Someone finally answered the phone in the Navy Pier offices. I told her I needed to get a message to one of the Callicoat Circus performers. She didn't seem to care but, once I'd insisted it was urgent, agreed to pass it on. I gave her Alfonso's name. When she showed no sign of recognition I explained that he shouldn't be hard to find. He was the only half-pint employee on the Pier.
Confession, sisters and brothers, I didn't know what had happened in my head. If the past was prologue, I knew someone had been done to death. With the images, the voice, and the saucy diction in my vision, I greatly feared it was Alfonso. I wanted to be wrong, as wrong as wrong could be. I refused to surrender hope. I didn't know and, sure as hell, wasn't going to say a word about it to Wenders until I knew. Maybe I was full of raspberries? I wanted to talk to the little guy to prove it.
A five-minute wait got me no satisfaction, just the same tired female voice back on the phone to say they'd do what they could to get the message to him. But, she warned, they couldn't promise anything. I gave her my name and number and asked her to ask Alfonso to please call as soon as he could.
“What's that all about?” Wenders hollered from the kitchen when I'd hung up.
“I don't know, for sure,” I said. “I've got a weird feeling I'm trying to get rid of.”
“Don't give me anymore hogwash about your bein' a psychic because, gee, haven't I had enough of that.”
I frowned but said nothing. With an immovable object like Wenders what could you say that would do any good or make any difference? “I'm going to throw some water in my face.”
I detoured on the way to the hall as, for the first time, I noted one of the living room windows open. It was odd. It should come as no surprise Chicago detectives do not, as a rule, leave their apartment windows open. I looked out on the roof of the connected garage, the back yard, the alley. All seemed normal, save for a ladder laying in the unmowed grass. It was out of place but not particularly sinister. Many tenants offered many possibilities. I noted it and started for the bathroom again.
Cold water splashed in my mug revived me. Warm soap and water on my aching neck felt marvelous. I didn't know what had happened in my latest vision. I didn't know if it really was Alfonso I'd seen and felt getting his ticket punched. Plenty of dead guys must have gone to their graves with filthy mouths. All I knew was my head was screaming and my body used up. I turned the tap off, stared at the mess in the mirror, and toweled off. It would be an exaggeration to say I felt refreshed. But I'd managed to kick exhaustion, hospitalization, and death down the road for the time being. I could concentrate again.
Then I was concentrating on, and growing annoyed by, the sound of Wenders banging my cupboards. His snooping was no surprise. Wenders was a born thief. I had no doubt, following judgment, as they led the fat bastard through the fiery portal, he'd swipe the condom from Satan's wallet just to stay in practice. It was a bigger surprise when the slamming sounds stopped. I returned down the hall to find the lieutenant, still in the kitchen, standing motionless, staring in silence into the cupboard beneath the island. He looked up and followed me back into the room with mean eyes. He sneered. He returned his stare to the cupboard. “Been to the store lately, Blake?”
“The store? No. Why?”
“Why?” he shouted, aping me. “I'm just wonderin' if this midget is fresh.”
How could I resist that line? I entered the kitchen, circled the island, and looked where Wenders was looking. He stepped aside giving me a view of the cabinet's lower cupboard. I couldn't believe my eyes. There, folded at the waist and stuffed onto the lower shelf like a ventriloquist's dummy in a suitcase, was the body of Alfonso Valencia. His forehead was touching his knees. The back of his head was a riot of blood. Blood covered what little of his chin I could see. His cigar had been jammed back into his kisser, the tip jutting to his right ear. Both he and the cigar were completely snuffed out.
Chapter Nineteen
I grabbed hold of Alfonso and pulled him from the cabinet onto my kitchen floor. His cigar tumbled. A bit of blood spattered. It wasn't to be helped.
“What the hell are you doin'?”
I ignored the growling lieutenant and felt Alfonso's carotid artery. That told me for certain what I already knew. To cement the idea, I said it aloud. “He's dead.”
“No shit, Sam Spade. You needed to disturb the evidence to figure that out?”
“You don't think it's something you ought to be sure about?”
“I was sure. You killed him good and dead. It was obvious.”
“I didn't do this.”
“Your little buddy. Your cupboard. Your apartment.” Wenders yawned. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and sure as hell will be used against you in a court of law.”
“I didn't do this, Wenders, come out and look at the sun.” I pointed to the living room. “A window I left closed is gaping wide open. There's a ladder in the yard should be hanging up in the garage. Somebody went to a little effort to put him here – and put me in the frame. A blind man could see it without his cane.”
Wenders started around the island, into the living room, heading for the phone. “I'm callin' this in. Don't touch that body again.”
I paid the lieutenant the compliment of waiting until he'd turned his back before I crouched back down and gave Alfonso's corpse a once over. He'd been hit hard over the head from behind, exactly as I'd seen in my vision; the hair on the back left of his crown was coated in largely dried blood. As mentioned, blood marred his lips and chin. I had no time, with Wenders screaming at his subordinates so nearby, to check for further injuries. It wasn't necessary. The head wound would have killed a giant.
A quick search of Alfonso's pockets produced forty-two dollars in folding money (and I'd paid for the museum tickets, sheesh), some loose change, and his wallet with ID. Too bad the killer hadn't been as generous with Sybil and Mickey; identifying both would have been a lot simpler. I considered the personal effects again and paused. Something – I couldn't think what – was missing. The thought was interrupted by Wenders yelling again.
“Damn it, Blake! I told you not to touch the body. This is a crime scene! Get away from it.”
“I was just–”
“You were just… nothin'. There's a dead guy, murdered circus performer number three, found in your cupboard. Now get away from it. Take a seat on the couch, smart guy, and start cooking up answers to the questions you know are coming.”
And they came, the questions and the police scientists.
The photograph snappers, the measurement takers, the fingerprint lifters all did their things. The place was gone over, in minute detail, from the kitchen cupboard, to the living room window, to the garage roof, to the back yard fence. Meanwhile, an Assistant County Coroner examined Alfonso's remains, jotted a few preliminary notes, then ordered him bagged and removed. Such a little corpse, such a big plastic body bag.
Throughout, Wenders beat me with his breath (worse than a rubber hose) demanding answers to an unending parade of questions. Questions that, coincidentally, gave him repeated opportunities to insult me and accuse me of murder. “Your bein' such a great detective,” he said, going back over well-trodden ground. “How is it the midget was able to lose you?”
“He didn't lose me. I told you, I went into Sybil's train car to see what had happened and he stayed behind. He'd apparently seen all he wanted. After I saw it, I couldn't blame him. No sooner did I bend over the body when I got hit from behind. I came to with a volunteer ambulance attendant holding ice to my head and spent the next five hours with the Barrelton Sheriff yelling at me. You all go to the same school where they teach you to holler as loud as possible around head injuries.”
“Yeah, yeah. Back to the midget.”
“From then to now I never saw him again.”
“This Alfonso… He ran because he killed Sybil?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Next question.”
“He ran because he was afraid? He–”
“Not for himself. He may have been afraid for his life, I don't know, but he didn't leave me in the lurch to save his own bacon. He came to the same conclusion I have; The Major is looking an awful lot like a killer of circus performers. Alfonso didn't run for himself.”
“For who, if not himself? And to where?”
“I told you. I've told you three times. I'll give you any odds you like he came right back here to Chicago. He saw what happened to Sybil and he was afraid for Alida Harrison, the aerial acrobat he thought he was in love with. He thought she was going to be next and wanted to protect her.”
Wenders snorted. “He should have protected himself.”
“He probably agrees with you. But his being dead shouldn't count against him. It suggests he may have been right. If he was right then Alida might still be in danger.”
“From who?”
“Follow the bouncing ball, Frank. From The Major.”
“You think The Major is our man? Out of jealousy alone?”
“I don't know. All the victims were men.”
“An old alchy used to bite the heads off chickens? A guy wears a dress and defrauds suckers into thinking he's a bearded lady? And a midget clown? Is that what you're sayin'? Jealousy – over those three – gives the circus manager motive to kill everybody in his circus? It's thin, Blake. Even from you it sounds like hooey. How does the guy see where he's going lookin' through eyes that red?”
“He had all the means and opportunity in the world and then some,” I said. “As for motive, I don't know. The clink is full of criminals with undisclosed motives. We've got to grab a hold of The Major and shake. We've got to dig into his closets, find the skeletons.”
“Whoa,” Wenders said. “Just put a hold on that.”
“What do you mean? How many more people do you want this guy to kill?”
“You never learn. Do you? It ain't been a month since you were screamin' for Reverend Delp's head on a stick. And we're you wrong about that! You got a bad habit, Blake, of stompin' all over the toes of your betters. You ain't gettin' me to do it with you. Before you dig into any of this Major's closets, you better be sure. Does the circus manager have skeletons?”
“I don't even know if he has closets. For God's sake, haven't you even been to the circus? Haven't you looked at all?”
“Yeah, bright boy, we've looked. And we're still lookin'. But we ain't finding a thing.” He started across the room.
“Where are you going?”
“I'm going to the can, Blake. You have that effect on me. While I'm gone, don't move a muscle.”
“To where would I move?”
I considered praying for divine intervention, that Wenders might accidentally flush himself into the Chicago River, but gave it up with the certain knowledge nobody up there owed me a favor, let alone a miracle. I tried to rearrange my brain, to sort my worries, but that too seemed like an impossible task. Beyond any and all belief, Lisa had rowed out in the middle of nowhere and found my drowned man. Since then I'd been on one continuous slide down Skid Row.
Thinking of Lisa, where the heck was she? I'd had no choice over the last two days; I'd had to shove her to the back of my mind. But now I had nothing to do but stand in place and think, where the heck was she? That's probably why I was so deep in do-do again. I'd spent two days running around the country writing checks with my mouth. But I'd had no choice, my right arm was MIA.
The scientists and the questions had used up the rest of that day's sunshine. I turned on a table lamp and pushed back some of the darkness without any measurable effect on the suffocating gloom. I was starting to feel good and sorry for myself when Lisa, my lovely but awkward and long time absent secretary, walked alive and well into my apartment.
I goggled, finding it hard to believe my eyes. “Lisa!” That was all I got out, her name. Then I grabbed her, hugged her, and held on. I probably scared the life out of her but I didn't care. The hug was for me. A full minute later, sated but with the trembling in my hands still visible if you looked, I released her to breathe again. “Where have you been? Are you all right? How did you get past the sentries?”
“It's a long story and I'm fine. As for getting in… Who do I work for? I lied. I told them Wenders called me and told me to get over here.”
“How did you know Wenders was here?”
“The first time I went by I saw the Coroner's wagon. Where there is a body, there is Homicide.” She looked the place over, took in the organized mess, the print dust in various shades, and her disheveled boss – me. Lisa shook her head. “Look at this place. What's happening?”
“It's a longer story.”
“I stopped at the office first, looking for you, before I came here,” Lisa said. “Good heavens, Blake, what made you leave Willie there all this time?”
“Willie?” Again I'd forgotten about Willie.
“He's a wreck. He's living like some kind of homeless guy in the upstairs room. He was smart enough to leave your liquor alone, but he's eaten all the lemons, limes, and olives out of your fridge. He's eaten everything in my desk except the pencils. I'm not kidding, he tried the eraser. He's starving to death. He's also frantic and he's getting paranoid. Did you know the office is being watched by the police? And they're not being sly about it. There is a squad car in the lot. Now I come here and find this? Nod, what's going on?”
“Alfonso was murdered. And his killer decided to plant the body here in my apartment.”
“That's terrible,” Lisa said. “Who's Alfonso?”
“It's been a while since we've seen each other. Which brings us back to the question, Where in the world have you been?”
“You!”
The shout came from Wenders, returning down my hall from the bathroom, directed with a fair amount of venom at my secretary. The cop was spitting fire. “I've been looking for you. Where have you been?”
“Hold on,” I said, raising a hand.
“Hold on, nothin',” the lieutenant yelled. He stared past me as if I wasn't there, then pushed past me, to confront Lisa. “You found a body in the channel to Lake Michigan two nights ago.”
Lisa looked my way.
Wenders stepped between us. “Don't look at Blake. Answer the question!”
“Did you ask a question?” There was brass in her voice. “It sounded like you made a statement.”
“Don't give me any of your 'Blake junior' attitude. I get more than enough of that from your boss. Did you rent a boat at the Chicago harbor two nights ago? And take it out? And find a body in the lake? Yes or no?”
“Don't yell at her,” I said, stepping around the fat bastard to Lisa's defense. “She found the body. I told her I'd take care of it. Your complaint is with me. You don't need to abuse her.”
“The two of you think you're both so funny. The law don't mean a thing to you, either of you. It's just a big trampoline for you to jump up and down on! Well, no, it isn't. And you're done with that.” He shot me his coldest stare. “Get out of the way, Blake!”
I considered the request, stifled my initial response, and stepped to the side.
Wenders turned the stare on Lisa. “You will answer questions. You will make a formal statement and you will sign it. You'll be at my office at nine o'clock tomorrow morning, ready to tell the truth and nothin' but. It makes no difference what your criminal boss tells you. Do you understand?”
“All right,” Lisa said. “Nine a.m. I'll be there.”
“Fine,” Wenders told her. He pointed. “Now go down, and out, and sit on the stoop until I tell you differently.” Lisa ogled him in disbelief. “I got more to say to your employer. Not for your ears. Go down and wait; or get lost.”
“I'll be on the stoop,” Lisa said with resignation. She disappeared out the door like a student headed for the principal's office.
When it was only Wenders and I again, he turned his glare on me and, after a minute of hard staring finally stated the obvious. “
I'd like to break your neck.”
“Honestly put,” I told him. “I'd enjoy pushing your 'Off' button as well. See, we can find common ground.”
“Ignoring our personal feelings for the moment…”
I nodded my tentative agreement.
The lieutenant went on. “There's something else we seem to agree on. As a place to start, The Major looks good for these killings. I'm willing to send him to prison forever for murder. But I got nothin. He's giving nothin'. All I can get him to say is, The show must go on. That means we need something on The Major. I need something on The Major.”
“Then get something on him!”
“I've got no evidence, so I've got no reason, so I've got no warrant, so I've got no right. Meanwhile, though she may be either an accomplice or as innocent as the driven snow, the circus owner, Mrs. Callicoat, complained to her monied friends, who complained to the whoop-de-dos above, that my detectives were rude. She won't take my calls. She too wants the show to go on. You know the game, Blake. The same city breathing down my neck that the killer must be caught is also breathing down my neck that Mrs. Callicoat and The Major must not be upset.”
“It all sounds like your problem to me.”
“No, Blake, it's your problem. See, as far as I know, The Major ain't been within a mile of a corpse. Right? So one way of lookin' at it is, I can live without The Major because I got you. Without breaking a sweat, I can prove you were found with not one, not two, but all three of the murder victims. You went for a romantic midnight row with drowned Mickey. You took a nap beside Gerald, the Bearded Lady. And it ain't been an hour since Binky the Clown tumbled out of your kitchen cupboard. If you add all that up, you ought to kill yourself and save the Illinois taxpayers the expense.”
“You know I had nothing to do with any of these–” I stopped.
Wenders wasn't listening. He was shrugging his shoulders, whistling silently, and waiting for my lips to quit moving. When they did, he said, “A difference that makes no difference is no difference. As soon as someone goes to jail for murder, everybody above me shuts up. It don't matter who it is; the real killer or a big mouth with a private snoop attached.”
Red Herrings Can't Swim (Nod Blake Mysteries Book 2) Page 19