“When will he be back?”
“Hard to say.”
“Thought you knew everything.”
“Not everything.” Shirley was as guarded as they came. She picked her words wisely and her friends judiciously. “For instance, I’m surprised to see you here.”
“Oh?”
“A little birdy told me you were Pennyroyal’s prime suspect.”
“That little birdy wouldn’t recognize a joke even when it started with Knock, knock,” I said. “Speaking of jokesters, I heard Byrnes and Kirk didn’t get along.”
“That’s putting it nicely.” She switched the emery board from one hand to the other. “The day he took over as comptroller, Mr. Byrnes began digging through the past administration’s minutes, motions, resolutions, and budget appropriations.”
“Looking for dirt on Kirk?”
“I only know that Mr. Kirk raised holy hell. Said he wanted that pipsqueak out on his can. Jerry ... Mr. Moore ... refused to fire him.”
Propping an elbow over the stack of overturned papers, I leaned the side of my face against a fist and yawned, feigning boredom. “Why do you think they hated each other?”
She tilted her head and shrugged. “Alderman Kirk supported the mayor’s opponent during the last election.”
“In that case, there ought to be bad blood between Kirk and Moore, too.”
“They called a truce a couple months ago. The mayor is supporting Alderman Kirk’s pet projects. Pension reform and ...,” she smiled with amusement, “... gondolas.”
“How did it go over with Byrnes?”
“Not well,” she admitted. Her lips formed a straight line of disdain. “Mr. Byrnes is, or rather was, a very private individual. Dedicated to his job. Worked late most nights. Weekends, too.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “From what I gather, he had a lady friend. A lady in red. At least her underwear purportedly was.”
“Him and the missus didn’t get along?”
She shrugged and was about to say more when the telephone rang. She picked up and listened. “Sorry. You have the wrong number.” Finished with filing her nails, she brought out a bottle of Revlon nail polish.
“Maybe Mrs. Byrnes killed her husband in a fit of jealousy.”
“People have killed for less. But I don’t think she has the killer instinct. In bed, maybe. But not with a gun. I have a hunch she’ll land on her feet. Women like her always do.” When I looked at her curiously, she said, “You haven’t met her, have you? When you do, you’ll understand. She doesn’t have to kill to get what she wants.”
“I’m sure the mayor didn’t have anything to do with the murder.”
The nailbrush zigged when it should have zagged, marring a perfectly good manicure. She ignored the mishap and said in a controlled voice, “If you knew Jerry Moore the way I know him, you’d never say such a thing. He told me about Mr. Byrnes’s demise himself. Broke it to me as gently as possible. It was ... shocking ... to say the least. He was upset. We were both upset.” Her voice quavered. She blinked back tears. Then she puffed air across her freshly polished nails.
“And Monica Seagraves?”
“I wouldn’t put anything past her.”
“Looks like we have something in common.”
“Who knows? In the future, we may find more.”
I swung by Kirk’s office on the off chance he had returned, but the door was locked and the frosted glass pane dark. I tracked down his secretary in the ladies’ room and struck up a conversation while she powdered her nose. “Will he be back today?”
She wore a silk blouse finished with cap sleeves and a circle skirt hand-printed with an Oriental motif set against a field of burnt maize. The black suede pumps were cute, too. She blinked into a mascara brush. “Maybe never. Ever since Byrnes got popped, who the hell knows what’s going to happen? Probably have to look for another job.”
“Any theories?”
She stopped blinking. “Only that Kirk hated Byrnes. I mean, hated him. Should’ve heard the arguments. Hoowee!”
“And is Richard Starr as good a kisser as they say?”
She lifted a lipstick to mouth before affixing her eyes on my reflection. “Better.”
Chapter 16
I TOOK A breezy trip along the lakefront. Melody of Love by Billy Vaughn blared over the car radio. On the right, the bejeweled waters of Lake Michigan sparkled. To the left, a string of buildings paraded past, each like a bead on a priceless necklace: silvery skyscrapers, mammoth co-ops, squat apartment buildings, pink palaces, and alabaster mansions.
Twenty minutes later, I steered through an unexceptional neighborhood toward a two-storey cottage. A seedy front lawn marked out the unpretentious house where Richard Byrnes had lived his final days. Parked cars filled both sides of the one-way street. I pulled behind Starr’s Buick.
The front door had been left ajar. I knocked and stepped into the foyer. “Hello,” I called out.
A gray-haired crone came to the door. “Who are you and what do you want?” Her manner was brusque, her voice gruff, her eyes red, her clothes drab, and her shoes sensible.
“My name is Iris Grenadine. I’m with the Chicago Daily Standard. I was hoping to speak to Mrs. Byrnes. Are you ... you’re not―?”
“I most certainly am.” She thrust hands on hips and stood in the way.
Another voice winged its way from around the corner, this one silkier and less hostile. “Press? You’re with the press?”
I followed the dulcet female voice into the front room. The same voice said, “I’m Mrs. Richard Byrnes. Darlene,” she added. The widow was ensconced on a divan of brown-and-gold brocatelle. A natural blonde and a lot of woman, Darlene Byrnes wore a tailored black suit. Rhinestone buttons closed the front plaque to her throat, where a string of perfectly matched pearls encircled the ivory skin of her throat. Diamond earrings swung from petite earlobes. A jewel-encrusted watch matched the broach pinned to the satin-trimmed collar of her suit. Her wedding band was set with a center marquise. A French twist flattered her arresting bone structure. She sat straight, hands folded over her lap, legs crossed at the ankles. The young widow understood her position and accepted widowhood with quiet dignity.
As Daddy had inculcated on his impressionable daughter from a young age, anyone or anything that seemed too good to be true probably was. “On behalf of my newspaper, may I express my sincere condolences on the loss of your husband?” I turned to the old lady. “And your son.”
The dowager harrumphed and occupied a chair nearest the front door. Acting like a guard dog, she would have barked, growled, and snapped given the chance.
Window shades covered the bay windows, throwing tones of bereavement onto an assemblage of family and friends, most of them women. They were swallowing tea and finger sandwiches alongside pity. Slurping coffee, one lone male occupied a chair by himself. Starr winked up at me.
When Mrs. Byrnes reached for a cigarette case, Starr dug out a lighter and came forward. She leaned into the flame. The way she exhaled a plume of cigarette smoke from the corner of her mouth was sensual without being affected. Little emotion appeared on the flat plains of her face. Darlene Byrnes had been penciled in with the sharp point of a pencil, but the artist forgot to breathe life into the spot where the soul usually resided. “You didn’t really serve with my husband in Italy, did you, Mr. Starr?”
He pled guilty with a cockeyed grin.
“And you two seem to know one another,” she said, indicating me.
Starr pled guilty once more with a roll of his eyes.
Darlene turned to her mother-in-law. “Mama? Why don’t you and Aunt Lily put on some more coffee?”
The old lady scratched the back of her liver-spotted hand. From the scowl on her face, she didn’t trust Starr or me. “If you’re absolutely sure,” the old lady said.
“You don’t intend to ravish me, do you, Mr. Starr?” the younger Mrs. Byrnes said.
“Nothing I’d like better, ma’am, but Miss Gr
enadine would take exception.”
Darlene Byrnes didn’t belong to the house or the street. Children playing in the yard, brownies baking in the oven, men sunning themselves on front porches, and wives fanning themselves with handkerchiefs didn’t fit in with her persona. No, Darlene Byrnes was a different kind of woman, where the good life wasn’t a dream but a reality. Her marriage to Richard Byrnes was a stop-off to something better. She pushed back a strand of hair and gazed at her husband’s mother. “I can deal with this, Mama. Alone, if you don’t mind.”
Used to obeying her daughter-in-law, the elder Mrs. Byrnes allowed the other women to accompany her out. The widow tapped her cigarette on the rim of an ashtray until chattering filled the kitchen. “You’ll have to excuse my mother-in-law, Mr. Starr, Miss Grenadine. She’s understandably upset. And she’s in the dark about ...” She paused and chose her words delicately. “... many things.”
“Like how your husband died in a state of flagrante delicto?” I asked.
She lifted demure eyes the hue of summer violets. “The police have already been here,” she said. “A detective. Nickel or dime something.”
“Pennyroyal,” I said.
“That’s it. I told him there had to be a mistake. Dickie was the last man on earth someone would want to kill. He hadn’t an enemy in the world. The detective was sympathetic but quite insistent. And yet ... there was something in his manner ... as if Dickie’s death was a joke without a punch line. Flagrante delicto did you say?”
I coughed into my hand and started to mumble an apology.
“Actually, you’ve done me a favor, Miss Grenadine. Now I know the punch line.” Nothing about the lady in black went halfway, whether in the stare she fixed on me or in the exquisiteness that emanated from her pores like gold dust. She smiled wryly. “This may come as a shock to you, Mr. Starr. To both of you. But I loved my husband. Deeply.”
“As deep as six feet under?” I asked.
Quiet desperation consumed her face. I had purposely made a very pointed and extremely cruel accusation, and I’d done it for a reason: to see how she would react. Even if she understood my tactics, she still had to defend her innocence. Calculation replaced desperation. She was aware of where she stood, grasped she would be the brunt of cruel jokes from now on, and recognized that she’d become a collector’s item: a young widow whose husband was killed in a compromising position.
Unexpectedly, when she lifted her eyes, her expression was one of serenity. “He called me his Grace Kelly. Felt he didn’t deserve a dame like me.” Unable to sit still one second longer, she shot out of her seat and began to pace. Her cigarette became a prop, something to hold on to. With the swipe of a finger, she tested the dust buildup on the fireplace mantel. After repositioning a porcelain figurine, she wheeled around, blinking back tears. “The truth is this: I didn’t deserve him. Sure, we had our problems. What married couple doesn’t? But I wasn’t looking for Cary Grant. I wanted a solid man who needed all the love I could give him. And I did love him, Mr. Starr. Truly I did.”
Starr offered his handkerchief. She blew. I could see from his hangdog expression and moony eyes that he was taken in by her. He believed, without question, everything she had said so far.
I had a different take. “I’m sure you did, Mrs. Byrnes, but I wonder. Did your husband take out an insurance policy?”
“In my name?” A sly smile twisted her mouth. “I hate to disappoint you, Miss Grenadine, but no. We have a joint bank account, which should tide me over for a while. And there might be some insurance from the V.A. The house belongs to Mildred, of course. Mother Byrnes has been very kind, but ....” Her voice trailed off. “I’ll have to get a job, I suppose, after ... when ... everything dies down.”
She was a practical woman who wasn’t given to foolishness. At any moment, Mrs. Darlene Byrnes could be arrested for her husband’s murder, see her face splashed across every newspaper in town, and convicted in the court of public opinion before she ever saw the inside of a courtroom.
“Where were you on the night of the murder?”
She didn’t hesitate answering. “As I already explained to the detective, I was home alone that night. Same as the night before. And the night before that. Mama was at church. Dickie and I are ... were ... separated. But please don’t say anything to Mama. She thought he was dedicated to his job. She had no idea that he ... that we ....” She inhaled cigarette smoke and slowly exhaled it, her eyes focused on a far horizon. “I didn’t shoot him, but I gladly would have strangled him. You see, he was seeing another woman.” She had finally said something with a ring of truth.
“And the name of the other woman?” I asked.
“I don’t know. And I don’t want to know.” She leaned over and tapped ash into an ashtray. “Her shrug was philosophical. “But if you’re looking for someone who had it in for Dickie, don’t look further than City Hall.”
“Alderman Kirk?”
“That buffoon? Oh, no, I don’t think so. No, I meant Mayor Moore.”
“But I heard―”
“—that Dickie was a devoted acolyte? Once upon a time, I suppose.”
“What went wrong?”
She ran fingers over her hair, her fingernails dazzling to the eye, the platinum locks perfection, and her investment in the illusion of beauty incalculable. Shirley Wickham was right. She’d land on her feet. Next time, it wouldn’t be a clerk with a weekly paycheck but a bona fide winner with an investment portfolio.
“I only know Moore was about to can my husband. Except Dickie found out something. Something big. Don’t ask what. He never said because, frankly, towards the end, we weren’t talking. I’m sure you can guess why.” Her icy attitude had returned, and along with it, poise and unflappability. When she glanced at us, nothing was left in her eyes. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Starr, Miss Grenadine. I have some mourning to catch up on.”
After we showed ourselves out, she watched us from behind the screen door, the fingernails of her cigarette hand clicking menacingly against each other. Well-wishers making their way up the sidewalk sized us up before climbing to the stoop. Darlene greeted them with air-kisses. The door banged shut. Voices drifted indoors.
“Well,” Starr said, “I think we can pretty much rule out the missus as a suspect.”
“You don’t know dick. Here, be a dear and hold this for me.” I handed him my compact, flipped open the mirror, and guided his hand to just the right angle before powdering my nose. “She used to be a dancer.”
“Yeah? So?”
“Striptease.”
“You can tell this how? From her legs? Or her tits?”
“She’s watching us, isn’t she?”
Starr angled his eyes toward the house. I don’t know what he saw, but in the mirror’s reflection, I made out someone peering at us from inside. Someone in black. Someone with blonde hair.”
I folded the compact back into my purse. We resumed walking at a casual pace. “Her real name is Doris Ann Marbrey,” I said. “Born in 1926 just outside Des Moines. Farmer’s daughter. Dropped out of high school and bought a bus ticket for the big city. Exchanged overalls for cocktail dresses, changed her name, dyed her hair, and made a right turn instead of a left. Wound up at the Liberty Inn on North Clark Street. Ever hear of it?”
From the arch of his eyebrows, I took it he had.
“Then you know the strip club provided extra services on the side, but only if the price was right. She was billed as Holly Holliday. Had a brief fling with the piano player before hooking up with a married hotel magnet. When he dumped her, she got cozy with the owner of a Cadillac dealership who racked up gambling debts before running into a wall and breaking both legs. Then she met her meal ticket: a milquetoast bean counter with political connections who brought the self-styled Darlene Mandeville home to dear old mama.”
“Doesn’t make her a murderer,” Starr said.
“Boy, are you ever naïve.”
He opened the door for me. I jammed my
self inside and turned over the engine. “Looks and brains,” he said, shaking his head. “I think I’m falling madly in love.”
“Get to the back of the line.”
He swung the door shut.
Chapter 17
I TAGGED STARR back toward the heart of the city, first one of us leading the way and then the other. We had the same destination in mind. Bloody Maxwell.
Tactically located in the near west side corridor, the Maxwell Street Police Station was the epicenter of crime and corruption. Like the neighborhood it served, the looming red brick building would always be known as Bloody Maxwell, the moniker a hangover from the cutthroat 20s, 30s, and 40s. Mafia kingpin Al Capone was reputed to have spent a night in one of the underground cells, and immediately upon release, called on his dentist for emergency dental work. That’s how Bloody Maxwell worked.
Even though open warfare had quieted down some, the 50s was living up to its predecessors. Prostitution, narcotics, grifting, and gambling were sold in the West Side Levee the same way carrots and washing tubs were hawked on Maxwell Street. Daily raids, roundups, and arrests kept everybody hopping, and enough graft, backroom deals, and tradeoffs kept everyone living high off the hog, including the cops.
I squeezed into the last legal space on Maxwell Street and parallel parked the way I’d been taught at the tender age of eleven. Daddy’s driver—who called himself Larry Lemon even though his legal name was Isaac Levin—assumed the usual fatherly duties of driving lessons. He introduced me to the tricks of the criminal trade, such as how to tell if you’re being followed, how to execute a 180, how to drive backwards at the speed of sound, how to take control of the car from the passenger seat, how to tail someone without being spotted, how to run a car off the road, how to drive on the wrong side of the street and come out unscathed, and most importantly, how to hotwire the ignition, break out of a locked trunk, and disable the starter.
The Super Convertible parked beside a fire hydrant. Starr liked to aggravate the fuzz, it seemed, the riskier the gamble, the greater the kick. After climbing out of the car—his lanky frame unfolding like a walking stick—he jaywalked across the street.
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