by Brian Meeks
"How did he approach them?"
Mike smiled at Henry's detailed question. "She thinks he must have come from behind through a couple of parked cars or maybe was crouched down between them as they never saw him. He just attacked and caught them completely by surprise. Oh, one more thing. She said he smelled."
“Interesting. Did she say what he smelled like?”
“Nope, she remembers it struck her as odd.”
"You get any prints off of the bill?"
"Nope, it was clean."
"What's with all the files?"
"I figure the French franc note was some sort of signature."
"You think you got a..."
Mike interrupted, "I don't know, and I certainly don't want to suggest something like that before I have proof. It may just be a personal grudge between Robert and the perp. I just don't know. I'm looking through the unsolved cases for anything that might jump out."
"Mike, you were there for me when Mickey was murdered. If you need anything, I want to help."
"I may just take you up on that. I'll need to run it by the captain, but I'm sure his only concern is finding the killer."
Henry stood up, gave Mike a nod, and left him to his mountain of files.
CHAPTER 5
The second floor apartment was tiny. The couch had plastic covers. A lace tablecloth covered the round antique kitchen table. Porcelain cats and dogs filled a curio cabinet, and pictures on the coffee table showed off children, grandchildren, and her late husband in his dress uniform. It was a picture of a long happy life.
The man sitting on the edge of the arm chair checking the magazine on his rifle had taken no pleasure in strangling her. Her age merely made it a simple task. The hot wind rolling through the open window was but a minor annoyance. He checked the bolt action, laid the gun across his lap, and watched the street.
A drip of sweat eased its way down his forehead, but, before it could fall to the floor, a handkerchief was brought into play and slipped back into his breast pocket. His face, freshly shaved, felt strange to his touch. He had grown used to the beard. The new suit of clothes were tailored. He liked them but for only a moment. Happiness was not going to infect his plans.
The man leaned forward as he saw Henry Wood walking down the street. He smiled at understanding the man well enough to know he would head straight back to the office after the precinct. He watched Henry reach the intersection and wait for the light to change. The man stood erect, away from the window, and watched a spot on the sidewalk.
Henry felt badly about walking out of the diner without ordering. As he got close, he kept his head down. He wasn’t going to look through the window, but it shattered, and people started screaming and running. Henry turned from the window and looked up. Instinct told him to get behind a car. The shot must have come from the building across the street.
It hadn’t been very loud, but he was sure of the direction. He listened, expecting another shot to follow, but it didn’t. The threat was gone. Henry turned his attention to the diner. People were running out of the door, so he stepped through the space where the window had been. The waitress who had almost helped him, lay on the ground. The shot had hit her in the chest. Henry guessed she had died instantly.
“Has anyone called the police?” he yelled. A shaken cook stood over her body, and another waitress was crying by the register. She was closest to the phone, so Henry asked, “Could you call the police, miss?”
“Shouldn’t I call an ambulance?” she asked between sobs.
“Yes, but call the police first. I’m sorry, but…” Henry gently closed the slain waitress’ eyes.
It wasn’t long before the first patrolman pulled up outside, then another. Finally, Mike walked in and asked, “What happened?”
Henry shook his head. “I don’t know. I was in front of the window when it shattered. I heard the shot come from the building across the street. I think it was one of the lower floors though not the first.”
Mike looked out the gaping hole in the front of the diner and instructed the patrolman to call in and get some more guys to canvas the building. He knelt down and sighed. “That is quite a shot through the window. Why would anyone kill a waitress? Henry, you think she was the target?”
“I was thinking the same thing. Maybe she was just in the wrong spot at the wrong time.”
A shiny bit of metal in the waitress’ apron caught Mike’s eye. He leaned over, lifted up the pocket of her apron, and fished it out . He held it up to show Henry. “Why do you suppose she had this in her pocket?”
The other waitress said, “She got it with her tip.”
Mike asked, “Did you see who gave it to her?”
“Sorry, no. We each handle half the diner, and it has been really busy all day. She showed it to me when I was getting a fresh pot of coffee.”
Henry asked, “How long ago?”
“I don’t know, maybe 30 minutes or it could be an hour. It’s hard to keep track of time when the restaurant is packed.”
Two more detectives showed up and started taking statements. Mike sent five guys across the street to go door to door. He gave them instructions to call the diner as soon as they knew anything. He didn’t need to remind them that there was someone running around with a rifle.
Henry sat down in one of the empty booths and wrote down some notes. The day kept getting worse by the minute.
CHAPTER 6
The mind of a detective seldom rests. It goes and goes until one of three things happens; he solves the case, drinks a case, or becomes a head case. Henry knew quite a few detectives who spent most of their lives inside a bottle. He didn’t want to become one of those guys. He liked going out with Mike and Francis, and having a few beers, but most nights he preferred the solitude of either his tiny apartment in the city or his house in Brooklyn. Right now, as he walked away from the crime scene, his mind was telling him what was going on, and he didn’t want to listen. He wanted a drink.
In the cavernous city that is Manhattan, one can travel a few hundred yards from a horrible tragedy and melt into a crowd of people who are completely unaware of what has happened. They stroll along just as they do every other day of the year. Henry stood at a corner, staring blankly ahead, and waiting for the signal to change.
On the opposite corner, a man stood carrying his briefcase and the Wall Street Journal. His driver pulled up in a 1935 SJ LaGrande Dual-Dowl Phaeton, a car that bordered on art. It was typically the sort of thing Henry would have appreciated, but, as it slowed to a stop on the periphery of his vision, he gave it a brief glance without paying any attention to the man waiting for the door to be opened.
Dwight Palmeroy III handed his briefcase over and gave his driver the least amount of recognition possible as he slid into the car, never taking his eyes off the paper. Dwight Palmeroy had devoted his adult life to commerce. In his youth he had played sports and lettered in baseball, crew, and football at Yale. When he finished his law degree, it was time to do the sensible thing and get married, which he did, to the mind-numbingly dull daughter of a man who had made several fortunes on Wall Street. By the time he was 30, he had amassed his own respectable portfolio of businesses, and she had added two sons to their lives. He did nothing other than what came most natural. He bought small companies and raised them to be large companies. He let the nanny and his wife worry about his sons.
He was not naturally predisposed towards outward displays of affection. His wife understood this, and it made his indifference towards her tolerable. She could dote on her boys or drink gin by the pool, and everything seemed grand. She was a loyal and somewhat invisible wife for 25 years before she became ill. Dwight found some genuine affection for her in those last months. She died shortly before his 50th birthday.
Dwight was now 64 and five years into his second marriage. This time, he chose for himself. She was stunning to behold. When he had her on his arm, the world of big business seemed small and boring. He might have even described it as min
d-numbingly dull by comparison. There were whispers among some of the society ladies, but his friends at the club raised a glass or two on his behalf.
Atkins Jamison had been his driver for 20 years and wasn’t sure if his boss knew his first name. It mattered little to him. “Where to, sir?”
“The club,” he said almost out of habit. Most days, Dwight would go to his social club and have brandies and cigars. The men, most of whom he had known for years, would discuss politics and business and make deals, which required only a handshake. The business day wasn’t close to being done, and there would be few people around with whom he could unwind.
The car pulled away from the curb and disappeared into the traffic. Henry walked another block. The sound of a truck backfiring brought him back into the moment. He stopped and almost dove for cover, but his mind realized there wasn’t a threat.
It was strange to remember the shooting. He played it over and over in his head. He must have heard the shot first then the window shattering, but it didn’t seem that way at the time. It was as if his ears had heard the shot but didn’t consider it important, so they filed it away until the glass shattered and said, “Hey, how about that muffled gun shot that just went off? Maybe you should look around?” No matter how hard he tried, when he played it back in his mind, he heard shatter then pop.
That wasn’t the only thing on Henry’s mind, but he was trying his best to ignore the real issue. It just didn’t make sense that she was the target. Since he wasn’t entertaining suggestions from his little voice, his mind turned to Luna.
Luna was the client at the beginning of the year who had grown into something more. She was striking to look at and kind to a fault. Her job was at a bakery. Several evenings per week, she brought romance back into Henry’s life…and cookies. She was a great listener and had a way of seeing the world that Henry found intoxicating. She also, as he had learned with his last case, had a jealous streak. The unsolved portion of his last case had caused some friction. Henry had been a bit too accurate in describing the feminine charms of the woman and how upset he had been at her untimely death. They hadn’t seen much of each other lately.
Henry wanted to call her, but his voice said it might be a bad idea. His voice was usually right but all too often he didn’t listen when he should. Henry started to take a more circuitous route back to his office. The walk was doing him some good. He was out of his fog and ready to get his mind back in the game.
CHAPTER 7
Mike walked down the hall towards the two officers standing outside the apartment door. As he got closer, the pop of flash bulbs from the crime scene photographer stopped. He paused and let the photographer leave before entering the apartment.
“It looks like she was choked to death,” said an officer kneeling beside the body. He pointed to the red ligature marks around her neck.
“Have you dusted for prints yet?”
“No, we’ll get that next. You think this is where the shooter was?”
The window was still open, and Mike went to look at the vantage point. They had canvassed the entire building and spoken with every other apartment with a window facing the street. The angle of the shot eliminated the higher floors, and Henry had mentioned only seeing three windows open on the second and third floors. The other two apartments were ruled out because one of the tenants was blind and the other man had palsy. Even if the search had turned up a gun, which it hadn’t, Mike doubted he could have made the shot. Mike had talked to him anyway.
“This might be the spot, but we can’t be sure.”
The young officer replied, “But it couldn’t have been the other two apartments, right?”
“Nope, it wasn’t them.”
“Then this has to be the spot.”
Mike smiled at him. “Yes, it is likely, but I don’t like to assume. We do have a murder here. But the question is, do we have two here?”
“What do you mean?”
“The shooter could have been in a different apartment and simply fired and closed the window afterwards.”
The officer nodded, feeling a little embarrassed, but also sort of impressed at how the detective’s mind worked.
Mike walked over to the chair by the window and saw the footstool had been moved slightly at one corner. The marks in the carpet showed that it was precisely parallel with the arm chair. Mike stood at the window and held his arms up like he was holding a rifle. He couldn’t see the diner window; at best, he could have shot one of the cars passing on the street. Mike’s nickname was ‘Big Mike’, because he stood 6’4”, which was taller than all the other guys in the precinct. “Hey, come here for a second.”
The officer, who was around 5’9”, walked over and said, “Yeah?”
“If you were standing here, holding a rifle, could you get a shot through the diner window?”
The officer made the same rifle holding motion with his arms as he imagined a site and said, “No, I can only see the cars parked along the street. Maybe he stood further back?”
Mike was impressed. “Good idea. Take a few steps back until you can get a clear shot.”
The officer took one step back but had to move around the footstool. Before he took a second, he looked down and said, “I would have to be standing over the body. It seems awkward.”
The two officers in the hallway were watching and another with the finger printing gear had joined them. Mike said, “Maybe he was on one knee?”
The officer got down on one knee and said, “Maybe, but this way the barrel would have been hanging out the window. There isn’t enough space to have the gun inside because the footstool is in the way.”
Mike motioned to the young man. “Try sitting on the arm of the chair with your foot between the chair and the footstool.”
He did as he was told and raised his arms. “Yes, I can see the diner perfectly.”
“Thanks.” Mike took out a notebook and wrote down his theory about how the shooter was positioned and that the first victim had been strangled. “Make sure to check all around the chair for a shell casing or anything else you can find.”
The officer with the case nodded and began to unpack.
The one who had been helping Mike was now in the hall talking quietly with the two from the door. Mike stopped, “Who discovered the body?”
The same one who had been helping said, “I did. I knocked, but there wasn’t any answer, so I knocked again but harder. The door opened a little and I saw her lying there.”
“You didn’t turn the knob?”
“No, it wasn’t closed all the way.”
Mike had the fingerprint guy check the knob. He found nothing, not a single print on either side. Mike wrote some more notes and tried the door. The humidity made it hard to close. “The shooter wiped the door handle but didn’t get it all the way shut. See how the door sticks, but the latch didn’t catch.”
One of the officers who had been at the door asked, “What does it mean?”
“Probably nothing, but the difficulty in closing the door helps explain why it didn’t close all the way.”
The young officer took offense, “Hey, you didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t open the door?”
“Settle down. I believe you, but when we catch this guy, his lawyer won’t.”
The officer said, “Yeah, dirty rotten lawyers. Those shysters are always trying to twist our words.”
“Don’t you worry. You played it by the book, and I’m just making notes so I can verify your account.”
“Nice to know you got my back, Mike.”
Mike left and returned to the office. He needed to update the captain and let him know that it looked like they were dealing with more than just a random killing.
CHAPTER 8
Harriet had been with the Palmeroy family for seven years since before the first Mrs. Palmeroy passed. When she started working, her duties were limited to the upstairs, but, after the head maid retired two years ago, she was promoted. Harriet, named for Harriet Tub
man, had a sharp mind and was well liked by the staff. Shortly after her promotion Rita had been hired. Rita, who was a new bride at the time, was incredibly thankful for the job. The twenty-three year old Latina woman had become Harriet’s right hand woman.
The two were just starting to work on the laundry when Mrs. Palmeroy returned from her meeting. She smiled as she passed her staff in the hall and went to her bedroom.
Rita said in a hushed voice. “It is strange for the Mrs. to not say where she was going today don’t you think?’
Harriet nodded and pulled some linens out to be washed.
Rita continued, “Where do you think she went?”
Harriet didn’t like the staff to gossip too much but stopping it all together was nearly impossible, and she was a little curious, too. “I wouldn’t know,” she said and smiled, “but I bet if you asked Ronnie later, he’d be obliging…if you took him some of those cookies from the pantry.”
Rita giggled.
As soon as the linens were put in the washer, Harriet went to check on the upstairs maids while Rita headed off to do some light dusting.
Harriet checked on a maid who was preparing one of the eight guest rooms. She found a few, small things but overall she was pleased. She continued down the hall and looked through a couple of rooms that had already been made up. The guests for the weekend would be arriving Friday afternoon and Saturday morning. She also had to check on Mr. and Mrs. Palmeroy’s room, then see if the cook needed anything from the grocery. Shopping wasn’t part of Harriet’s job description, but, when the house was going to be full of guests, she always helped the kitchen staff.
The hallway leading to the master bedroom was adorned with flowers. Harriet noticed a few of them were less than perfect and stopped to pull off a couple of dry buds when she heard Mrs. Palmeroy on the phone. She wasn’t one to eavesdrop but she needed to check the room and didn’t have time to go do something else. She knocked lightly on the door.