It took longer than I would’ve imagined for his body to go limp, at least it seemed that way. I was sweating after what I guessed was a half hour of exertion, except when I looked at the clock next to his bed, I saw it had only taken three minutes to snuff out his life. I lifted up the pillow and began shaking uncontrollably as I looked at his emaciated dead face, his mouth a gaping black chasm, his pebble-sized pale eyes open and as lifeless as glass.
Get a damn grip, I told myself.
I dropped the pillow back onto his face so it would be obvious that he had been murdered. I was sure an autopsy would show that, but why take any chances that the cops might think he died of natural causes? The shaking subsided. It was done and I was one step closer to reaping a 241-million-dollar payday, or at least a healthy portion of that amount.
Eddie’s bedroom had a window facing an alley that ran behind the building. I opened it. The story I planned to tell the police was that I had left the window open a crack so my uncle could get fresh air, and that must’ve been how the killer gained entry into his apartment.
With all that taken care of, I called the police.
◆◆◆
The detective I told my story to seemed dubious at best. He knew about Eddie’s reputation and must’ve been hoping to tie Billy Quinn in with my uncle’s murder, thinking that Quinn might’ve been worried about my uncle’s feeble health and sent someone to the apartment to bump him off in case Eddie became simpleminded and began blabbering secrets. My lottery-ticket story threw a monkey wrench into that idea.
“Is the ticket missing?”
“I was in too much shock to check,” I said, my voice a flat murmur so I’d sound as if I were still in shock.
He gave me a glazed look that said Yeah, right. “Where should it be?”
“In his night table drawer. That was where I put it for safekeeping.”
He checked the night table drawer, and of course there wasn’t a lottery ticket there since there was never one to begin with. He wasn’t ready to call me a liar, but as I said, he was dubious, and he brought me to the precinct on West Broadway so I could tell my story over and over again. Sometime around nine in the morning his attitude toward me changed, like I might actually be telling the truth. I figured the cops had talked with some of last night’s crowd from Donnegan’s and were able to confirm my story.
“Go home,” he said. “But keep quiet about your uncle’s death until you’re told otherwise.”
He didn’t bother to explain why he wanted me to do that, but the reason was obvious. The cops wanted whoever had the winning lottery ticket to come forward. It was possible that this individual would have a legitimately airtight alibi for Eddie’s murder, or could even be in a wheelchair or otherwise physically incapable of climbing through Eddie’s bedroom window. When I was at Donnegan’s last night, I figured out what my story would be if that turned out to be the case. I would claim the guy was only a front for whoever killed my uncle and stole his ticket. Maybe the cops would believe me, maybe they wouldn’t, but there would be enough doubt and confusion to keep them from charging me, and the rightful owner of the lottery ticket would have little choice but to settle with me. If he didn’t, I’d have no shortage of sharp lawyers begging me to take the case on contingency, knowing the payday they’d be getting. Any halfway decent lawyer would tie the sap up in court for years, all while the media ran stories about the guy being a possible thief and murderer. If he didn’t have an alibi, he could even end up convicted of Eddie’s murder, and if that were to happen, I’d end up with the whole shebang.
After I left the cops, I met with a lawyer from one of the fancy Tremont Street firms and told him my story. Somewhat surprisingly, he acted as if he believed me.
“Did your uncle have a will?”
“Nope.”
“You’re his only living heir?”
“That’s right.”
He was trying hard to appear nonchalant, but I could see the wheels spinning behind his eyes as he calculated the millions he expected to get from his twenty percent cut of whatever he got for me.
“I’ll wait until this miscreant steps forward before I file a lawsuit, but I’ll make damn sure the money is tied up until we litigate this.”
Three days later the rightful owner of the winning lottery ticket stepped forward. The guy was forty-eight, married, and had four kids. He was also unemployed, deep in debt, and lived in the neighborhood. From what I could tell from asking around, he was just an ordinary guy. No connections to Billy Quinn, and no one ever heard of him involved in any shenanigans.
Whatever luck this guy might’ve had was used up when he bought the winning ticket because he didn’t have an alibi for when I killed Eddie. Worse, he was in a bar around the corner from Donnegan’s the night they announced the drawing, and he went on a two-day bender right afterward and had nobody who could vouch for him. He claimed he was so shaken up winning the jackpot that on his way home he stopped off at an all-night liquor store and bought a bottle and that the next thing he remembered was waking up two days later in an alley. The cops came to the obvious conclusion that word must’ve spread to this other bar about Eddie having the winning ticket and that this poor schmuck got the idea then to rob and kill my uncle, but that he lost his nerve afterward to face his wife and kids, at least until he came up with a bogus two-day blackout story for the cops.
I still remembered him from the news when he came forward as the big winner. His face was wrinkled into one massive grin as if nothing in the world could ever wipe it away. I don’t think I ever saw anyone that happy, or that nervous, like he couldn’t quite believe this was really happening to him. That his recent sad sack life was about to change so dramatically. It must’ve been a real kick in the pants when the police arrested him, and an even bigger one when he realized the frame he had fallen into.
My lawyer called hours after the guy was arrested and was barely able to contain his excitement. “No alibi,” he exclaimed, his voice giddy. “Even better, the story he’s giving the police is absolutely bananas! We’re not taking a settlement. We’re going for the whole jackpot!”
Who was I to argue with that?
Three days later the guy’s lawyer offered a settlement. A laughable one. Five hundred grand.
“This scumbag killed my uncle,” I said.
“I know. The offer’s a joke. But I’m obligated to report it to you.”
“Okay. You told me about it. And I’m rejecting it.”
“As I would recommend,” my lawyer said.
Two days later we were offered twenty million to drop the lawsuit. It was tempting, but I also saw it as a trap. You don’t settle with someone who murdered your only blood relative. If I took the offer I’d be telling the cops and the courts that I had my about doubts whether he killed my uncle, or worse, that I knew he didn’t.
“This guy’s still in jail, right?” I asked.
“Correct.”
“And the cops still like him for my uncle’s murder?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m not making any deal with him. I don’t care what he offers.”
“I don’t blame you.” My lawyer hemmed and hawed a bit before adding, “But twenty million is a lot of money and it’s worth considering the benefit of getting paid now. It could take a year or longer for him to go to trial for murder, and another year on top of that before our lawsuit is adjudicated. If he somehow doesn’t get convicted…”
“I’ll take my chances.”
As I said, it was a trap, one that I couldn’t afford to fall into. Besides, I was beginning to count on getting all the money, minus my lawyer’s fee. Why shouldn’t I? I couldn’t have planned a better frame than the one this guy was wrapped up in. Waiting two or more years to get the money would be tough, but I’d be living like a king after that. I’d find ways to manage until then. I had already talked with one of the neighborhood loan sharks who worked for Quinn, and I could get a million now and pay back five million wh
en I got this lottery business settled. Not a bad deal, and Quinn wouldn’t be offering it if my being rewarded the whole megillah wasn’t a sure thing. Who was I to argue with Quinn’s judgment on the matter?
I did too much drinking at Eddie’s wake Friday night at Donnegan’s, and late Saturday morning a persistent knocking got me stumbling out of bed. The guy waiting for me at the door had on a badly rumpled suit and looked like he hadn’t slept in days. He didn’t have to say a word for me to know he was a cop. He introduced himself as Detective Mike Griff, and told me this was about Eddie’s murder and the winning lottery ticket.
“Did his killer confess?” I asked innocently enough.
“Not yet. I’d like you to talk with a consultant we’re using. It should take no more than a half-hour of your time.”
I was still in my pajamas and bathrobe. I also hadn’t yet had a cup of coffee and my head was throbbing from all the shots I’d poured down the other night, and I was struggling to keep my eyes open against the morning sunlight. All I wanted was to crawl back into bed.
“You want me to see this person now?”
“I would think you’d want to do what you can to see your uncle’s murderer convicted. I’d also think with all the money at stake you’d want this matter resolved as quickly as possible.”
Griff said this with a friendly smile, but I caught a glimmer in his eye that I didn’t like. It didn’t matter. He might’ve had his suspicions, but what could he or his consultant possibly do to prove I killed Eddie and not the shmoe they’d arrested? I pretended I didn’t see the glimmer, and told him I needed ten minutes to shower and put on some clothes. “Let me first get a pot of coffee brewing,” I said. “You want any?”
“If you twist my arm.”
My hand shook when I measured out the coffee beans. Not because of nerves but from being hungover, and I told Griff that. He smiled sympathetically. I almost suggested that I see his consultant later when I was feeling better, but I didn’t want to give him any additional doubts.
Ten minutes in the shower helped clear a few of the cobwebs. I didn’t bother shaving—Griff looked like he’d gone a week without putting a blade to his face, and with my fair red hair I could go several days without anyone noticing. I thought about putting on a suit and tie, but I didn’t want to look like I was trying to impress his consultant, whoever the guy might be, and so instead I slipped on a pair of jeans and a white cotton-knit shirt. With that done, I met Griff in the kitchen and filled up two travels mugs with the freshly-brewed coffee. Griff told me he’d have his black. I poured half-and-half in mine and mixed in three teaspoons of sugar.
I felt my brain being jostled with every pothole Griff hit, but the coffee helped, and by the time I emptied out the mug, I realized Griff was driving us to Beacon Hill instead of a police precinct. A few minutes later he pulled up in front of a toney brick townhouse with a fancy-looking wrought-iron gate and a fancier-looking front door. This wasn’t what I was expecting. I asked Griff who the consultant was.
“You’ll meet him soon enough,” he said under his breath, just barely loud enough for me to hear him.
I didn’t have a good feeling about this. But what difference did it make who this guy was? He could’ve brought me to Sherlock Holmes for all I cared. The guy wasn’t going to prove I killed Eddie. Or that I didn’t buy the lottery ticket for my uncle. I just needed to be careful and not let myself get tripped up by any clever questions. I could do that, and so I followed Griff up the brick pathway and stood next to him as he rang the bell. The man who answered the door was in his forties. Dark features, good-looking, athletic build. He was dressed conservatively in a gray pinstriped suit and wore a light gray tie held in place by a silver rectangular tie clip. It must’ve been my eyes playing tricks on me, but I could’ve sworn I saw a twinkle of light ripple from the tie clip, almost as if it were winking at me. It weirded me out, but the way this guy was looking at me as if I were a bug he was studying under a magnifying glass weirded me out more.
He didn’t offer his hand, which was just as well. If we had shaken hands he would’ve felt how clammy mine had become. I recognized him from the newspapers. Julius Katz. I didn’t have to worry about Sherlock Holmes because he was just a made-up genius detective, nothing more than a figment of some dead English writer’s imagination. But Katz was flesh and blood, and from what I had read about him, he had a reputation as Boston’s most brilliant private eye. Worse, I once heard Red Halloran, who’s a legend in Southie, talk about how he got cleaned out in a poker game by Katz. The way Halloran talked about him, it was like Katz was a sorcerer who could read his mind and knew every bluff Halloran tried. Of course Halloran was just telling tales that night, but still, meeting up with the man face-to-face under the circumstances freaked me out. Somehow I kept my wits and didn’t bolt. I also don’t think I showed anything in my expression, which wasn’t easy given the way Katz was staring at me.
“I know who you are,” I said. “Julius Katz. I’ve seen you on the news.” I attempted to muster up some outrage. “Did Mackleroy hire you to help him get away with killing my uncle and stealing his lottery ticket?”
Brian Mackleroy was the sap who had bought the winning ticket and was presently sitting in jail on a host of charges, including felony murder, thanks to me. While it was quite a jolt realizing I’d have to match wits with Katz, I had the perfect excuse for being rattled since I could claim I thought Mackleroy had hired him to frame me. But even if he was the smartest guy alive as the newspaper stories claimed, what could he possibly prove as long as I didn’t panic?
“Sadly, no,” Katz said with a grim smile. “I was hired by the police, who will be paying me significantly less than I’d be able to bill Mr. Mackleroy, assuming he turns out to be the rightful owner of the winning lottery ticket.”
“He’s not.”
Katz’s eyes glazed and his eyelids lowered a fraction of an inch as he continued to stare at me. “That is the million dollar question, isn’t it? Or, I should say, the two-hundred-and-forty-one-million-dollar question. Please follow me to my office.”
Katz stepped aside to allow Griff and myself to pass, then he closed the front door and led us down a hallway and to a private office. Katz stood to one side as Griff and I walked into the room, but he didn’t join us. Griff told me to take the seat of honor in the leather chair that was directly across from Katz’s desk, and the homicide detective dragged a chair to the desk so he’d be sitting next to Katz when the private eye returned.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Just cool your jets. Mr. Katz will be back soon.”
What else was I going to do? I cooled my jets, as Griff suggested, and gave the room a quick glance. It had an old-fashioned look with dark oak paneling, plenty of built-in shelves crammed with books, an expensive-looking globe on a stand, a couch on one side of me and a matching loveseat on the other.
I didn’t know if Katz was trying to spook me by keeping me waiting, but if that was his game, he made a fatal mistake. What he did was give me a chance to catch my breath and calm myself down. He could play whatever mind games he wanted. As long as I didn’t let myself get tripped up, there was nothing he could do to prove I snuffed out Eddie’s life or that the lottery ticket wasn’t rightfully mine.
Katz returned several minutes later carrying a tray loaded with a thermos, coffee cups and saucers, plates, and a platter stacked with what looked like roast beef sandwiches. I felt my mouth watering and my stomach gurgling as I looked at the sandwiches. I hadn’t eaten anything that day, only having the coffee, and it hit me then how hungry I was. I waited until he sat behind his desk before asking whether those were roast beef sandwiches, as they appeared to be.
“Prime rib, actually,” Katz said.
“Is there coffee in the thermos?” I asked.
“French roast.”
I watched as he poured coffee for himself and Griff, and then as they both took sandwiches.
“I’ll take my coff
ee with sugar and cream,” I said. “And I wouldn’t mind one of those sandwiches.”
Katz finished chewing a mouthful of prime rib on what looked like sourdough, then chased that with a sip of coffee before showing me an apologetic smile.
“I strongly dislike being an ungracious host,” he said with what seemed to be genuine sincerity. “But I dislike even more feeding a murderer. Either you murdered your uncle and are lying about buying him the winning lottery ticket, or you’ve been telling the truth and Mr. Mackleroy is the guilty culprit. That’s my dilemma. But I have already interviewed Mr. Mackleroy, and if I were a betting man, which I am, my money would be on him being innocent and the rightful owner of the ticket.”
“What are you talking about? The story he gave the cops is loony!”
“Not entirely. The police have been able to verify from a credit card receipt that shortly after the lottery drawing he bought a bottle of scotch, as he claims.”
“He wanted a few more shots to work up the nerve to murder my uncle!”
“He bought a very expensive bottle of scotch. Johnny Walker Gold for twelve hundred and forty-nine dollars. That’s precisely what someone would buy to celebrate their good fortune.”
My mouth and throat had gotten painfully dry, like I’d swallowed a handful of sawdust. “Or what someone would buy when they’re trying to set up their alibi,” I stammered out. “For Chrissake, did you talk to anyone at Donnegan’s? Right after the drawing I was telling people how I bought the winning ticket for my uncle!”
A hardness had settled over Katz’s features making him look almost like a marble statue. This didn’t last long, no more than ten seconds, then he glanced at his watch. “There’s no use wasting my time questioning you. I know a guilty man when I see one, and I should be able to provide Detective Griff insurmountable proof of your guilt shortly.”
I should’ve kept my mouth shut, but he had me rattled, I admit it, and I couldn’t stop myself from asking how he planned to do that.
More Julius Katz and Archie Page 22