Cat on a Cold Tin Roof

by Mike Resnick

  Marlowe wasn’t there, of course, but in retrospect I knew exactly what his expression would have been.

  24.

  I had a totally noncommittal lunch with Sorrentino. I mentioned that I’d tried Delahunt’s office across the river with no success.

  “I didn’t even know he had an office in Kentucky,” said Sorrentino.

  “Neither did I until this morning,” I said. “How about you? Got anything at all?”

  He shook his head. “Not a thing. Those diamonds could be in Peru or Pakistan for all I know. I never saw anything that valuable vanish that fast. You’d think ten million worth couldn’t stay hidden that long, that someone would say something.”

  “From everything we’ve been able to find out about them, they’re worth a million, tops,” I said. “You know that.”

  “I know, I know,” he said with a weary sigh. “But damn it, Eli, he said ten mil, and he sure as hell didn’t sound like he was lying.”

  “I’ve seen one of the diamonds,” I said. “We’ve both seen the insurance form.”

  “I don’t buy it,” he said.

  “Why the hell not?” I shot back. “We know the one that Mitzi Cramer’s got is worth a hundred grand, tops.”

  “I know what it’s worth, and I know what the insurance papers say, but there’s one thing we haven’t really considered,” said Sorrentino. “Why did the Bolivian drug cartel send expensive hitters after a million? They’d figure one man could handle it. But,” he added, leaning forward, “if it’s ten million, three hitters ensures that one of them won’t be running off with the loot.”

  “And that’s all you’ve got to go on?” I asked.

  “That, and the fact that Palanto had no reason to lie to me.”

  “Maybe he was afraid you might shoot him and run off with the cat,” I said. “After all, someone did.”

  “I could do it just as easily for one mil,” said Sorrentino. “And I just can’t buy that the Bolivians would send three hitters over for just a million.”

  “Hell, maybe they’re the kind of guys who’d have sent three men over for fifty grand, the kind who don’t let anyone rip them off even for lunch money,” I said. “We both know there are certain New York families that would feel that way.”

  “Maybe.” He looked unconvinced, and finally shrugged. “What the hell. First we’ve got to find them. Then we’ll worry about what they’re worth.” He paused. “What about dinner?”

  “What have you got a taste for?” I asked.

  “Diamonds.”

  “What else?”

  He smiled. “Italian, I think.”

  “Okay, there are a couple of Carrabba’s in town,” I said. “I’m sure you’ve got ’em in Chicago.”

  “Yeah, that’ll be fine.”

  I told him how to get to the closest one, and we agreed to meet at six, since there was an NBA double-header starting at 7:30 on ESPN. He picked up the tab, as usual, and we left.

  I waited until he had pulled out, then got into my car and drove right to the station. A minute later I was sitting across from Jim Simmons, waiting for him to get off the phone.

  “Well, two-thirds of our Bolivian problem has been taken care of,” he told me when he hung up the receiver.

  “How?” I asked.

  “The Feds made a deal,” he replied.

  “The Feds?”

  “State, I suppose. I don’t know. They don’t talk much to little folks, like cops who put their lives on the line every day.” He took a sip from a can of Diet Pepsi he had on his desk. “Anyway, the deal was we’d put them on a plane for home this afternoon if they didn’t fight deportation.”

  “As simple as that?” I said. “It’s missing some details.”

  “We agreed not to prosecute—they had no permits for their guns, and they were wanted by Interpol—and the feds agreed to keep the whole incident quiet. I get the feeling they’re going right from our calaboose to one in La Paz.”

  “And if their cartel has half the strength of the bigger Mexican and Colombian ones, they’ll be out an hour later.”

  “Not our problem,” said Simmons. “But if I were them, I’d be happier in jail than explaining to my bosses how I managed to get identified and arrested in a foreign country—especially before I got what I’d been sent there for.”

  “Speaking of that,” I said, “I know where they are.”

  He frowned. “The Bolivians? I just told you.”

  “The diamonds,” I said.

  “Diamonds?” he repeated, frowning. “What diamonds?”

  “I’ll come to them,” I said. I paused and gave him a great big grin. “And I know who killed Big Jim Palanto.”

  “Palanto?” he repeated. “You mean Pepperidge.”

  I smiled. “No, you mean Palanto.”

  “Okay, Palanto,” he said. “Now suppose you tell me what you think you know?”

  “He was killed by a neighbor,” I said.

  “The guy you had Bill Calhoun hunting up for you?”

  I nodded. “A realtor named Abner Delahunt.”

  “Okay,” said Simmons. “What did they fight over?”

  “I doubt that they fought over anything,” I said. “I think Delahunt knew that Velma—Mrs. Pepperidge—was out at her bridge club the night of the blizzard, walked the hundred yards or so from his house to Palanto’s, rang the bell, and was invited in, which is why there was no sign of breaking and entering. They were, if not friends, at least acquaintances, belonged to the same golf club, the same church, probably the same businessmen’s clubs. He had to have been there before, because he knew exactly what he was after.”

  “You got any proof for anything you’ve said so far, Eli?” asked Simmons dubiously.

  I grinned at him. “I got a proposition for you, Jim.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “The Bengals close out their season at home in a couple of weeks against the Browns. If I don’t hand you the killer all wrapped up nice and neat, I’ll pop for two tickets.”

  “And I pay if you give me the murderer?”

  I nodded. “Right.”

  He reached across the desk. “You got yourself a deal, Eli—and I hope it’s my treat.”

  “It will be,” I assured him.

  “Okay, go on.”

  “I don’t know how Delahunt got Palanto out on that balcony. Probably, given that Palanto was an amateur stargazer, he simply didn’t stop him. The house was empty, so I don’t suppose it made any difference to Delahunt where he killed him.”

  “So Palanto goes out to look at the stars, or the storm, or whatever the hell he looked at through his telescope, and Delahunt drilled him, two shots right through the heart,” continued Simmons. He took another sip of his Pepsi. “It sounds good, Eli, but so far I haven’t heard anything like, for example, proof.”

  “I’m coming to it,” I told him. “Anyway, that was the situation when I got there after you called me in the middle of the night: Palanto dead in the snow, and no trace of the killer.”

  “Right. Now what can you add to that?”

  “There was also no trace of the cat. Remember? That’s why you called me. Because Velma was desperate for it . . . until I found it and returned it to her.” I paused again. “That’s when she had me arrested.”

  “I remember.”

  “But you don’t know why.”

  “Enlighten me,” said Simmons.

  “That cat had a million dollars’ worth of diamonds on its collar.”

  “You’re kidding!” he exclaimed.

  “No, Jim, I’m not. And Delahunt not only knew that, but he was desperate for cash. His business was going down the tubes, he was in a race to sell his house before it was repossessed, and he owed money all over town.”

  “Go on.”

  “Right after the murder, he gives his girlfriend a ring with a diamond that’s valued near a hundred grand.”

  “Have you seen it?” he asked.

  I nodded. “It, an
d her. She makes Bettie Page look like a boy.”

  “Is she in town?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Her name’s Mitzi Cramer.” He scribbled down her name, then did the same when I gave him her address.

  “Okay,” he said. “That’s one diamond. Maybe it’s from the collar, maybe it’s not.”

  “Oh, it is,” I assured him.

  “How do you know?”

  “I got the insurance papers from Velma, and according to a jeweler named Winslow Monroe it’s a perfect match.”

  “How does he know?”

  “She tried to sell it to him.”

  “Less than a week after she got it?” he said dubiously.

  “The girl’s loyalty knows no bounds,” I said. “Of course, neither does Delahunt’s. He’s a married man—for a few more weeks or months, anyway.”

  “It all sounds logical, Eli,” said Simmons, “but you’d better have more than this. One diamond may or may not be from the cat’s collar, and a girl who’s maybe sleeping with Delahunt is wearing it on her finger. That’s a little too circumstantial.”

  “Oh?”

  “What about the other nine diamonds?”

  “I found the jeweler who took ’em off the collar for Delahunt,” I said. “He’s got three of them, and he’ll testify he set a fourth in Mitzi Cramer’s ring.”

  Simmons’s eyes widened. “No bullshit?” he said. “He’ll testify to that?”

  “Right.”

  “What about the other six diamonds?”

  “Delahunt took them after the jeweler—his name’s Orestes Mela—took ’em off.” I gave him my biggest Sunday-go-to-church grin. “I’d like something on the fifty-yard line, I think.”

  “Jesus, Eli!” he said. “I don’t know how the hell you did it, but if the Cramer girl and especially this Mela can corroborate what you said, you’ve not only got your tickets, but I’ll treat you to the best steak at the Precinct after the game.”

  “Always assuming the Bengals win,” I said. “Otherwise we’ll be too depressed to eat.”

  “If everything you’ve told me holds up, I’ll make sure you make the front page of the Cincinnati Enquirer two or three days running. That ought to get a little traffic to your office.”

  “Jesus!” I said suddenly.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I’ve spent so much time on this thing, I haven’t been to my office in a week.” Then I shrugged. “What the hell. It’s six, two and even that no one else has been there either.”

  He chuckled. “So where do we find this Orestes Mela?”

  “He’s in Covington,” I said.

  “Shit!” he muttered. “That’ll take a couple of extra days of paperwork.”

  “What if I bring him here tomorrow?” I said. “Voluntarily?”

  “It’d make things go a lot faster,” he said. “We’ll still have to do the paperwork, but if we can get his statement on record we can arrest Delahunt before he can fly the coop.”

  “I’ll get him here first thing in the morning,” I said.

  He shook his head. “No, I’ve got a departmental meeting, something about a couple of teen gangs not that far from your neighborhood. By the way, do you think Delahunt is in any danger?”

  “The remaining Bolivian doesn’t know about him, and neither does my friend Sorrentino. If his wife doesn’t pull out a driver and pretend his head is a golf ball, he’s probably safe for the time being.”

  He considered my answer, then nodded his head. “Okay, we’ll give him a little more rope. How’s two o’clock tomorrow?”

  “Two o’clock tomorrow?” I said. “It’s a date.”

  “Okay,” he said, getting up and starting to walk me to his office door.

  “One more thing,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I’ve kept my friend from Chicago in the dark about Mela,” I said. “Theoretically, we’re splitting the finder’s fee from the insurance company.”

  He frowned. “You’re cutting him out?” he asked. “That’s not like you, Eli.”

  I shook my head. “No, I’m not cutting him out. But I think there’s at least a possibility that if he sees the diamonds before I deliver them here, he may decide that one hundred percent is better than ten percent, if you see what I mean.”

  “Okay, I see what you mean.”

  “So you don’t talk to the press, or even anyone else on the force, until I deliver Mela and the remaining diamonds to you tomorrow afternoon.”

  He shook my hand again. “It’s a deal.”

  I went home, let Mrs. Cominsky tell me how the mail was finally losing its shock value, and took Marlowe for a walk. When we got done we went back up to the apartment, I took his leash off and wrapped it around the front doorknob as usual, walked into the kitchen, and popped open a beer for me. Mrs. Cominsky had forced a bottle of eggnog on me the day before to prove that even letter-writing perverts couldn’t rob her of the Christmas spirit, so I opened it and poured about a pint into a soup bowl for Marlowe.

  “And tomorrow,” I told him as he lapped up the eggnog in record time, “all I have to do is deliver a jeweler who wants to talk to a cop who wants to listen, and when that’s done, I’ll buy you a rib eye of your very own.”

  He gave me a look that said, Dreamer and went back to sleep.

  I should have paid attention to him.

  25.

  I met Sorrentino for lunch at an O’Charley’s. We talked football and basketball all the way through the meal and started in on horse racing just as we were finishing our desserts.

  “Not a bad meal,” he said, wiping his mouth off and crushing his napkin into a shapeless ball.

  “You should try this place on the weekend,” I said. “That’s when they serve their prime rib.” I paused. “Except . . .”

  “Except?”

  “Except you may be on your way home before then.”

  “I’m not throwing in the towel yet,” he said, taking a swallow of his beer.

  “I know.”

  Suddenly he leaned forward. “You found something out?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay, spill it!”

  “You know the police headquarters building?” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Be there at two o’clock this afternoon. Ask for Jim Simmons’s office. I’ll meet you there.”

  “What have you got?” he demanded.

  “I’ll lay it all out for you there,” I said. “No sense doing it twice, once for you and once for Jim.”

  “Why meet me?” he said. “Why don’t we just go together?”

  “I have something I’ve got to do,” I said. “Don’t worry. I’ll be there, and hopefully I’ll have this all cleared up by then.” And you’re not going to stop me from giving the diamonds to Jim in his own office, no matter how much you’d like to keep them.

  “All right,” he said at last. “If I have to wait an hour, I have to wait an hour.” He laid some cash on the bill and got to his feet. “Don’t be late.”

  “I’ll be there,” I assured him.

  He left. I made a quick pit stop in the men’s room, then went out to my car, started it up, promised it that it’d have that new transmission any day now, and headed south to the Clay Bailey Bridge. Seven minutes later I’d parked a few doors down from Mela’s, got out, and walked to the store.

  It occurred to me that I hadn’t seen any assistants, I hadn’t checked his hours, and for all I knew he took a three-hour lunch, but there was a small, tasteful “Open” sign on the door, and I walked in.

  “Mr. Paxton,” he said. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  “Call me Eli,” I replied.

  “All right, Eli,” he said. “And I am Orestes.”

  “You want to close the shop, Orestes?” I suggested.

  He nodded his agreement, walked over and locked the door, then took down the “Open” sign and replaced it with a “Closed” one.

  “Come on to the back,” he said, heading to
his office. I followed him, then sat on a chair while he opened his safe and pulled out the velvet box with the three diamonds. “I hope he’s not so broke that I can’t get my thirty thousand dollars back,” he remarked. “But even if he is, I’m almost glad to be rid of them. I’ve had a very uneasy feeling since I made the down payment that no good could possibly come of this.” Suddenly a frown—a very frightened frown—crossed his face. “I’m not criminally culpable, am I?”

  “No,” I said. “He told you in good faith that he’d supply proof of ownership, you didn’t try to sell them, and you agreed to cooperate with the police the moment I approached you. I don’t think you’re in any legal danger at all. All the cops want is for you to tell them exactly what you told me yesterday and maybe repeat it in court if Delahunt is dumb enough to plead innocent.”

  “Oh, I will,” he assured me. “My wife has been urging me to go to the police even before you showed up yesterday.” He paused. “I am an honest man, Mr. Paxton.”

  “Eli,” I corrected him. “And I’m sure you’re an honest man. You’re just working in an industry that occasionally attracts dishonest men.”

  “I’m sure you deal with them every day,” said Mela.

  “I’m sure we all do,” I answered. “The trick is spotting them.”

  “You know,” said Mela, “I’ve been selling the occasional piece to Mr. Delahunt for years. He always paid on the spot, he had a fine reputation, offices all over Cincinnati as well as the big one right across the street here, a lovely wife. What makes a man like that become a criminal?”

  “A fine reputation is no substitute for a fine mind when the economy goes south,” I answered. “As for his lovely wife, if he drops dead tomorrow she’ll be the first to dance on his grave.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t understand it. I’ve been married to my Teresa for thirty-one years, and in my eyes she grows more beautiful every day. Why do so many men my age turn their backs on their wives and have tawdry affairs with young women?”

  “They get the women’s youth and beauty, at least temporarily,” I answered. “And one way or another the women get a piece of their fortune, usually permanently.”

  “And what do the wives get?”