or had they taken it as a way of immobilizing him, finding it easier to shepherd a crippled prisoner to the place of his execution?
And I kept coming back to the original question: Why had Max been buried on Ship Island in the first place?
I roused myself from the table, found the pay phone, and dialed the number of the safe house. One of the cops answered. When I identified myself he gave me Sandy.
“You heard about the Marsh woman,” I said.
“I did, and your girl here did, and Shitface did, and that’s what started it all.”
“Started what?”
“Sam decided he wasn’t going to wait around to get killed, so he up and tried to walk out. Got into a pushing match with one of the officers and they decked him. When they went to call it in he ran out. Now there’s an APB out to hold him as a material witness, but nobody can find him.” Her voice lowered. “I’m not sure anybody wants to.”
“How’s Carol taking it?”
“I think she’s relieved,” Sandy whispered. “But don’t say I said so.”
I asked to talk with her, and a few seconds later she came onto the phone.
“It’s just getting worse, isn’t it?” she said.
“Maybe we’re headed for a break,” I said. “Look, in your work on Ship Island, you must have researched the recent history of the place.”
“Sure. Why?”
“Well, what was going on there when Max was buried? It wasn’t a tourist attraction then, was it?”
“No. It was a gambling spot. Charitable gambling. The American Legion and the like. Sort of a fun place. National Park Service didn’t take over until the fifties.”
“So somebody could have slipped a boat in under cover of darkness, off-loaded a corpse, and even buried it?”
“It seems likely.”
“And it would have been reasonable to expect that the burial place would have remained undisturbed indefinitely.”
“Yes. Unless a big hurricane took the whole island.”
“Right. But those only come every lifetime or so. It’s less likely than the chances of a shopping center or housing subdivision on the mainland.”
“Maybe. But there are places you could drop a body on the mainland where it wouldn’t be found. Rivers, swamps, landfills …”
“If you wanted it obliterated.”
“Sure. But why wouldn’t you? What are you getting at?”
“I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.”
I went back to my table and tried to sort through it.
The bones were gone now, so somebody had wanted Max obliterated. But for forty-three years there’d been no hurry. For forty-three years somebody had been aware of where the bones were and not concerned about their being found.
Except that the likelihood of their being found was so slight: It was their preservation that was secure, not their discovery.
Murderers are not usually preservation-minded.
But then, I told myself, most murderers aren’t very logical at all. I’d heard cops and pathologists say that murderers are usually indistinguishable from anyone else, giving no hint of what motivates them. A few, though, are raving lunatics whose motivations lie embedded in their twisted fantasies.
My problem was that I was running out of threads. I had only one more to try, and then it would be up to Lydia and her son, would depend on whether they would talk to me, and I didn’t have many hopes for that.
I called Homicide and asked for Sal Mancuso.
“Micah? God damn, where are you?” The anxiety in his voice was uncharacteristic. “The whole damn department is in a fit. The big brass have been huddling for the last two hours.”
“The Marsh woman that important?” I fished.
“Hell, I dunno. They don’t tell me shit. But the newspapers are sniffing a story and the chief has got his ass in a crack. He tried to lower the boom on your friend Kelso for impersonation and obstruction and Kelso told the press that he’d had to do the cops’ work for ’em. He’s a shrewd old geezer, and they’re trying to salvage what they can before they come out looking stupider than usual.”
“Are you working on the case?” I asked.
“Are you serious? This one’s a volleyball: Homicide says it belongs to Internal Affairs and I.A. says Kelso is retired, so he really isn’t their business, and it belongs to Homicide. What I hear is the hired-killer angle is giving ’em ammunition to band together and drop it on Intelligence. But Intelligence will claim they’re a fact-gathering division, and I’ve already heard the phrase ‘task force.’ The press loves task forces.”
“Of course, if you solve it, you’ll be the man of the hour.”
“Man of the hour for fifteen minutes. And if I fuck it up I’ll be walking a beat through the Desire Street project. I’ll just keep out of it, thanks. And you ought to, too. Which I think is something you and I talked about a couple of days ago, before the last two people got killed.”
“More could get killed,” I said. “Look: Help me, Sal. This is something I’m in already. People have tried to kill me. I have a right to know why.”
“Well, I’m sure they’ll tell you at the bureau when they find out.”
“The way you’ve been talking, that might not be in our lifetimes. Just do me one favor and I’ll leave you alone.�
��
“You always want favors. And they always turn out bad for me.”
“Humor me. You’ve got a man named Joe Hunt in the lockup. Unless he’s made bail.”
“Oh, shit. Whatever you’re thinking, forget it.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“I told you this wasn’t my case. From what I heard he’s in for pimping and possession, all small-time stuff. What’s he got to do with you?”
“I don’t know. But I’d like to talk to him.”
“You mean tamper with an ongoing investigation.”
“You want me to get John O’Rourke to arrange bail?”
“O’Rourke can do what he wants. Fact is, bail’s been set and the bastard won’t budge.”
“What?”
“Sure. That’s how I know about him. Some of the guys were talking about it. A lousy twenty grand and all he’s got to do is come up with two. All these pimps have plenty stashed away just for that. Man drives a car as long as a city block. Stereo in his house is worth more than the bondsman’s fee. But he says he’s indigent and won’t post it.”
“That seem strange to you?”
“Everything about my job seems strange. We deal with strange people.”
“Look, just let me talk to him for a few minutes. You and I both know he wouldn’t be staying in the Broad Street Hilton for no reason.”
“Why would he want to talk to you, anyway?”
“He doesn’t. But what do you have to lose? The charges he’s up on are bullshit, you know that.”
Mancuso sighed. “Why do I feel like I’m being had?”
“Thanks, Sal.”
The Orleans Parish Prison on Broad has murals on its outside walls, but it’s still the kind of place that makes you think of Cagney movies: guard towers, barbed wire, and men milling around in the yard. Every week or so some inmate sues the parish for inhuman conditions and every couple of months some less legalistic soul goes over the wall, which makes sense, since there are too many people inside to begin with.
I met Mancuso by the visitor’s gate. It wasn’t visiting hours, it was nearly six, and heat was still curling up off the sidewalks while a bloated sun hung orange in the western sky. Sal told me he’d called in a favor from somebody who worked here, and he let me know it was a favor I now owed him.
“And this is all strictly off the record,” he warned, as we headed for the guard post. “It never happened, okay?”
I nodded, unclipped my holster, and handed it to the guard.
Twenty minutes later the prisoner was brought to the plain, green-walled room where we waited. Six feet four, with a closely cut dark beard, and bulging muscles under the orange prison jumpsuit, Joe Hunt looked more like a professional wrestler than a pimp.
The guard removed his handcuffs and left us alone.
“So what’s this about?” he asked, eyeing us suspiciously. “I already said I don’t talk without my lawyer.”
Mancuso looked over at me as if to say, I told you so.
“Have a seat,” I said, pointing to the plain chairs that were arranged around what looked like a kitchen table. “This won’t take long. Coffee?”
Hunt’s mouth curved into a sneer. “What are you, the good guy? You gimme coffee, and this one threatens me?”
“Nothing like that,” I said. “We know the charges against you are bullshit.”
“Then why come I’m here instead of out there?”
“Have a seat and I’ll tell you,” I said.
Hunt’s brows rose a half-inch and he sidled toward one of the chairs.
“Okay. We’re on your meter, not mine.”
I sat down across from him, but Mancuso stayed leaning against the wall.
“It’s simple,” I said. “You wanted an alibi when the shit hit the fan.”
“Alibi? What’re you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Madeline Gourrier,” I said, holding up a finger. “And a bum across the river who got in the way. And finally, an old lady this morning, Idola Marsh. They’re all dead and you needed an alibi. Where is it better to be than in jail?”
Hunt’s head jerked up in surprise.
“What in the fuck are you talking about? Sure, I knew Maddie, she was one of my girls. But I don’t know nothing about these other two. And since I have been in jail, you can’t connect me.”
“Sure we can,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t show my nervousness. “You can be charged with being an accessory before the fact. You ever done time in Angola? It’s the worst there is.”
The prisoner snorted. “You’re bullshitting.”
I looked over at Mancuso. It was time to run the bluff.
“Okay, you were right. We’ll see if Frake sings. We may have to bust his down to murder two, but we’ll get this one for accessory, and maybe murder two as well, when Frake finishes talking.”
I started to get up. The man at the table didn’t budge.
It wasn’t working.
I started for the door. Four more steps and we were back where we started. I pulled it open, Mancuso a step behind me.
I stepped into the hallway.
“Wait.”
I exhaled and turned around slowly.
“I’m listening,” I said. “But it better be good.”
“Look, you say they caught this Frake.” Hunt licked his lips uncertainly.
“Why does it matter to you?”
“Don’t bullshit me. Look, man, I didn’t have nothing to do with no killings. I just run girls, okay?”
“Convince us,” I said.
Hunt’s eyes darted from one of us to the other.
“Man, you gotta protect me. If anybody finds out, I’m dead.”
“My office will protect you,” I said.
He nodded, evidently satisfied. Mancuso gave me a quick glance, then looked back at the prisoner. After all, if Hunt wanted to think I was with the D.A.’s Office, it was a free country.
“I just did somebody a favor,” Hunt whispered, as if afraid somebody would overhear what he was saying. “They wanted a girl, somebody who could act half educated. It was a little scam they was pulling. What the hell? There was some change in it for me.”
“So you put them together with the Gourrier girl,” I said.
“Hell, man, you know most of these cunts have an IQ of about three. Madeline was a cut above the rest. She went to college for a year.”
“Who called you?” I asked.
“I dunno and I don’t wanta know. You don’t either.”
“One of the wiseguys?”
“You said it, not me.”
“What did he say?”
He shrugged. “He said they needed a woman for something special. I said they could all do something special, but I didn’t want any rough stuff. He said it wasn’t nothing like that, they needed somebody who could take directions and wasn’t strung out on dope. Somebody with a French name who could talk with people and not sound stupid. I thought they was entertaining some foreign bigshot or something. I told ’em Maddie was their girl. He gimme an address in Westwego and told me to have her report there inside the hour.”
“I guess she went,” I said.
“Sure. Came back two hours later and told me she didn’t like it.”
“Why?”
“Said the guy that met her there was a creep. A freak with acid burns all over his face, and eyes you see on the johns that like to beat women. He said she was supposed to run a scam on some girl about her family history. Handed her some money and told her to rent a house in a good part of town.”
“Which she did.”
“Sure. She did everything she was supposed to, but something must’ve went wrong. I got a call from her the night before she got killed. She sounded scared, said she didn’t like what was going on.”
“And you said?”
“I told her it was her choice, she was getting paid.”
“Sure.”
He looked agitated. “I swear to God.”
“I got picked up on some chickenshit charge. Then I heard about Maddie and decided I was in the best place I could be until it blew over.”
Mancuso and I exchanged looks.
“You ever see this Frake?” Mancuso asked.
“No.”
“How do you know what his name is, then? You think he gave it to the girl?”
The man across from me squirmed. He knew he’d been trapped and he was trying to find a way out of it.
“Well?” Mancuso asked.
“I never seen him, but when she described him I asked somebody I know. They said there was a dude worked out of St. Louis, a real bad dude, named Frake. Said he was crazy.”
I nodded. There was only one more question I wanted to ask.
“Can you remember the address of the house in Westwego?”
He said he thought he could.
CHAPTER 23
Mancuso had me follow him back downtown, where he got me a pass and sat me down with the latest information on Ted Frake. He said he wanted me to go through it for anything that had been missed, but I knew his real purpose: He wanted me where I’d be out of trouble while he rounded up a team to hit the Westwego address. First he had to convince his superiors, which wasn’t hard, because they were desperate. Then, because it was out of the parish, he had to call people in Jefferson, across the river. For a while there was a heated telephone exchange about whose SWAT team would be used, and they finally compromised and decided the New Orleans group would stand by while the home boys led the assault.
Not that there was any reason to think Frake was still at the house. But it seemed like the best lead since the case had started. They decided to do it just after midnight.
The detectives buzzing around me gave me curious glances but I ignored them. They ordered hamburgers and somebody brought me one. I asked a second time to go, but Mancuso refused, and I understood: It was a police operation. So I tried to make the hours pass by going through the folder of information on the desk in front of me.
Theodore Alvin Frake, AKA Theodore A. Garrett, AKA Al Gray.
Born Kansas City, 1948. Arrested 1966, B&E. Charges dropped when he joined the army. Sent to ’Nam. Court-martialed for refusing to assume duty post. Escaped from stockade. Recaptured when a Vietnamese woman he’d shacked up with in Saigon threw a bucket of lye in his face … After his dishonorable discharge he’d come home to become a hit man for the Mob, but other than a few minor raps for concealed weapons and assault, no charges had stuck.
The Last Man to Die (The Micah Dunn Mysteries) Page 17