Steve got his key from the desk and stumbled toward the elevator. When the operator tried to make conversation, he shook his head and slumped against the car wall with his eyes closed. The trip up seemed to take forever. He tugged his tie loose and unbuttoned the collar button of his shirt. Three attempts with his key, and he was inside. The first thing he noticed was Julie’s perfume faintly scenting the air. He glanced around and saw her sitting in one of the armchairs, with a brittle smile. Steve groaned to himself and threw his hat at the table and missed. He stared at it and decided that it would be too much trouble to retrieve.
“Okay, fella, its payback time,” she said. Julie extracted a cigarette from a case in her handbag. She tapped it on the silver case while she waited for him to scrabble in his pocket and snap a match to life. Immediately, she slotted the cigarette in an ashtray on the adjacent table at her side. With a pencil and pad in her hand, she said, “So, give.”
“Aw, have a heart, Jules,” Steve begged. “Give me a couple of hours of shut-eye, and you can wring me dry.”
Relentlessly, Julie pointed to the chair across from hers. “First question: Did Francis confess?”
With quiet resignation, Steve sat and went over the last three days as she scribbled rapidly. He described the night of the murder. He covered the investigation from the first day to the tableau in Mrs. Chandler’s office. Briefly, he sketched the interrogation. Under Julie’s pressing, Steve topped it off with the reactions of the Chandler sisters for a human interest angle. Julie wrote for an hour before she was satisfied that she had it down accurately, frequently interrupting him with questions.
She rose to leave. When she reached to stub out the cigarette, she found that it was out and only a long, gray line of ash was left. Picking up her coat, hat, and bag, she bent and gave Steve a peck on the cheek. “Got to get to the telephone exchange and make a connection to the paper. Calvin has been frothing at the mouth to get this, and he was getting ready to cast a curse on you.”
Steve was suddenly galvanized with alarm, the fog in his brain lifting abruptly. “Julie, this is strictly from an anonymous source. Bob will spit rocks if my name is mentioned.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’ve done this before,” she said airily.
When she had left, Steve sat in the chair, debating whether to sleep there or struggle to bed. He jerked off his tie, levered himself out of the chair, and headed for the bedroom. Halfway there, a hard knock sounded on the door, and he groaned. He reversed direction and opened the door to two detectives from his office. Morgan and McQuarry stood there, Morgan grinning and McQuarry glowering.
They took off their hats and stepped in. Morgan whistled as he looked around. “I knew I should have been nicer to old Bob. Maybe I would have been given these plum assignments.”
McQuarry grunted.
“What do you guys want?” asked Steve, trying to keep the weariness and irritation out of his voice.
“The chief sent us down to take Francis Chandler back to Hartford. Before you mess it up,” snarled McQuarry.
Morgan shot his partner an exasperated look. “Everybody, and I mean everybody, wants the circus to happen in Hartford. The opposition party wants to have a public crucifixion of one of the machine’s own. The machine wants to show that no one is above the law to get ready for the next election. Neither side thinks the Chandler organization is going to be a player anymore. So, we take the doomed man home.”
McQuarry, refusing to be ignored, added, “You talk to this Daniels character and get Chandler released as soon as possible. We got paper to take him with us.”
Steve was just tired enough to lose his departmental discretion. “Listen, clown. I didn’t do a thing except solve this case. I dragged Crowder’s chestnuts out of the political fire. You got a problem with that, McQuarry?”
“Whoa, whoa,” interjected Morgan, stepping between them. “We are all friends here, right?” He turned to Steve. “Look. Crowder sent us down here to get Chandler. Are you gonna work with us? We drove down here, and we want to drive back with a prisoner. Look. Everyone knows you did a great job on this case.” He stared the belligerent McQuarry down.
Steve sighed. He had made his report the morning after taking Francis into custody. The conversation seemed like a speech that Bob was writing to extol his own virtues and take as much credit as possible. His last command was to get a confession, no matter what it took. Bob made it sound like rubber hoses and other kinds of torture would be overlooked. “You guys go down and get something to eat, go sightseeing, whatever. I have been up for a couple of days and nights and need some sleep. I want a chunk of shut-eye before I fall down.
“I’ll meet you in the lobby at three o’clock.” He took a sheet of letter paper from the desk and scrawled an introduction across it. “Give this to Captain Daniels, who is not a character and who can, undoubtedly, keep you here for a week fighting paperwork if you get under his skin. Be nice, McQuarry,” he warned. As an afterthought, he looked at Morgan and said, “Have the front desk send a wake-up at two thirty, will you?”
Morgan took the paper and turned to the door. He paused. “Thanks,” he said. “C’mon, Jerry, and let me do the talking, will ya?”
Steve locked the door and debated a drink before sleep. He decided against it and moved wearily toward the bedroom. As he reached the threshold, another, lighter knock sounded. He tossed his coat onto the chesterfield. “I died,” he snapped before turning and retracing his steps. He wondered if there would be a deep groove in the carpet from his pacing by the time the day was done.
Unlocking the door, he pulled it open and his weariness disappeared. On the doorstep was Silene, looking wan and tired. She had on a pair of cream-colored linen slacks and a white puffed-sleeve silk blouse. Her short blond hair was tousled. There were dark circles under her eyes, which were red from crying. A tremble in her lower lip made his stomach lurch with sympathy. She was obviously hurting and vulnerable. “Can I come in?” Without waiting for an answer she stumbled in and into his arms.
Steve kicked the door closed and held her. Her body gave little jerks as she sobbed, and he felt her tears dampen his shoulder. “He won’t see me. He won’t even see me.” He awkwardly stroked her hair and nervously murmured platitudes.
Silene finally pulled herself away and tried to smile. “I guess I am a mess,” she said, touching her hair with quick movements.
“Oh, no,” assured Steve quickly. He looked into her eyes and he felt a sudden urge to take the girl back in his arms and soothe away her pain.
Instead, he led her toward the chair Julie had occupied just a few minutes ago. Impulsively, he turned slightly and sat her in his chair. It was as if she would sense Julie’s departed presence. He squatted in front of her and held her hands. “Can I get you something?” he asked solicitously.
She shook her head wearily. “I just needed someone to talk to. I really should go, let you ... ” Her voice trailed off.
Normally, Steve would jump at any excuse to rid himself of a distraught female, but with Silene, he tried to think of a way to make her stay. “I was just going to rest for a moment. You look like you could do with a little sleep, too. Look. Why don’t you take a nap with me.” He realized what he had said when he saw the startled look in her eyes.
“No, no. What I meant is you sleep in the bed, and I’ll sleep out here on the chesterfield. I didn’t mean you to think I wanted to sleep with you.”
He tried to extract his foot from his mouth when he saw the look his last statement brought to her face. “Wait—I do want to sleep with you, but ... ” He quit while she threw back her head and gave a hearty laugh. She stopped to catch her breath, her hands pressing against her chest. Her amusement seemed to have changed her demeanor. She wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands, and a gleam of life came back to them.
“The chesterfield is too short,” she said as she took his hand and led him to the bedroom. She sat on the edge of the bed and removed her shoes. Steve was having
a difficult time taking a breath. There were so many rules that could be broken if things continued as they seemed to be going.
Silene smiled and flipped back the covers on her side and slid into bed. She turned to the other side and pulled the comforter off the pillows, leaving the sheet and blanket tucked in. Turning onto her side, facing the middle of the bed, she was immediately asleep. Steve took off his shoes and crawled onto the bed and pulled the comforter over himself. “Nice solution, Silene, when there’s no bundling bag around,” he muttered as he dropped off.
Chapter 18
Steve groaned when the knock came. It had probably not been the first one. It was too loud. He glanced quickly at the peacefully sleeping Silene. “You must have been beat,” he observed. She was “purring gently,” as his mom would have said, insisting women did not snore, even quietly.
He stumbled to the door and opened it to prevent further assault on his ears. “Right, right. I’m up,” he whispered to the surprised bellhop. Steve pressed four bits into his palm and quietly closed the door and turned to lean his back against it.
His heart lurched when he saw a figure in the bedroom doorway. Silene stood there, raking her long, strong fingers through her tousled hair. When her mouth spread wide in a jaw-dislocating yawn, she quickly used them to cover her tonsils. Steve laughed and she smiled.
“I needed that,” she said, smothering another smaller yawn.
“You are entirely welcome. Anytime, Silene.” He sighed. “Here we go again.” He looked at his slightly rumpled guest. “I should start carrying a salt shaker to make my foot taste better.”
She let out a belly laugh. “I needed that, too.” She continued more seriously, “Mother is being buried on Sunday.” She hesitated and lowered her eyes to the rug and played with the fringe with her toes. In a faint whisper, she asked, “Could you come? I, I would like you to be there.” She added hastily, with a quick glance at his face, “Catherine, too. And Paul.”
Steve doubted that Paul wanted him anywhere near the mansion or the town of Chandler, but he let it go. He hated going to funerals. His grandmother had looked like a wax statue in her coffin. Nothing like the warm, laughing Mimi he had known. But Silene looked so young and vulnerable. “Not a problem. I have to get back to Hartford and report, but I can be back by Sunday.” He looked around the suite and continued, “But with a smaller room. If I keep staying here, I am going to be tempted to put my name on the door, and I can’t afford the place on my salary.”
Silene looked up. “You could stay at—I mean, the company is taking care of the bill here until the case is complete. We offered that before you came. With Robert Crowder’s office. I don’t think it would be complete until the victim is buried, would it?” Steve wondered what she had left unsaid. Had she been about to invite him to stay at the house? He started to protest, but she hurried on. “You would be our guest. The Chandler family. I—we—invited you, after all.”
He chuckled at the convoluted logic and nodded. His eyes flipped to his watch, and he rushed past her. “I have got to get ready to meet McQuarry and Morgan at three o’clock. Stay as long as you want.” His face burned with embarrassment at her laugh. “What kind of steak sauce goes with raw foot?” he asked as he entered the bathroom and closed the door.
While he was shaving, he heard a tap on the door. “Steve, I’m leaving. Thanks for everything. You have been great.”
He called back, “My pleasure—I mean, you’re welcome.” He grabbed for a towel to stem the flow of blood from the wound he had just inflicted on himself. He finished shaving and brushing his teeth. He tied his tie on the run and made it to the lobby just after three.
McQuarry looked as sour as ever and stood with his hands clenching. Morgan nodded to the restaurant, and they were shown a table by May. She seated them and set out menus. They all ordered coffee.
To forestall a lot of grumbling from McQuarry, Steve asked, “How did it go with Captain Daniels?”
“Pretty well,” the truculent detective admitted. “Chandler signed the confession, and his lawyer was jawing to him about lawyer stuff. The captain finally had time for us and was about to give us an argument, but Bucklin—yeah, I recognized him, and it was mutual—started making demands that his client should be tried locally.” Steve recalled that there was an unpleasant history between the two. Three years ago, McQuarry had leaned on one of Bucklin’s clients and broke his arm. The judge had thrown out the confession, and it had cost the detective a promotion and resulted in a week’s suspension. “He probably figured the jury would be friendlier than in Hartford. That seemed to convince Daniels that a change of venue was the greatest thing since air, and he put in a call to the county seat. Everyone seemed to think that getting this thing far away from here and dumping it on the state attorney general’s office was the smart thing to do.” Steve knew that “everyone,” to McQuarry, included only law enforcement. A lawyer’s wishes were beneath notice.
“So we can use the paper we brought to move him back to Hartford. Right now, we are waiting for them to get the evidence together, and we will be off. Daniels said it would be about an hour, since Chandler’s mouthpiece has dropped his objection.”
Steve led Morgan and McQuarry through the heat, down to the constabulary office, and parked. Fighting their way through the still-hungry press, they ignored the shouted questions and grabbing hands. Buck met them at the front door, looking harried. “I’ll be glad when this circus follows Francis to Hartford.”
Ruth extended the transfer papers across the desk to Morgan, with a pointed look. Buck rolled his eyes and whispered to Steve that McQuarry had said something derogatory about female cops. Typical of the large, opinionated detective. Morgan scrawled his signature and straightened up. “What now? Is there another way out of this place? I would hate to have to fight through that again.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the door.
Buck nodded and answered, “We can take him out the back. There may still be some reporters there, but nothing like the mob out front. We’ll put him in one of our cars and drive him to the north side of town to the park.”
Steve looked at his fellow detectives and said, “Let me handle the reporters outside.”
Bucklin Senior, who had approached unnoticed, suddenly spoke up. “Detective Morgan. I will accompany you in your car back to Hartford. I have to protect my client’s interests.” He stared pointedly at Morgan’s partner.
McQuarry reddened. Before he could react, Morgan stepped in. “Sorry, Mr. Bucklin. I can’t give you a lift. It’s against department policy. I will personally guarantee that Mr. Chandler will arrive in the same condition he leaves here.”
“All right, Detective. If you guarantee it,” Bucklin conceded, smoothing his silver hair. Steve recognized the gesture. The attorney used it as an unconscious sign that he considered his point made to a jury.
A few minutes later, Buck and Ruth left, escorting a handcuffed Francis. Bucklin would accompany them to Chandler Park, and they would give him a lift to the station to wait for the evening train.
After the members of the Connecticut State Police left the building, Steve held up his hands and announced to the waiting press, “You might as well wrap it up, ladies and gentlemen. Mr. Chandler is staying the night. He will be transferred to Hartford tomorrow by Detective Sergeants McQuarry and Morgan. That’s it.”
The officers waded through the scribblers and past the sound trucks and got into their cars. Steve watched McQuarry and Morgan turn off toward the park to pick up Francis and head for Hartford. No chase started after them, and he figured he had fooled the press—not something they would easily forgive. He foresaw a string of uncomplimentary stories in his future. Especially after the scoop he, as the anonymous source, had given to Julie.
Chapter 19
Steve sat in the guest chair in Bob Crowder’s office. He had gotten back to his flat the previous evening. The dishes had been washed, the sheets changed, and the soiled linen carried away. Swept carpet
s, swept floor, and all the dust banished. The smell of wood polish and cleansers permeated the rooms. I will sell the furniture and eat nothing but oatmeal before I get rid of Mrs. Colletti, Steve told himself.
On his way to the office in the morning, Steve dropped off his laundry at the cleaners, telling them that he would pick it up on Saturday. After the usual drama, the little Frenchman agreed, with Gallic resignation, to have his things ready for him.
He took a cab to work and headed to Bob’s office. He got a glower from Ida Clark. Mrs. Clark being the best bellwether of Bob’s moods, Steve assumed he was in for a rough time.
Bob was trying to crack his nerve, but Steve just sat and idly worked on his smoke rings. The chief looked up from the news story he was reading and growled, “How did Julie Boroni get this story, Steve? I mean, there is quite a bit of detail. Things that I trusted you not to divulge. You got this assignment because I trusted you. And now you disappoint me. A pretty reporter bats her eyes and shimmies up to you, and you spill your guts. That’s not how I trained you.
“I took you under my wing and worked with you like you were my own son. Then you throw it all away. My trust, your pride, your professionalism—all of it. Simply thrown away.” His voice took on a note of sadness.
“You would have made my Mimi proud, Bob. You have that quality and tone down almost perfect. That woman could make you feel guilty even if you didn’t do anything. She would make you beg her for forgiveness for drinking water. But she would never lower her head. Mimi would pin you to the wall like a bug with her look. You need to work on it, Bob. You really do.” He smiled as he blew a perfect smoke ring in Bob’s direction.
Bob glowered. He changed direction. “McQuarry said that you weren’t too cooperative when he and Morgan went down there.”
Steve shot him an irritated look. “McQuarry can jump in the river. You know him; nothing makes him happy unless he can tear someone’s playhouse down. I got them Chandler as soon as I could and decoyed them out of town. Have him file a complaint.”
The Rose Quilt Page 18