The Fedorovich File: The Lacey Lockington Series - Book Three

by Ross H. Spencer

  “Would it be possible that someone else might have seen him—an employee, maybe?”

  “Possible, I suppose, but darned unlikely—the parking lot’s on the blind side of the building—no windows, just the entrance and the kitchen and linen storage—like that.”

  “All right, would you know if she received mail from Mr. Mawson?”

  “Abby didn’t get a lot of mail. She subscribed to Hustler Magazine, she belonged to Ecstasy Book Club and she received bulletins from there. She had a younger sister in Alaska—Anchorage, I think—once in a while she got a card from her—that was about it.”

  Lockington shrugged, lighting a cigarette. He said, “Well, it was worth a shot.”

  “Abby said that you’re some kind of insurance investigator.”

  “Right—Mutual of Slippery Rock.”

  Thelma said, “She thought you were the cat’s pajamas. Awful, the way she died, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, I heard about it on last night’s late news. Who found her?”

  “The desk clerk at the Belfry Motel, as I understand it—he’s a live-in employee—works the desk twenty-four hours a day—sleeps in the office at night. Somebody told him that a door was open. He found her when he checked it out.”

  “Who told you this?”

  “That detective who was here—but there are things he didn’t know about Abby.”

  “What didn’t he know about Abby?”

  Thelma giggled. “Well, perhaps it isn’t a proper subject for discussion in mixed company, but Abby liked to tie men on a bed, she told me—I mean, she’d spread-eagle ’em! She said she could drive a man crazy when he couldn’t resist.” Thelma gave the matter brief consideration, running her tongue across her bee-stung lower lip. “Of course, I suppose she meant crazy with pleasure—do you know what I’m saying?”

  “Probably not,” Lockington said. “Well, I’d better be moving along—things to do.”

  Thelma leaned across the counter top, lowering her voice to a purr. “Has a woman ever tied you to a bed and driven you crazy with pleasure?”

  “Not if memory serves me correctly.”

  Thelma winked at him. “It might be fun, wouldn’t you think?”

  Lockington faked a yawn. “Well, yes, it might be, and then again, it might not be.”

  “Well, I suppose one never knows until one’s tried it, don’t you agree?”

  Lockington didn’t agree, nor did he disagree—not so Thelma could hear him, at any rate. Silence has its rewards, minuscule though they may be.

  Thelma was saying, “That’s where the clothes line came from—Abby’s handbag! She told me that she carried it, just in case. Can you imagine a seventy-seven-year-old woman carrying on like that!”

  “I guess it’s horses for courses.”

  “I’m barely forty, you know.”

  Lockington said, “I had no idea.”

  He left the Canterbury Arms retirement home, mopping his brow. It was 9:45 in the morning, and already his ass was dragging.

  25

  The office of the Belfry Motel was approximately six feet by eight feet in size, Lockington figured. There was a counter, a stack of registration forms, a television set, a tattered beach chair, and a threadbare green rug in serious need of vacuuming. There was a fat guy sprawled in the beach chair with his nose jammed into a copy of The Sporting News. When the door slammed, he growled, “Wanna room?” He didn’t bother looking up.

  Lockington said, “Not just now, thanks.”

  “It says here that Carter has just about outlived his welcome with the Mets.”

  “Don’t worry about Carter—he’ll hook on somewhere.”

  The fat guy folded his Sporting News, dropping it into what remained of his lap. His eyes were bloodshot, he needed a shave, there was egg at a corner of his mouth, he was a mess. He spoke around a soggy cigar butt.

  “You’re a cop.”

  Lockington said, “You’re sharp this morning.”

  “Don’t have to be sharp—I can spot a cop from here to Washington, D.C.”

  “That’d be a good trick—there ain’t no cops in Washington, D.C.”

  The fat guy said, “You’re the second in the last hour—what’s on your mind—the old Fleugelham broad who got scragged?”

  “Yeah, I gotta go through the motions. What’s your name?”

  “‘George,’ if it makes any difference.”

  “It doesn’t, but I gotta call you something.”

  “Okay, I’m George and you’re from Scotland Yard—what can I do for you?”

  “You can tell me who signed for the room the Fleugelham woman was murdered in.”

  “She signed for it.”

  “You must have seen who she was with.”

  “Was she with somebody?”

  “Well, George, strangling yourself with forty feet of clothes line requires a bit of doing.”

  “Yeah, she probably had somebody with her but you sure couldn’t prove it by me. She’d been here maybe six, eight times before and she always took care of the checking-in. Hell, I never pay no attention—you get all kinds in a roach ranch like this. If you ask me, that old chick was around the bend.”

  “Why?”

  “Just the impression I got—she had a wild gleam in her eye.”

  “Her companion for the evening waited in his car?”

  “Reckon so—they always have.”

  “Well, thanks, George—just running a routine check.”

  “No problem, I got nothing better to do. Y’know, I’ll lay three to one that them ball players go on strike again.”

  Lockington said, “Yeah, well, you should try to see their side of it—what the hell, would you work seven months a year for a lousy two million?”

  “Wouldn’t think of it!”

  Lockington drove away from the Belfry Motel, liking George. He was a bird of Lockington’s feather.

  26

  Lockington drove east on Route 224 to Fritzi’s, which was closed until 6:00 p.m., the sign said. It was nearly eleven o’clock when he doubled back, swinging north onto Meridian Road, heading for his office, knowing not a helluva lot more than he’d known when he’d left it. Unlike the story-book detectives, he’d never been able to get into a case from a distance. Sherlock Holmes had possessed that capability, so had Charlie Chan and Mr. Moto and Philo Vance, but Lockington worked better at close quarters, grinding it out inch by laborious inch, hitting dead-end streets, getting hung up in revolving doors, following wrong trails and cold tracks, arriving eventually but not always in time. If he was going to be late in locating Gen. Alexi Fedorovich, there’d probably be no point in getting to him at all.

  Lacey Lockington wasn’t a brilliant man, but he was smart enough to realize that he wasn’t brilliant, and that knowledge had stood him in good stead over the years. He’d made a firm practice of intentionally overrating adversaries, known or unknown, real or suppositional, always giving them the benefit of every doubt—one of the reasons for Lockington being alive and in tolerable health at the ripe old age of forty-nine.

  When you turn your back on a man you suspect, you probably deserve to get killed, but when you turn your back on the neighborhood Baptist minister you may get your fucking brains blown out whether you deserve it or not, because there’s always an excellent chance that the innocent-appearing guy isn’t as innocent as he appears. Lockington was from Chicago where there exists a constant awareness of that fact—it hovers in its polluted air—but in Youngstown, Ohio, the atmosphere is different, the pace is slower, the natives are friendlier, easier going, less wary. A hard-bitten ex-police detective from Chicago might mellow in such surroundings, becoming a trusting and gullible soul.

  Lockington wasn’t ready for such transformation—not yet—which was why he was keeping a sharp eye on the fast-closing pink Cadillac convertible that’d just appeared in his rear-view mirror. Pink Cadillac convertibles are not the ideal vehicles for tailing purposes, but people from Chicago know that in Chic
ago you can get tailed by a guy in a Santa Claus suit, driving a hearse.

  He turned east on Mahoning Avenue, watching the pink Caddy convert continue north on Meridian Road, noting that there was an elderly nun at its wheel. He pulled into the plaza lot, finding a parking space in front of his office—a possibly favorable omen for the rest of the day, he thought. Usually, he ended up parked twenty feet east of Grant’s Tomb. The October noonday was warm, better than seventy degrees and getting warmer, but his office door was closed. Lockington kicked it open, starting in, then freezing on the threshold, holding the door ajar with his foot, staring. The straight-backed wooden chair had been moved from desk-side to the southwestern corner of the room, facing the wall, and a man sat in it, his hat smashed low over his eyes. In response to the sound of the opening door, the man had swung his head in Lockington’s direction. He was unable to see through the band of his crushed hat, but he said, “Help me, for Christ’s sake!” His voice gurgled like dishwater going down a half-plugged drain. From the swivel chair at the desk, Barney Kozlowski snapped, “Silence, creep!” He turned to Lockington. “No telephone calls, Mr. Lockington.”

  Lockington said, “What in the great eternal fuck is happening here?”

  Barney jerked a thumb in the direction of the man in the straight-backed wooden chair. “Well, he came busting in here, looking suspicious, and right off the bat I spotted his piece!”

  “The damned thing was hanging out—he’s a flasher?”

  The man in the wooden chair groaned.

  Barney Kozlowski was saying, “His heater, Mr. Lockington—his cannon, his equalizer, his artillery.” Barney popped open a desk drawer, producing a revolver, plunking it onto the desk top. “I relieved him of it.”

  Lockington said, “Oh, you’re talking about a gun.”

  Barney smiled an efficient smile. “Loaded, too, by God! I figured that you’d want to run him through the grinder.”

  “‘Run him through the grinder’?”

  “I thought you’d probably want to grill him.”

  Lockington eased the office door shut, waving Barney to silence, walking to the man in the corner. He said, “Who are you, chief?”

  The man struggled to remove his battered hat, accomplishing this by rotating it right to left three or four times. He was in Lockington’s age group, probably fifty, he was baldheaded, there was consternation in his eyes and a rapidly swelling blue welt on the point of his chin. He croaked, “My name’s Addison—Frank Addison. You’re Lockington?”

  “That’s right—what can I do for you, Frank?”

  “Well, for openers, you can prepare for a fucking seven hundred and fifty million dollar lawsuit!”

  Lockington shrugged. “Would you settle out of court for lunch?”

  Addison weighed the matter for a few moments. Then he nodded. “What the hell, it’s the best offer I’ve had all day.”

  “You came here to see me—about what?”

  “You were with a woman named Abigail Fleugelham the other evening?”

  “For a few pops, yes.”

  “You’re working that case?”

  “Not really—it just might tie in with another matter.”

  “What would that be?”

  “It’d be something I can’t go into at the moment.”

  Frank Addison got to his feet. He was wobbly, clutching at Lockington for support. He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. He said, “The girl at the Canterbury Arms gave me your name. I phoned downtown and they checked you out in the license file.”

  “All right, what about it? You got something on the Fleugelham business?”

  “Not yet. That’s why we should talk.” Addison stuck out his hand. “I’m a sergeant of detectives—Youngstown Police Department.”

  27

  Frank Addison had a blue ’86 Chrysler 4-door. “It belongs to the department,” he said, but it has civilian plates—no point in advertising.” He drove them to Tonto’s Golden Sombrero, a run-down Mexican joint on the north end of Market Street.

  Lockington said, “Thanks for the service—I’m from Chicago—not all that familiar with Youngstown yet.”

  “Youngstown’s a nice city if you stay on the West Side.”

  “Chicago’s okay if you keep off the North Side, the South Side, and the West Side.”

  “The East Side’s good?”

  “Just fine—the east side is Lake Michigan.”

  Addison was a chunky man, bushy-browed, with a pockmarked face and jutting jaw—twenty years on the Youngstown force, he told Lockington. He’d spent some time in Tonto’s Golden Sombrero, obviously—a chunky waitress brought him a margarita before she said hello. Lockington asked for a double Martell’s. Addison said, “I ain’t supposed to drink on duty, but I’ve been through the mill this morning.”

  Lockington studied Addison’s swollen jaw. “What kicked off the argument, anyway?”

  “Argument—what argument? I didn’t say a Goddamned word—I just walked in and I was taking out my wallet to identify myself. My jacket was unbuttoned and he must have seen my shoulder holster. Next thing I knew, the lights went out and when I woke up I was sitting in a chair with my hat smashed down to my nose! Who is this character?”

  “Kid named Barney Kozlowski—he wants to break into the private investigation field.”

  “Yeah? Well, the next time he coldcocks me, he’ll be wanting to break out of the fucking Mahoning County Jail!”

  “He meant well,” Lockington said.

  “So did Don Quixote.”

  Lockington was silent, concentrating on lighting a cigarette.

  Addison said, “So tell me about Abigail Fleugelham.”

  Lockington shrugged. “Seventy-seven-year-old sex fiend.”

  “Nothing more than that?”

  “My God, isn’t that enough?”

  “She took you to bed?”

  “No, but she tried.”

  Addison’s smile was wry. “Love, your magic spell is everywhere.”

  “Nice number—sing a chorus.”

  “Can’t—I’m under contract to Columbia Records—no gratis gigs.”

  Lockington said, “I suppose you’ve heard about a guy named Mawson.”

  “Yeah, according to the girl at the Canterbury, Abigail went out with him last night. You think she propositioned him?”

  “Abigail Fleugelham would have propositioned a bull gorilla!”

  “Mawson accepted?”

  “Of course, he accepted!”

  “All right, what do we have on Mawson?”

  “A first degree murder rap.”

  “No doubt, but what do you know about him?”

  “Nothing—nobody’s laid eyes on him, so far as I can determine.”

  “At the Canterbury I was told that Abigail liked some gin mill on 224.”

  “Yeah, Fritzi’s—I was there an hour ago. It was closed.”

  “You’ve hit the Belfry Motel?”

  “Nothing there—the room jockey didn’t see the guy she was with.”

  Addison ordered another margarita, Lockington another Martell’s. Addison said, “You don’t care to talk about your business with her?”

  “I’m trying to locate a party that Abigail knew a long time ago. I thought that she might have information I could use. She had next to nothing—she amounted to a link that didn’t pan out.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That ain’t all, but it’s all you’re gonna get.”

  After a few minutes Addison had another margarita and a burrito. Lockington settled for one more double Martell’s. During their drive back to the office Lockington said, “Abigail was a nice old lady—her pants were on fire, but she was a nice old lady.”

  “Mawson didn’t think so. Okay, we have your connection with her—what was Mawson’s?”

  “Probably ditto to mine.”

  “You’re looking for the same person?”

  “Got to be.”

  “But you’d already questio
ned Abigail—if Mawson was trying to shut her up, why the hell would he hit her after she’d talked to you—why not before?”

  “Because he didn’t get to her before, and to make damned certain she didn’t talk to anyone else.” He lapsed into silence and they were turning into the plaza before he said, “I wonder what that sonofabitch looks like.”

  Addison pulled up close to the office door. He said, “He can’t be pretty.”

  28

  When Frank Addison pulled away, Lockington went into his office, finding Barney Kozlowski sitting on the window bench, staring disconsolately into the parking lot, looking very much like an abandoned basset hound. Lockington said, “Any calls?”

  Barney shook his head.

  “Hey, look, Mr. Lockington, I’m really awful sorry about what happened to Mr. Addison.”

  “So is Mr. Addison, but he’s going to let it ride.”

  He clapped a hand on Barney’s broad shoulder.

  “Y’know, kid, I can’t think of a valid reason for you going around trying to impersonate the fucking Fifth Armored Division.”

  “Mr. Lockington, I regard a gun as a potential threat and I have a tendency to respond to threats—it’s a reflex thing with me, I just can’t help it—you know how it goes.”

  “Not at all—how does it go?”

  “Well, I guess I’m sort of like Joe Pilgrim.”

  “Joe Pilgrim?”

  “Joe Pilgrim—the P.I. in the Sin City Series.”

  “The Sin City series—that’d be by Ralph Collingsworth, of course.”

  “Yes—you see, Joe Pilgrim never takes chances with an armed man—Joe swings first and he asks questions later!” The subject of Joe Pilgrim had brightened Barney around the edges.

  Lockington said, “How many police detectives has Joe Pilgrim slugged?”

  The question dulled Barney’s glow. “But I didn’t have the slightest idea that Mr. Addison was a police detective!”

  “Neither did Mr. Addison, for a while. Mr. Addison probably thought that he was on the ten ayem rocket to Venus.” Lockington liked Barney Kozlowski, a sincere boy, playing a dream role to the hilt—he didn’t want to bust the kid’s bubble, but he felt that there should be some mention of the incident.