Returning to the apartment, he put the paper on the table and went into the kitchenette to fix himself his usual breakfast: a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a Diet Coke chaser.
Bringing the paper plate of food to the shaky table, sitting, Z picked up the newspaper, stripping off the plastic wrapper.
First taking a bite of sandwich, he unfolded the Star and scanned the headlines, wondering how he'd solve the world's problems outlined there. Decided he'd do as well as the politicians. Which didn't say much.
A swig of Coke and another bite took him to the back page, where he was more likely to encounter Gladstone news.
Saw a piece about river boat gambling in Riverside.
Ah! That was what Bud Izard meant about his tavern being too far from the river to qualify for a gambling license -- making the point about it being unfair to let river boats have gambling, but not places on shore, a restriction that didn't make a lot of sense to Z, either.
Z turned the page.
Bizarre Murder North of the River
Killings were so common anymore, it hardly made an impact to read about them. Always the same. Kids, killing kids over drugs, over tennis shoes. It hadn't been that way when Z was young. What was common then, was fights, two guys getting into it over a girl, or punch outs after drunks got liquored up on Friday nights. And, of course, there was the once-a-year brawl under the stands after the big game.
Now, it was normal for teenage quarrels to end in death.
Why?
Guns.
In Z's day, nobody got killed cause all you got hit with was somebody's fist.
It was guns that did the killing. Without them, kids would go back to the fun of beating on each other -- like kids should.
Fortunately, murders north-of-the-river were more rare, the Northland a backward place where "Everything wasn't up-to-date in Kansas City."
Straightening out the paper, leaning forward, then backward to find the right distance for him to see the paper's increasingly small print, Z began to read:
Police report that on the night of August 6th, a murder was committed North of the River. Operating on a tip, Gladstone police were dispatched to the scene, a house on Jarbo, officers finding the dead man in his living room. While details are not yet available, it was learned that the murdered man had been smothered .....
On Jarbo ..................
Z was sweating.
Smothered?
How?
Z did a quick run-through of the events of night-before-last, careful to review the precautions he'd made to keep things from getting out of hand.
Smothered?
Impossible!
Sure, Z had taped the poor man's mouth, thereby closing off one way to breathe. And the melting wax from the candles were supposed to cover Howard Kunkle's head. But how that little bit of wax could have closed Kunkle's nose ....?
Anyway, Kunkle could have snorted out any wax threatening to seal up his breathing.
Couldn't he?
Unless the little man had a problem to begin with.
Like asthma.
Was it possible Howard Kunkle suffered from asthma attacks. That he used an inhaler. That tied up as he was ....?
Z didn't see how. Z had searched the house, after all. If Kunkle had asthma, there would have been some evidence of it -- an inhaler right there by his bedside, for instance.
Shutting his eyes, Z pictured the narrow bedroom again. .....
No medication of any sort.
The same could be said of the bathroom. Z had left the potty room PDQ, but had seen all there was to see.
Returning Z to the question of how too little wax had choked a healthy man to death. ......
His mind slipping sidewards to avoid the obvious, Z tried to comfort himself with the fact that Howard Kunkle had brought this trouble on himself by taking a shot at Bud Izard, Howard Kunkle's death in the same category as what the cops called a "righteous shoot," -- cop talk for someone who had it coming.
Still ....
Z's hands twitching, Z locked his fingers together.
Could the police -- more likely, the Star's reporter -- have been mistaken about how Kunkle died? Might it even be that Kunkle had a heart condition?
No heart medicine in the place.
Or that the mental pressure had caused the poor guy to have a stroke?........
Z had to find out more; Ted Newbold possibly of some help.
Getting up from the table, almost knocking over his straight chair he was so distracted, Z circled the fireplace to reach the two-seater, green sofa. Turning, he sagged down near the black rotary; managed, after a couple of wrong numbers, to dial the Gladstone police station.
Funny how the dancing flames in the black metal fireplace now seemed so ... cold.
"Gladstone Public Safety," said a bored female voice.
"Detective Newbold."
"Who is speaking, please?"
"A friend."
Z had to be careful when calling Teddy. Ted's captain, Philip Scherer, didn't like Z; didn't like his men having anything to do with Z. Hated Z, would be more like it, ever since Z had messed up the Betterton bust, Mrs. Betterton to be the political horse Scherer was to ride to officeholder glory.
A click broke the hostile silence on the line.
Then a ring.
"Detective Newbold, speaking."
Z could picture Teddy leaning back in his new, but cheap, swivel chair, one of his carefully polished shoes on his particle board desk.
Teddy had once said that the best advice his Mother had given him -- one he'd patterned his life on -- was to keep his shoes shined. ... Said a lot about Ted's Mother. ... Said a lot about Ted.
"Z."
"One moment, sir."
Always the same, Ted now scrambling to shut his office door in case Captain Scherer went past and caught Ted talking to Z.
"Yeah, Z, what you want?" Ted, back at his desk; being his old, unpleasant self. "And anyway, where'd you go at the reunion? One minute you're there, ugly as shit on a shingle, and the next you're gone."
"Bud Izard ..."
"Yeah. Yeah. I remember. Wanted to see you about some five-buck job. I don't know how you could have been so big in high school and turned out like you did. Not that you're not scraping by. But ... well, you know what I mean."
"Yeah."
"Anyway, you missed a great party. Not in the park, but later on. At the dinner that night. Pretty classy. Even my wife thought it was classy. All catered. At the Carlton hotel out by the airport. Thick-sliced roast, you could cut with a knife." Ted meant fork. "Strawberry pie.
"Course, it was dress-up. Got to wear my new blue suit. Got it at a half-price sale at the Factory Warehouse. Would have cost me a hundred easy, if I'd had to pay full price for it.
"Jason Yount was Master of Ceremonies for the formal part after dinner. Told some good ones about this one and that, you know, sort of rememberin' the old days and all the shit we pulled. How Eddy Rogers -- always was an electrical geek -- found the wiring to the school's fire alarm running through the ventilator in the boy's john. Shorted out the wires. Hell, it took 'em half a day to trace it down and get the friggin' siren turned off, all of us freezing our asses off standing outside, wondering when the fire department was going to come. What a laugh!" Teddy was chuckling to himself.
"Ted?"
"Yeah?"
"Got a question."
"Oh. OK. But you missed a good time, believe me. ... So, what you got? Get it out quick while I'm in such a good mood. You know, the captain don't -- doesn't -- like me to have anything to do with you. Particularly in my official capacity."
"Yeah. ... Last night's killing."
"I know about that, sure. Though it wasn't my squeal." Ted was generally kept off cases the department didn't want screwed up.
"Murder?"
"With the dead guy all tied up like a Christmas tree stuffed into one of them plastic net bags? Didn't take a genius to figure he'd been stif
fed."
"Paper said suffocated."
"Right. Those dumb M.E.'s don't get it right half the time, but even they couldn't screw up this one."
"Could have been a heart attack?"
"Of course the coroner is going to have to say, but the way they tell it at the station -- this is Bayliss's baby -- some sick bastard poured hot wax all over the dearly departed's head. Shut off his breathing."
"How?"
"Had tape over his mouth. Wax sealed off his nose. ... Listen, Z, I got work to do."
"Identify the perp?"
"Not a clue in a carload. Leastways, that's what the techs say. No prints. No nothing. The door had been rigged. Looks like a pro done it. That's the whole deal."
"Money?"
"Nope. Nor drugs, neither. ... Anyway, what's your interest in this?"
"Just ... interested."
"You got a client who done it?"
"No."
"Don't shit me, Z. You don't call, less it's important to you. Not that you got an important job. But this means something to you. ..... OK. ..... I won't ask what. ... And Z?"
"Yeah?"
"You're doin' good not to have hinted for me to break the rules, like beggin' that I give out the name of the victim. Which I figured you'd do, soon as I heard what you wanted."
"Don't want to meddle."
"Since when? You must have had a powerful change of heart since the last time you called."
"Yeah."
"That it, then?"
"Yeah. Thanks."
"Sure. And remember, I done you this little favor. So you owe me."
"Right."
"You get a tip for me, let me know."
"Right."
Z heard the click of Teddy hanging up.
Though not realizing it, Ted had answered all the important questions, first and foremost, that the medical examiner and the technicians hadn't found anything that pointed to Z. If, in a day or two, the cops continued to turn up zilch, the odds said they'd never find a thing. That's why the first twenty-four hours in a homicide were so critical -- cops always saying that. Either something breaks right away in murder cases, or it never does. ... Unless an eyewitness comes forward: little chance of that.
Something that should have made Z feel good ... but didn't.
A more recent puzzle had been solved, however: about Bud Izard's exaggerated reaction to Z scaring off Howard Kunkle. The sickly grin on Bud's fat face; the sweating; the offer to pay two hundred; the vow of eternal gratitude; owing Z a favor; the two of them swearing never to speak of the incident again. All of it, just ... too much.
It was now clear why Bud had been so ... strange.
He was scared of being involved in murder, scared of being swept up as an accessory before, or after the fact. Just plain scared.
Maybe, even afraid Z would find some way to blackmail him for being in on the kill .......
Could be, even scared of Z, people generally afraid of murderers.
For it was clear as could be that Bud already knew of Howard Kunkle's death -- thought Z had killed the little man on purpose.
The difficulty was how Bud could know, when Z, himself ...........
Easy.
Z had tipped the cops sometime after 2:00 in the morning. By the time they'd responded, The Kansas City Star had been "put to bed," so, no mention of the Kunkle affair in yesterday's morning paper. Nothing that night, because the Star's greedy owners had shut down the evening paper, Z having to wait until the next morning -- this morning -- to discover what had happened.
What was clear was that Bud knew about the murder by the time Z arrived at 4:00. Probably got it from noontime TV.
Except it wasn't murder -- just an accident.
That's what it was all right, an accident; that's what Z had to keep reminding himself; that accidents ... happened.
It was not his fault that something had gone wrong.
Not his fault.
At least, that's what he told himself ... to stop his hands from shaking.
* * * * *
Chapter 4
Another day had passed with nothing else happening. Another day meaning that, while Z was still concerned about what had gone wrong in the Kunkle affair, the odds of Z being discovered were falling. He was eating again. Sleeping again -- though he'd been having bad dreams. Something he never did.
What were dreams, anyway? God, or nature, or something "out there" trying to reveal hidden information? He didn't know. Nor could he remember just what he'd been dreaming about. Only that he would wake up dripping with sweat, the bedclothes twisted into nightmare shapes.
Surely, those dreams would go away in time. If not, he could put in a call to Dr. Calder at Bateman College.
He'd worked for Calder on another case; had come to know and like the chubby little psychologist. If anyone knew about dreams, Calder would.
All this thinking done while Z was sitting at his battered desk in his sweltering office, trying to read a detective novel -- having a tough time even doing that, his mind wandering.
Since the telephone repairman had just fixed his desk phone, Z was again located in the second of the connecting cubbyholes that passed for his office. As before, when the telephone on his "secretary's" desk rang, Z's phone would also ring in back: a blessing because Z's knee made it difficult for him to reach the front phone in time.
Not that Z had that much call-in business to take care of -- or any other kind of business, for that matter.
Since Bud's plea for help, no other cases had materialized, leaving Z hurting for money. Z could have accepted Bud's two hundred, adding it to Kunkle's contribution ... but that would have been against the Zapolska Code. (One of these days, Z's "code" would starve him to death.)
Z picked up the novel again; a good one about a black detective back in the fifties; by a writer named Mosley.
But ... couldn't keep his mind on the plot.
Damn! There was simply no way that five candles of wax could have plugged up Kunkle's nose! For Kunkle to smother, the wax would have had to have been snorted up inside ....
The phone rang -- right there on his desk -- startling him.
Recovered, Z picked up the receiver.
"Bob Zapolska Detective Agency." If Z's pipes were only stronger, he'd sound more impressive ....
"This is Dan -- 'the D.J.'-- Jewell, fourteen hundred and ninety-two!" The voice that boomed out this sing-song gibberish was deep, cultured ... and unrecognizable. Z waited. "Am I speaking to Robert Zapolska in person?"
"Yeah."
"Well, how are you, Big Bob?" Had to be someone from Z's past; no one called Z "Big Bob" anymore.
"Fine."
"Didn't get to renew old acquaintances with you at the party. Too sad. But that's the way of life, sometimes."
Renew old ....? Ah! Someone coming out of the left field of Z's high school days.
"The reunion?"
"But of course. We ran in different circles in the olden days. You, Mr. Football. Me, Mr. Journalism. But, of course you've heard me since ...?"
"Ah ...."
"On fourteen ninety-two radio? Shock jock with town talk? Shock plus rock. The Morning Show? Dan -- 'the D.J.' -- Jewell?"
"Ah ...."
"No matter. There are only two kinds of listeners. Fans and soon-to-be fans. Just a question of tuning in once or twice." Followed by a dry chuckle. "But, to business. Within a week, I begin a new feature. Not yet titled. Something like 'Law and Disorder.' Something like that. Discussion of law enforcement in the Kansas City area. With call-ins, always with call-ins. Dan 'the D.J.' wants to hear from his people. Vox populi, don't you know.
"I've already lined up all the big names in town. Cops. Politicians. It was at the reunion where I heard that you're now a detective. And voila!, there you were in the Yellow Pages."
The Yellow Pages was about the only place Z was, his business hardly more than his ad: "Bob Zapolska Detective Agency: Quick, Inexpensive. Results Guaranteed."
"So I said to myself," Mr. Radio continued, Z getting the idea the man was talking more for his own benefit than for Z's,"you've got to call this man." There was a pause.
"Why?"
"To get a private detective's input, of course."
"Why?"
A booming laugh over the line. "The strong, silent type, is that it? Part of the old P.I. image?"
Just what did this Dan Jewell guy, a man Z had never heard of, want? More to the point, what could Z do to get him to say what he wanted?
"Look," rumbled the big voice over the little phone, "I'm not telling you anything you don't know when I say that the reputation of private detectives is less than good. Crooks, with licenses to snoop around, is what most people think."
In Z's case, without a license. But Z did take the man's point. A "gumshoe's" reputation was a seedy one, his own included.
"But I want to be fair about it. I'm covering all kinds of law enforcement: street cops, big city detectives, county sheriffs, highway patrol." Z could sense the man counting on his fingers. "And private detectives, who are quasi-law enforcement. If the police can't get action who do you call? Not Ghostbusters, but your friendly, neighborhood private investigator. Private dicks are society's back-up to failed police work."
Z had always considered himself to be in law enforcement, whether regular cops, like Captain Scherer, agreed or not. It was just that Z was such a little fish in the private investigator pond ....
"Why me?"
"Why not you?"
"There are big agencies."
"True. But, I feel I know you. Even though we didn't run around together back in high school. I saw you play. Anyway, I live north-of-the-river. It'd be easier to interview you. We could do it in the evening. You wouldn't have to come to the station. There's no money in this, you see. Just public service."
Z didn't know what to say.
"I'm doing this series because crime has gotten out of hand. Even in the Northland. Take that murder a few days ago, for instance."
Suddenly, Dan -- the whatever -- Jewell had Z's full attention!
Murder by Candlelight Page 5