Daughter of Darkness

by Ed Gorman

  The phone rang.

  "I'll bet it's Amy's boy friend, Brian," Sam said. He thought it was real, real weird that anybody would find anything appealing about his ten-year-old sister Amy. To him, she was just this skinny, gawky girl with no breasts (given the men's magazine Margie had found in his drawer, it was clear Sam was already and hopelessly a boob man), braces and a shy manner that was easy to make fun of. He didn't see any of the classic beauty or the gentle wisdom that Margie saw in her eldest-and that boys in Amy's class were also starting to see. Lately, a public school boy named Brian Stoller had been calling her. Amy clearly liked the kid, though she was tongue-tied whenever he phoned.

  Sam hopped up from the dinner table and plucked the receiver from the yellow wall phone. He looked instantly disappointed. It wasn't for Amy, after all. It was for Mom.

  Margie took it in what they called "the den" but which was actually a room with an old couch, an old armchair, a twenty-year-old Zenith color TV console, and a bookcase filled with Mike's Louis L'Amour paperbacks.

  "Hello," she said.

  "Hello," said the voice. Male. Unfriendly. "I'm told you're a good officer."

  "May I ask who this is?" All she knew for sure was that it was somebody official. That voice, it had to be official.

  "Commissioner Scott."

  "Commissioner Ted Scott?"

  "One and the same. Detective Ryan."

  My God, why would the police commissioner be calling her? The thing was, when Scott wanted to chew you out, he called your Commander and he chewed you out.

  Scott was one of the first commissioners who had ever actually been a cop, though not a very good one according to locker room scuttlebutt. And even though he'd been a cop for a few years, he was still very much of the upper classes. Not many beat cops drove back and forth to work in a new Porsche. Nor did many beat cops number among their guests at Christmas time, the mayor and his wife. Scott was the son of a prominent architect and city planner. He clearly had political ambitions. First a cop, then a police commissioner, could the governor's mansion be far behind? He was mostly seen as ineffectual, which was fine with the rank-and-file. They'd had cop lovers, who invariably got in trouble with the press for excusing any kind of scum-bag police behavior; and they'd had cop-haters, who'd gotten in trouble with the cops themselves because they generally took the side of the citizens in any dispute. Scott spent most of his time at his country club, which seemed to make just about everybody happy. That's where police commissioners should spend most of their time.

  "I understand," the Commissioner went on, "that you met some friends of mine."

  "Friends of yours?"

  "The Staffords."

  "Oh, yes. I mean, yes, sir, I did." She sounded as nervous as poor Amy when she talked to Brian Stoller.

  "And I further understand that you suggested that they might be impeding the police investigation to find their daughter."

  "No, sir, I didn't."

  "Well, that was the impression you gave Molly Stafford anyway. And she didn't like it."

  "I was just doing my job, sir. Just asking the questions I'd ask anybody."

  "These people aren't 'anybody,' Detective Ryan."

  "I see, sir."

  "They're friends of mine."

  "Yes, sir."

  "And they don't impede police investigations."

  "No, sir."

  "Not even when their own daughter is involved."

  "I see, sir."

  "I was in Los Angeles-there was a conference for police commissioners-when you started running Jenny Stafford's photo on the tube. This is ridiculous."

  "What is, sir?"

  "Jenny Stafford a murderer. Why in the hell are you looking for her, anyway? I've known her all her life. She isn't a killer. And she sure as hell doesn't spend her nights at the Econo-Nite Motel, I can tell you that."

  "Sir?"

  "Yes."

  "We found her car parked half a block away. We took prints off the steering wheel, the dashboard, and the interior of the glove compartment. We compared them to the prints found on several surfaces at the crime scene."

  "And you're telling me you got a match?"

  "Yes, sir, we did. But that's not all."

  "Oh?"

  "We also got a match from the handle of the knife itself. The one in the dead man."

  "Do you have any idea who Jenny Stafford is. Detective Ryan?"

  "She's the daughter of Tom and Molly-"

  "She's my goddaughter."

  "Oh."

  "Now am I making myself clear?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "I want you to prosecute this just as hard as you can. But I want you to make it fast. You understand?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "There's got to be some kind of logical explanation for how her fingerprints got all over that motel room."

  "Yessir."

  "And I want you to find out what that explanation is."

  "I understand, sir."

  "And I don't want you hinting to the Staffords that they're not cooperating."

  "I'll make sure there's no misunderstanding, sir."

  "Good."

  "I'm sorry to bother you at home."

  "That's quite all right."

  "Now, I'll let you get back to your family."

  ***

  Later. The kids finally asleep. Mike lying next to her.

  "Honey?" he whispered.

  "Huh?"

  "You think you could quit doing that?"

  "Doing what?"

  "You know, the scratching."

  "I'm scratching?"

  "Uh-huh. And it's pretty loud. I can't sleep."

  "I must have dry skin or something."

  "It must be the measles," he said.

  "Very funny."

  "It's subconscious. Why you're scratching, I mean. Deep down, you think you've got the measles."

  She brought her hands up, prayerlike, and tucked them under her face as she lay on her side. She couldn't scratch with her hands in this position.

  Then she said, "He really pisses me off."

  Mike groaned. He just wanted to sleep. "Who?"

  "The Commissioner."

  "He's an asshole. Forget about him and just get to sleep."

  "I just keep hearing his voice. Prep school."

  "He went to prep school?"

  "Uh-huh. Exeter."

  "Well, if you gotta go to prep school, that's a pretty good place."

  "Yeah, I suppose. He just sounds so-snotty."

  "Night."

  "You don't give a damn."

  "Honey, I'm tired. The regional manager's coming in tomorrow. It's not easy kissing somebody's ass all day long. It takes a lot of strength."

  She laughed. God, she loved him and that dorky sense of humor of his.

  "She did it," she said.

  "Huh?"

  "Jenny Stafford. His goddaughter. She killed that guy."

  "You really think so? A society girl like her?" He yawned.

  "Now, you sound like him. And hell, yes, she did it. How else did her fingerprints get all over the place?"

  She waited for an answer and after about a minute or so, she got it.

  Mike started snoring.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  As Coffey pulled into Jan's drive, he knew that Jenny was gone. He had cop instincts, and they were rarely wrong.

  He let himself inside and called her name and heard only his own echoes.

  He went through the house, continuing to call her name, knowing how useless this ail was.

  Where the hell would she have gone?

  He had to put a brief halt to his pointless search. He needed to pee.

  While he was standing over the john, he happened to glance down at the wastebasket and see a mass of tissues.

  After doing his business, he brought the wastebasket up and set it on the closed toilet lid. He started pulling the tissues apart and examining each piece.

  A lot of foundation, mascara, eyeliner,
eyeshadow, blush, lipstick and heavy layer of powder-all of which meant one thing. She hadn't gone out tonight as Jenny Stafford, she d gone out as Linda Fleming.

  He set the wastebasket back down, washed his hands, and then went back out to the living room. He'd go looking for her, but where would he even start? She'd probably taken a cab, but tracking the correct cab could literally take all night.

  He thought about going back home. But maybe he should wait here. Maybe she'd come back here. But that was probably not the case. So he might as well go home…

  Headlights.

  He ran to the window. He hadn't turned on any lights in here. He had a clear view of the street.

  But it was just a passing car, silent and lonesome-looking in the late night.

  He walked over to the phone, punched in the code for retrieving messages from his phone machine at home.

  One guy wanted to sell him real estate, another guy wanted him to buy diamonds.

  The third message was from Detective Ryan. "I'm getting heat about Jenny Stafford, Mr. Coffey. You know how heat works, don't you, Mr. Coffey? From your cop days? Well, since I'm getting heat, you're getting heat. I'm calling from my kitchen. My daughter's about ten feet away at the table doing her homework. Math. She gets straight As in everything except math. That's her downfall subject. So any time she has to work on her math, she's in a bad mood. Which puts me in a bad mood. And then I get heat from the police commissioner on top of it. I think you can see where I'm going with this, Mr. Coffey. There are all kinds of nasty words I'd like to dump on you tonight, but I can't because my daughter's sitting so close to me and I'm too lazy to walk into the little room we call our den. So, I'm just going to say this. Tomorrow, I'm going to come and see you and you had better, by God, be ready to cooperate. I need to find Jenny Stafford and get this whole case resolved. You understand me, Mr. Coffey? Good. Now you and Jenny have yourself a good night's sleep-wherever you're hiding out-and I'll get in touch with you in the morning. Sleep tight, Mr. Coffey."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  A lot of blacks came up by bus, though some traveled by train, and still others by cars a lot older than they were. The two biggest migrations from the South came right before and right after World War II. A black poet noted that many of these travelers carried only two things, "a clean change of underwear, and an absolute passion for the blues."

  The blues flourished in Chicago until the seventies, when rock and roll took over. In the old days, hearing the blues meant going to the South Side, to mostly black clubs. Today, if you want to hear the blues, you go to the North Side. The musicians are still black, but the audiences are largely white. Working-class blacks, the people about whom the music was written, can't afford to come here. You see a lot of Volvos and Saabs and Mercedes Benz sedans in the parking lot. And inside, you see a lot of American Express Gold being handed over to the waitresses and the cashiers. The blues had originally been heard by cotton pickers and wandering ex-slaves and inner city menials and burned-out prisoners in southern jails. Now the only people who could afford to hear the blues live were white advertising people, doctors, stockbrokers and mid-level government bureaucrats. So how did the musicians feel about all this change? Bluesmen have to eat, too, you know.

  Linda Fleming was working the blues bars tonight. And two hours after the cab dropped her off, she finally made what looked like a promising contact.

  Accountant. That's what he looked like. Nervous little guy in a three-piece rack suit, glasses that kept slipping down his little nose, and sad, sad Friday night eyes. He'd been dumped recently, or something like that. You didn't have to be telepathic to guess that. Siting alone at the bar, his silent suffering was louder than the music.

  The bar ran along the left side. Small tables with glowing candles sitting in the center lined the right wall. A small stage was just big enough for the five-piece band, while the dance floor could probably hold six, seven couples. She didn't see a single black customer.

  She sat down next to the guy at the bar.

  "Hi," she said.

  He didn't look at her. "Hi."

  "Great music."

  "Yeah."

  "You like the blues?"

  He still didn't look at her. "No, I drove all the way over here because I hate the blues."

  "Maybe I'll just keep my mouth shut."

  Still not looking at her. "Maybe that's a good idea."

  The bartender came, then went away to get her a scotch on the rocks. She dug in her purse and took out a package of cigarettes. She tapped one free from the pack. Then she said, "I don't have any matches."

  He sighed, greatly put upon. "Here."

  He groped in the pocket of his cheap dark suit and found a book of matches. He tossed the matches on the bar in front of her. She lighted her smoke and then pushed the matches back to him.

  He had yet to look at her. "You keep them. That way, you won't have to bother me again."

  The bartender brought her scotch. He was a light-skinned black man with curly gray hair and a wide, friendly face. "Not none of my business, ma'am, but I don't think you'll be able to do it." He nodded to the man next to her.

  She smiled. "I love a challenge. But I guess I don't know what the challenge is for sure."

  "The challenge is Ron here."

  "Shut up, Luther," Ron said.

  "He got pissed on," Luther said, "and he don't deserve it because he's a nice guy. And I ain't sayin' that just because he's a regular in here. That gal of his pissed all over him."

  "I told you, Luther, shut up," Ron said. Then, "Please, all right?"

  "I won't say no more, Ron. But you know how I feel about it."

  Luther went away.

  Ron finally looked at her.

  "You're pretty."

  "Thank you."

  "But you wear way too much makeup."

  She was so startled, she laughed. "You this nice to all the girls?"

  "All I meant was you're way too pretty to cover it up."

  "Oh. I see. Well, then, thank you again."

  "Carla isn't even all that good-looking."

  "Carla?"

  "The girl Luther was talking about."

  "Oh."

  "We've been living together a couple of years now. So I came home this afternoon and guess what I find?"

  "She was in bed with somebody else?"

  "Our own bed. Our own fucking bed. That's the worst thing of all. Even if we got back together, I'd never be able to sleep in that bed again. You know?"

  "I couldn't either."

  "Really?"

  "Really," she said. "Every time I got into bed, all I'd be able to think of was them. You know, all they things they did with each other and said to each other and promised to each other. It'd be like sleeping with ghosts. There'd be no way I could handle it."

  "God, that's such a good way of putting it. Ghosts. That's exactly what it'd be like. Sleeping with ghosts."

  "I'm sorry you have to go through all this."

  "You're sorry?" he snapped. "How the hell do you think I feel?"

  Every few minutes, he seemed to explode like this.

  She let him calm down again. Then, "That's kind of funny."

  "What is?"

  "That I should run into you."

  "What's so funny about that?"

  She shrugged. "Oh, because the same sort of thing happened to me a few weeks ago."

  "Seriously?"

  "Oh, not walking in on him, not the way you did. But he told me about it. Took me out and bought me a real nice dinner-and then he told me."

  "That he went to bed with somebody else?"

  She shook her head. "Oh, that was just the beginning. Not only did he go to bed with somebody else-and had been going to bed with her for nearly a year-he got her pregnant and now they're buying this house out in Niles and they're going to move in in a month."

  "And you didn't have any warning?"

  "None." She exhaled a beautiful blue trail of smoke. "Not a bit."<
br />
  He looked at her for a time. Didn't look at her breasts or her hips or her legs. Just stared right at her face. This was a guy who really needed somebody and you could tell that because he concentrated on her face. On her eyes, especially. He needed company, he needed sympathy, he needed to talk. And then maybe he'd need a little sex. It probably wouldn't be very good; heartbroken guys were frequently impotent or at the least impaired. But she knew he'd certainly give it a try.

  She put out a slender hand. "My name's Linda Fleming."

  He shook her hand. "Ron. Ron Fitzgerald."

  She'd found her next victim.

  ***

  Ron Fitzgerald had an apartment near the Downtown South area, the top floor of what had probably once been a corner grocery store. The place was spacious and nicely decorated, with black, white, and gray furnishings and wall motifs lending a cautiously hip but still human air to the place.

  He brought them wine, he put on some old Dave Brubeck (she didn't want to spoil his fun by telling him she'd never heard of Dave Brubeck before), but mostly he brought her himself and his griefs.

  They spent the first hour perched on a white fabric sofa. Except for her excusing herself twice to go to the john, he talked incessantly. And always about the same thing-how his girlfriend, his former girlfriend, took advantage of his good nature, his innocence, his pure heart and his spectacular plans for their future together. He was, by turns, extravagantly angry, extravagantly sad, extravagantly forgiving, extravagantly vengeful. "She's so fucking worried about AIDS-she went through an AIDS scare once-let's see how she does whoring around the bars every night. I mean, I don't want to her to get AIDS, but-"

  But of course he wanted her to get AIDS.

  Would serve her right for dumping such a swell guy as himself.

  Then he pounced on her. No warning whatsoever. Just pounced on her. Pinned her against one of the arms of the couch and insinuated himself on top of her and then began grinding his groin against her. It was like high school, the boys not quite knowing what to do so they just jumped on you.

  His left hand cupped her left breast while his right hand wormed its way beneath her right buttock, while all the while he was rubbing his semi-erect self against her middle.