Die Laughing 2: Five More Comic Crime Novels

by Ben Rehder

  “Of course, Lipscomb wouldn’t tell Julie Steinmetz this. And being bought on the other side wouldn’t bother him none, either. He’d just take her money anyway, and assure her she had his vote. Then report that back to Kraswell. Probably even sell him the information.

  “At which point Kraswell would go bananas. Start taking inventory. How many councilmen did he have, how many did she have, could the ones she was buying be bought back, stuff like that. What he found out wasn’t reassuring. Julie Steinmetz was an attractive young woman, not above using sex to get what she wanted. He might be able to outbid her, but he couldn’t outfuck her, you know what I mean?

  “Well, it has to drive him crazy. The guy’s sitting on all this worthless property that could be a gold mine if it weren’t for some dumb cunt standing in the way.

  “So he has to kill her.

  “And he has to cover his tracks. So he finds some credulous P.I. stupid enough to buy his story, and frames him for the murder, figuring that way we’d never get a lead to him at all. Which might have worked, if it weren’t for Davis here spotting that car pulling in.”

  Creely scratched his head. “Anyway, that’s how we figure it. What do you think?”

  I wasn’t quite sure what I thought. But I sure knew how I felt. I felt, as usual, like a total asshole. I remembered what MacAullif had told me about my judgment not being so good. Well, I must say, in this case I thought he was wrong. But he wasn’t, was he? I’d completely discounted the possibility of Creely solving the case. In fact, the idea had never even entered my mind. But he hadsolved it. And he’d solved it without running five hundred license plates, playing “Zelda,” attending a funeral, hassling two city councilmen, and having his wife inherit a stock. He’d solved it quickly and easily, because his man Davis was a professional, who’d naturally gotten the entire license plate number of the car that pulled into the motel, whereas I was an amateur who could only see POP.

  But that wasn’t what made me an asshole. What made me an asshole, I realized, was that I had dismissed Creely from consideration, not because he looked and acted like a caricature from a movie, not because he peppered his speech with colorful epithets, not because he lied to Richard about reading me my rights, not because he struck me somehow as an unconscious parody of himself, but simply because he was an upstate cop from a small town. And without realizing it, I, in my infinite and unfounded arrogance, had fancied myself the street-smart city slicker, and Creely the hick from the sticks.

  Which was devastating. I was not only an idiot, a moron, and a fool, I was also a snob and a bigot.

  On the one hand, it was hard to take. On the other hand, I’m getting so used to being wrong, my personal failings should no longer surprise me.

  And there was a silver lining. Creely’s solving the case had exonerated me. And confirmed my own theories. Yeah, that was the way to look at it.

  I turned to Creely. “So now what?”

  Creely shrugged. “Aw, well, that’s why we were discussing you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, as I said, we can’t prove anything.”

  “Yeah, well I can. This guy Kraswell happens to be the guy who told me he was Marvin Nickleson.”

  “You sure?”

  “Absolutely. I went to Trenton and saw him myself.”

  Creely looked concerned. “You didn’t talk to him, did you?”

  “Huh-uh. I just took a look to make sure it was the same guy.”

  “And it was?”

  “Absolutely. No question.”

  “And he didn’t see you?”

  “No.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  “Good. That could have really blown it.”

  “Blown what?”

  “Well, that’s what we were talking about. Like I said, we got no proof.”

  I put up my hands. “Wait a minute. We’re talking in circles here. I’m not following this. I just told you I can I.D. the guy.”

  Creely waved it away. “Right, right, as the guy who hired you to follow Julie Steinmetz. He’ll say he didn’t. It will be your word against his.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “But what? You haven’t thought this out, have you? You see the guy, you say, ‘hey, that’s the guy,’ you think that’s all there is to it. You gotta think like a cop. And when you think like a cop, you gotta think like a prosecutor. ’Cause when we give him the evidence, he’s gonna look at it and say, ‘how the fuck am I gonna try this?’ And you gotta have the answer.” Creely shook his head. “I hand a prosecutor this case, the cocksucker’s gonna chew my ass.

  “And who could blame him? I mean, how’d you like to be the guy trying this case? Look what we got. We can show Julie Steinmetz was killed with a .32 caliber automatic—the bullets matched up, by the way—but it’s a cold piece, stolen, no record. No way to link it up with Kraswell. We can show Julie Steinmetz had reason to want the City Council to vote one way, and Kraswell had reason to want it to vote the other way. I say we can show that, but I should say maybe we can show that, because you know damn well Kraswell’s gonna have some slick attorney fighting like hell to keep it out. But say we can show that. That alone doesn’t link him to the crime. What does? You. We gotta put you on the stand, let you tell your story.”

  Creely rolled his eyes. “Jesus Christ, the prosecutor’s gonna love that. I mean, assuming you can tell the story straight without sounding like a total moron—and that’s a big if—well then, Kraswell’s attorney’s gonna cross-examine you. That’s a scene I’d almost like to see, if I didn’t happen to be on the other side. When he starts in on the Monica Dorlanders and Marvin Nicklesons, you’re gonna look like an idiot, the press is gonna be in hysterics, and the jury’s gonna be so damn confused they won’t know which end is up.

  “Then the guy’s gonna be able to show the murder weapon was found in your car. At that point, if there’s one person on the jury that believes you, I miss my bet.”

  Creely shook his head. “If it goes like that, I doubt if Kraswell ever has to take the stand at all. But if he does, he simply says he doesn’t know what you’re talking about and he never saw you before in his life. And the smug son of a bitch is probably smooth enough to get away with it.”

  Creely threw up his hands. “And there you are. Your honor, I rest my case. Would you like to send the jury out of the room to confer, or you wanna just let ’em say ‘not guilty’ now?”

  I took a breath. “So what you gonna do?”

  “Well,” Creely said, “that’s why we were discussing you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, you. ’Cause you’re the one who met this guy. You now confirm he was the guy. If we believe you, he’s guilty, and we do believe you.”

  “So?”

  “So we need to prove it.”

  “Why do I get the feeling we’re talking in circles again?”

  Creely chuckled and shook his head. “Well, we are now, aren’t we? I know why that is. ’Cause I’m leading up to something, and I don’t expect you to be particularly pleased.”

  I’m afraid I laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Is there anything about this case that should make me particularly pleased?”

  “You should be pleased you’re not charged with murder.”

  “There is that. All right, what do you want?”

  “I want to nail Kraswell. To do it I need your help.”

  “And I’m not going to like it?”

  “I think it would be safe to say that.”

  “So what’s the pitch?”

  “All right,” Creely said. “We can’t nail Kraswell by any ordinary means. We have to pull a scam on him.”

  “What kind of a scam?”

  “We gotta set him up, and you’re the one who’s gotta do it. To do it, you’re gonna have to play a part. You ever done any acting?”

  “I used to be an actor.”

  “Oh, really? That’ll help.” Cr
eely cocked his head. “This part may be a bit of a stretch for you, though.”

  “Oh yeah? What do I have to play?”

  “An inept detective.”

  37.

  I STAKED OUT Kraswell’s house at seven in the morning, just like Creely told me to. I wasn’t wearing a wire—I wanted to, but Creely wouldn’t go for it. My idea was to talk to Kraswell wearing a wire and get him to make a damaging admission. Creely’s idea was I didn’t have the brains to pull it off. Which really didn’t seem fair. I mean, after all, I’d found the guy, hadn’t I? And I’d trapped a killer once before wearing a wire, and that had gone all right. And in this case it should have been even easier. Because I had to be the last person in the world Kraswell wanted to see. If I walked up to him, he’d have to say something, and whatever it was, it was bound to be damn interesting. It seemed to me there was no way it couldn’t work.

  Only Creely wouldn’t go for it. And as MacAullif said, Creely was in charge. So there I was, stymied. Creely and I batted it around for a while, and neither one of us was particularly happy, but the end result was we finally made a deal.

  We didn’t agree to it there and then, and I didn’t come to it all by myself either. First I went and consulted with Richard, and then I went and consulted with my wife, and we all talked it over and batted it back and forth, and finally we came up with a deal. Then I went back and laid it on Creely, and he wasn’t that happy about it, but he wasn’t that unhappy either, which was about how I felt, and the long and the short of it was we made a deal and I wound up staking out Kraswell’s house at seven in the morning, according to Creely’s plan.

  Creely’s plan was simple and straightforward. I was to put Kraswell under surveillance and follow him everywhere he went until he spotted me doing it. At that point I was to report to Creely that I had been made. Then I was to continue following Kraswell until he managed to elude my surveillance and began backtracking me.

  Which Creely was sure he’d do. Because, Creely figured, by playing it that way, Kraswell would take me for a meddling private detective, working on his own to solve the case ahead of the bumbling cops. That, coupled with the fact that I was the only one who could identify him as the man who had posed as Marvin Nickleson, would convince Kraswell that the only way he could be really safe was by eliminating me. He would then attempt to do so, and Creely would catch him at it. And having tried to murder me, Kraswell would have a slightly harder time selling the jury on the fact he’d never seen me before in his life.

  That was Creely’s plan, and for obvious reasons I didn’t like it, but I’d agreed to it, so here I was, staking out Kraswell’s house, just as I’d done before. And as before, there was no sign of life but for the car in the drive.

  Along about eight o’clock people started coming out of other houses, getting in their cars and driving off. But not Kraswell. Some of the people were eyeing me kind of funny as they drove by, and I wondered what would happen if one of them called the cops. Creely was working with the Jersey cops, of course, or we couldn’t have done this at all, but he was dealing with the big boys in homicide. A radio patrol cop wouldn’t have a clue. And if one showed up to check me out, it was gonna be a mess. And if Kraswell spotted him doing it, the game would be up. In that case, it wasn’t my plan, it was Creely’s plan, so it would be his fault. But that would be small consolation what with a murderer going free, and me stuck on the hook for obstruction of justice. So I sure hoped a patrol car wouldn’t show up.

  None did.

  But then neither did Kraswell. Ten o’clock, eleven o’clock, still no sign.

  He was out at eleven-fifteen.

  It was a nice sunny day and it had warmed up considerably, probably somewhere in the forties, and Kraswell looked dapper and spiffy with a light topcoat open over his three-piece suit. He got in the Mercedes and pulled out. I gave him a little lead and pulled out after him.

  I’d had a long discussion with Creely about letting Kraswell spot me. I figured I could do it easily by just following a little too close. Creely wouldn’t hear of it. Said anything that obvious would tip Kraswell off. Creely felt my surveillance of Kraswell should be absolutely normal and routine. That I should, in fact, do my best not to let him know he was being followed. If I did that, Creely said, he’d spot me all right.

  At first I thought Creely was just being sarcastic. When it turned out he was dead serious, it didn’t do much for my ego.

  But that’s the way I’d agreed to play it, so that’s what I did. I stayed far enough behind that Kraswell shouldn’t get suspicious, but close enough that I shouldn’t lose him. I followed him through a series of turns, wondering where the hell we were going.

  We were going to the supermarket.

  Kraswell pulled into a big parking lot in front of an A&P, parked the Mercedes, and went in.

  Well, hot damn. Do I follow him in? What’s normal routine on this one?

  I thought it over, and figured in the course of normal routine I wouldn’t give a damn what Kraswell did in the supermarket and I’d wait for him outside, so that’s what I did.

  He was out in twenty minutes with a couple of bags of groceries. He loaded them into the Mercedes and drove off.

  I followed him home. He parked the Mercedes, took out the groceries, and went into his house.

  I resumed my position on the corner.

  I had a few choice thoughts about the effectiveness of Creely’s plan.

  Kraswell was out again by twelve-thirty. I followed him through a series of turns onto Route 29, and got off again somewhere downtown. A few more turns and Kraswell pulled into a municipal garage. I gave him half a minute head start and pulled in too. I twisted around and around and spotted Kraswell catching a parking space on level three. I whizzed on by and got my own spot on level four. I left the car and sprinted down the ramp just in time to see Kraswell disappear into a stairwell at the far corner of the garage. I hotfooted it over there and followed him down the stairs.

  I came out into daylight, looked around and saw him walking down the street half a block away. I followed him, not too close, not too far. Jesus Christ, what the hell is routine, anyway? What a hell of an assignment. Act normal. That’s like act casual. Can’t be done. What the hell is normal, and how the hell do you simulate that?

  Kraswell walked up a block and turned left on State Street, which sounded promising.

  It was. After a few blocks the street widened, and we came upon massive stone structures that could only be government buildings. In fact, the first one had a sign out in front of it that said, STATE HOUSE. I was disappointed at first when Kraswell walked right by it, but when I got a little closer I saw the sign actually read, STATE HOUSE RENOVATIONS IN PROGRESS: LEGISLATURE MEETS IN ANNEX. The next big stone building said, ANNEX, and Kraswell went in there.

  I did too, from a normally discreet distance, which was a bit hard to determine since it was a U-shaped building—or since it wasn’t curved I should say a double-L shaped building—with the entrance set way back from the street so you had to walk into it between the double Ls. Which left you trapped there, in case the guy you were tailing happened to turn around.

  Kraswell didn’t. He just went right in the front door. I quickened my pace and got there just in time to see him walk through the small lobby and step into an elevator.

  All right. That decision I could handle. Under normal routine surveillance, I didn’t take that elevator.

  I stood there looking stupid and watching the elevator indicator, which stopped on three. Which might or might not have meant anything, ’cause it could have been Kraswell getting off or it could have been someone else getting on. But what the hell, I figured routine surveillance might be to check it out. When the next elevator arrived I took it up to three and found myself in a long hallway with a lot of closed doors and no sign of Kraswell, nothing to choose from.

  I took the elevator back down, went out and staked out the State House Annex from across the street.

 
Kraswell was out in about fifteen minutes with a well-dressed, portly gentleman, probably, I figured, uncharitably, a senator or assemblyman Kraswell wished to bribe. They came out and walked back down the street the way Kraswell had come. I tailed them from across the street and half a block behind. That seemed as normal as I could get, not knowing what normal really was.

  They walked a few blocks, went into a small restaurant, and proceeded to have lunch. I stayed outside getting hungry and waiting for them to come out, perfectly normal there.

  They split up after lunch and Kraswell headed back for the garage. I tagged along. Kraswell took the stair. I followed a flight behind. I took the last flight of steps two at a time, ran to my car, started the engine, nosed down the ramp, and waited for the Mercedes to pull out ahead of me. It did and I followed, always one floor behind. I waited up the ramp until Kraswell paid his ticket, and I saw which way he turned. He pulled out and I pulled up fast, paid my ticket, and took off after him. I caught him in three blocks, dropped back to a safe distance behind.

  We took Route 29 again, followed a by-now familiar route through a couple of turns and home.

  Kraswell parked the Mercedes in the drive, locked it, opened his door and went inside.

  And that was it. After that he stayed put. He didn’t go out, and no one went in.

  By the time five o’clock rolled around, absolutely nothing else had happened. That was the time Creely had told me to pack it in, so I started the car, pulled out, and drove around till I found a pay phone. I took out my notebook, looked up the number Creely’d given me, and punched it in.

  Two rings and a voice said, “Yeah?”

  “Stanley Hastings, reporting in.”

  The voice said, “Just a minute,” and I was on hold.

  It was closer to two minutes. Then a voice said, “Hastings? How’d it go?”

  “Creely?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What are you doing here?”