Lights Out Summer

by Rich Zahradnik

  The building had to be out of commission. An odor of dust and damp concrete. But not death. People were wrong about death. They said the smell of it hung around a place—around people even—forever. No. Even death faded.

  The hooks for hanging sides of beef were gone. The whole space had been stripped. Meatpacking, like many commercial activities, had been fleeing New York to Jersey and places farther afield for more than a decade. His steps echoed as he walked to the back of the building.

  A glow leaked from around the edges of a door in the rear wall. It opened to a stairway. Two flights led to another door and a hallway with what looked like four offices. A light was on in one.

  Taylor knocked.

  “Yeah.”

  Taylor stepped in and guessed.

  “Denny Connell?”

  A man in his early thirties in a sharp-cut blue suit that didn’t belong in a slaughterhouse turned around from a file cabinet. He had long blond hair and a face that was more pretty than handsome.

  “Who’s asking?” His bass voice didn’t match his face, and Taylor immediately wondered if Connell was the deep-voiced conspirator in the conversation Martha overheard.

  Taylor took a seat without being asked. He kept his reporter’s notebook in his pocket to see how this played out.

  “I’m researching someone to handle investments.”

  The man sat down in a comfortable desk chair that also didn’t fit in a slaughterhouse. “That’s hardly likely.” He looked Taylor up and down. “Whatever you are, what you make wouldn’t pay a quarter of my fee.”

  “Doing the work for someone else.”

  “Oh yeah, who’s that?”

  “Edmond DeVries.”

  Connell—this had to be Connell—put a snub-nosed .38 on the desk. He chuckled. “He doesn’t have anyone working on anything anymore.”

  “The family’s looking for their money.”

  “What are you, some sort of low-rent PI? Probably all they can afford.”

  “Reporter with the City News Bureau.”

  “Wish you hadn’t said that. A PI, maybe we could cut a deal. Publicity’s another thing. We can’t have that.”

  “We?”

  “Figure of speech.”

  “Or maybe it took more than one person to embezzle the DeVrieses.”

  “You’re not too stupid. Yes, an organization. Working several of these stupid rich families. So sad. Couple sentences, and you already know too much.”

  He picked up the gun.

  “That’s why you’d didn’t leave. There’s more than one score. Pretty greedy, given what you got.”

  Oldest play in the book. Keep ’em talking.

  Didn’t stop the cold from leaking into his stomach, which knotted up around the ice water. His shoulders tightened.

  “You mine where you find the ore. DeVries was specially easy. His family already thought he was fucking miserable at handling the funds. Considered him a financial idiot. He was afraid he couldn’t hang on to what he had. Had every right to be. Cooked up that plan to get out of the city. He was scared, running away. Too late. That’s more than a couple sentences. You know all you’ll ever need to know. Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “So many questions.” He held the gun in a menacing, tight grip. “This is a good place to operate. Quiet. No sense making a mess here. There are people in my organization who take out your kind of garbage. Move, slowly. Out the door. Down.”

  Their shoes made hollow klings on the metal stairs.

  Taylor checked behind, finding Connell a good three steps back. Too far to do anything before encountering a .38-caliber bullet.

  “Turn around!”

  The door to the slaughterhouse floor approached. Taylor saw one chance. A tight one, but the three-step gap might help him.

  He reached for the door.

  “Open it.”

  Taylor pushed, stepped onto the concrete of too many colors and dropped into a crouch on the other side of the door.

  Slammed it shut, hard and fast.

  The plan had been to try and catch Connell’s leading arm in the door. He must have seen it coming. Slugs blew open three holes above Taylor’s head.

  “Naughty. Now I’m going have to hurt you before I have someone kill you.”

  The distance from where he kneeled to the door to the street now looked like a quarter mile. He’d get shot in the back trying to make it.

  The door smashed into the shoulder he held against it, sending a shock of pain across his back. Connell hit it again. He was strong and had the leverage because Taylor had to stay low—and hope Connell didn’t start shooting low. A third blow. Real agony. The door opened two inches before Taylor pushed through the pain to close it again. This was a war of attrition Taylor would lose.

  Time for the old fifth-grade trick.

  The next push came and Taylor fell away from the door to the left, leaving his leg trailing. The door swung open, smashing into the wall. Connell’s momentum, with Taylor’s leg for good measure, sent him flying, and he crashed to the floor.

  Taylor moved in fast, kicked the hand with the pistol and sent it skittering across the floor. He punched Connell in the face—hard enough to send electric pain from Taylor’s knuckles up his arm.

  On his back, Connell lashed out with one leg at Taylor, who caught a heel in the gut, stumbled backwards, windmilled his arms, and kept his balance.

  The scam artist scrambled for the gun.

  Taylor leapt over him, snagged the revolver, and rolled up onto his knees. Was that judo?

  Connell kept coming, slow, easy steps, now with a knife out. “Bet you have no idea how to use that fucking thing.”

  “You’re right.”

  Taylor let Connell dance in closer.

  He rose on one knee.

  Closer.

  The knife flickered in a shaft of sunlight coming through a hole the roof.

  Closer.

  Taylor hurled the pistol at Connell’s face with all the force he could muster. This Connell did not expect.

  The gun crashed into the bridge of his nose.

  He screamed.

  The revolver bounced on the concrete and went off with a roar. A bullet pinged somewhere in the slaughterhouse.

  Connell, staggering blindly, held both hands to his bloody face. Taylor wasn’t taking any chances. He stepped in, flipped him to the ground, and kicked him hard in the ribs for good measure.

  A pile of old wire by the wall served to tie Connell’s arms so Taylor could run and call 911.

  Ten minutes later, the EMTs took Connell off.

  Taylor spent three hours explaining the scene to the cops.

  A bunco sergeant listened to everything Taylor had to say one more time and took charge of all of the paperwork in the office.

  “You’re saying you got hold of his gun and hurled it at him?”

  “I’m a terrible shot. Believe me. Much better at throwing a Spaldeen—you now, in stickball.”

  “I know stickball. You disarmed yourself.”

  “If I hit him, he wasn’t getting up.”

  The sergeant shook his head.

  Taylor’s press pass didn’t have much effect on the man, but Connell’s impressive rap sheet for running confidence games did. The murder cops were on the way to the hospital to see if there was any connection to the DeVries killing. After more interviews and much conferring, the bunco sergeant said they were holding off on any charges against Taylor while they sorted through what Connell was up to. It helped that Connell’s gun was, of all things, legitimate and registered in his name, which meant Taylor didn’t show up with the weapon. It also helped that he’d used the weapon as a projectile, though every cop who heard the story looked at Taylor oddly. Some chuckled. He was told not to leave the city.

  Where the hell am I going?

  Taylor wasn’t concerned about himself. He was worried, more like panicked, that the bunco detectives wouldn’t be able to figure out the paperwork and reco
ver the DeVries millions.

  Didn’t help that the sergeant sent him away with the final words, “I wouldn’t get my hopes up about the money.”

  He walked four blocks before he found a phone booth that wasn’t vandalized. He called the DeVries number, and Audrey came to the phone. He told her what was up with Connell.

  “Oh my goodness.” Genuine concern. “Are you okay?”

  “I’ll be fine.” Not really. Shoulders, entire back ached. Aspirin or Rolling Rock tonight. Or both. “Might mean some legal trouble if they’re not convinced Connell’s the kind of gentleman to pull a gun on a reporter.”

  “If there’s anything we can do ….”

  “Thank you. You need to know, need to tell everyone, this doesn’t mean the money’s coming back. I don’t know if the cops can find it. These aren’t the kinds of con games they track. Even if they did, Connell may have put it out of reach. The only good sign is he stayed in the country to work more embezzlement scams. Maybe this organization of his still has the money in the U.S. Problem is, in my world, organization means organized crime. Few get money back from them.”

  “I don’t care about the money. So much death. We’ll be okay. What will these mobsters do next?”

  “Don’t know. Depends on what Connell tells the cops. And I’m not sure Connell can be ruled out as your father’s murderer.”

  “He’d already taken the assets.”

  “He had more families to rip off. Maybe he thought your father knew something that would point to him. Something your father hadn’t told anyone. Joe Mulligan gave me the address that led to Connell. Maybe there was another lead. It’s pretty thin, I know, but I think he’s still a suspect. He’d have acted through his gang.”

  “Might the organization come after you? You’re the one who’s upset things.”

  “Yeah, ‘upset’ is a good word. That’s a possibility.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Try and get the story before it gets me. You can help me with one thing. I need to talk to the whole family. Together. Go over all that’s happened. Is there a time I can come over when—”

  “Hold on.” The phone went silent for a minute, then two, almost five. “Mother, Charlie, and I will be here next Wednesday evening. Mother’s finally gotten out of bed. I’ve moved back in. Would nine suit?”

  “That’s a full week. This is important.”

  “I know. I’m so sorry. We’re all running in different directions. What with Papa and the finances and the will. Charlie’s so hard to pin down. I know it sounds weak of us.”

  “No, it’s all right. I’ll see you Wednesday. Maybe the bunco detectives will have found something in the paperwork by then.”

  “Bunco?”

  “Cops who investigate cons.”

  Taylor walked to the subway. The “interview” with Connell had been a close call. Samantha was not going to be happy, even though he’d left the note. There was a lot of bad circling the DeVries family. Getting pulled into their orbit was a dangerous game, one where the usual rules didn’t apply. What bothered him most: no connections. Criminal activity on this side and on that and he couldn’t tie any of it together. Fact was, every connection he’d tried to make turned out to be a false lead. His stomach hurt from worry, hurt like it was in competition with his back. In that, it was failing.

  Chapter 25

  Taylor worked his way through the day’s stack of mail, most of it press releases that had nothing to do with the police beat. Covering cops. If he was getting a press release on something, he’d already missed the story.

  Should dump them all in the trashcan without looking.

  He had a reporter’s paranoia. What if one of them was an actual story? Hadn’t happened in the 12 years he’d been on the police beat. Couldn’t rule it out either.

  He was tired from sleeping badly. His back had woken him up and wouldn’t let him go back to sleep. It ached now.

  He tore open another envelope, this from the sanitation workers’ union, bemoaning budget cuts. He reviewed for the fifth—or tenth—time what he had going on the DeVries murder and everything that seemed connected to it. Cramly wasn’t complaining yet about the time he was spending on that crime, so that’s what Taylor said he was working on. He didn’t mention Martha Gibson. A Park Avenue murder would make a good story for the wire, get it the attention it needed, particularly as none of the New York papers had followed up after the Daily News’ first story.

  He was meeting with the whole DeVries family in six days. His big play to find out about the mystery man. Someone had to say something. If not, then a look, a movement, some kind of reaction, when they were all together in the same room. He’d have the staff in there too.

  Then there were the loose ends. Denny Connell had stolen $25 million, a big crime in itself, and was now under police guard in the hospital. The cops were going to bring charges against him and probably not bust Taylor for assault. Did DeVries find out something about Connell—or actually track him down without Taylor’s help? Maybe DeVries tried to get the money back while avoiding public exposure. That would have gotten messy fast, particularly as Connell already had new marks.

  Finally, though separately, there was the Concierge, a story he’d stumbled over while working the murder. It was a damned good one, and needed lots of reporting. He wasn’t giving it any time because of the killings.

  He had to shake something loose, or draw someone out.

  Damn, why can’t the family see me earlier?

  The copies of the Amenia Times still sat on the back corner of Taylor’s desk. Taylor remembered DeVries’ smile as he showed Taylor the farm, described his dream of escaping what would be to anyone else the good life. Connell had implied DeVries wasn’t escaping but fleeing because he couldn’t manage his affairs anymore. The truth from a liar? Maybe. It was Edmond DeVries’ dream, and someone had shot him to death short of achieving it. That was a sad story, which made it a good story. The fall from a great height. Readers ate up that kind of news. As much as he liked DeVries, he’d write it that way if that was what the facts proved.

  With only a half-dozen envelopes in the mail stack, Taylor came to a manila one, hand-addressed with stamps and Easter Seals; the return address was that of Martha Gibson’s parents. The envelope contained a handwritten note on blue onion-skin paper and four pages of typescript. He read the note first.

  Dear Mr. Taylor,

  I have been going through Martha’s things. It has been a very painful experience, as you might imagine. She was a wonderful letter writer. Not that we didn’t see each other all the time and talk all the time. I think she simply liked writing letters. It helped her put her thoughts in place. We both once believed she might do something with writing. But she needed to get the job she could with the economy so terrible. After that, she encountered those problems that made it hard to consider other options.

  I’ve included two letters she wrote to me. One to give you an idea for the kind of woman she was, and the other so you’ll know more about the kind of trouble she encountered. We should have told you more. I’m sorry if you feel we deceived you in not admitting what we knew. But it is so embarrassing, even now, to talk about. Shame hides truth. She is forever in our hearts, and we wish something could be done about what happened to her.

  Sincerely yours,

  Margaret Gibson

  Taylor turned to the first page, which had obviously been produced on a manual typewriter—the telltale jagged half letters, signs of uneven keystrokes, and ragged edges around other characters. The first letter was dated May 7, 1976.

  Dear Momma,

  Today was such a wonderful day. Thank you for coming to my graduation and the dinner afterwards. Even Abigail seemed to pull herself together for our family gathering. I do appreciate your talking about me being the first in five generations or more to get a degree. However, you and Daddy must know that I would not have reached this day without you two. You both worked so hard. Intelligence is not in the
piece of paper they gave me today. Wisdom certainly is not. You are both so wise; I can only hope I received some part of that wisdom to go with this degree. It is the wisdom that will carry me.

  I have such dreams. I still would like to write, as we both know. Now is not the time. The economy is harsh. I will begin applying for jobs in business on Monday. I will use everything you have given me to make the best impression and get a job quickly.

  A long paragraph listed jobs Martha had already “circled” in the New York Times classified section. Manning Corp was one of those. A second long paragraph described two graduation parties, consisting mainly of names, pleasantries passed back and forth and the plans of other graduates, who all to a woman or man couldn’t wait to start looking for employment. Every line was optimism. The letter continued:

  I have so many dreams. I know I can help the both of you. I truly believe I can get Abigail away from the influences that are making it so hard for her to make a fresh start. I did not pay her enough attention during my years at City College, a fault I intend to correct immediately. I dream beyond that. Once I really get settled, I’ll start back on my writing. Most writers have begun that way and so will I.

  The future looks golden to me. We have all worked so hard. Thank you to you and Daddy. I will see you next Sunday for dinner, still smiling.

  With much love,

  Martha

  The second letter looked to have been done on the same typewriter, or the same make. It was dated December 10, 1976.

  Dear Momma,

  I left my job at Manning Corp several weeks ago. That is why I have not been over to dinner. That is why I am not picking up the phone. I was fired. My boss harassed me. He wanted to—I so hate using the words, even in a letter, but I could hardly speak them to you—he wanted sexual relations with me. Demanded them. Of course, I refused. I don’t know how to describe the way he touched me while I was still there. I worked so hard to get that job, but I wasn’t doing what he wanted so I couldn’t keep it. I thought about Abigail and the things she must do to pay for her habit. I feel terrible guilt for that. Maybe it’s because of my guilt that I’ve let her move in.