Other Men's Sins

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Other Men's Sins Page 17

by Lawrence Falcetano


  I had one more name on the list Captain Wells had given me, which might prove to be significance, a former girlfriend of Troy Conlon’s. I had to take a cab since the address was on the other side of town.

  The ride took nearly a half-hour. We rode down Beverly Blvd. until we arrived at Rosewood Ave. Troy Conlon’s ex lived in a four-story rental complex. I paid the cabbie and walked up the long walkway to the front entrance. There was the possibility that she might not be home since it was two in the afternoon and it was a Tuesday. I opened the front door and stepped into a small vestibule. On the wall, to my right, was a bank of mailboxes with handwritten name tags taped to them. I looked for Emily Atwood. I pressed the small button on the mailbox and waited. When there was no answer, I pressed it again… still no answer. I turned and was about to leave when I heard a voice say, “Who is it?”

  “I’m looking for Emily Atwood,” I said.

  “Who’s looking for Emily Atwood?” the voice said.

  “My name is Max Graham,” I said. “I’m a friend of Troy Conlon’s.”

  “Didn’t know he had friends,” the voice said. “What do you want?”

  “I’m trying to locate Troy,” I said. “I haven’t seen him in a while.”

  “Neither have I,” the voice said. “What do you want with me?”

  “I thought you might help me locate him.”

  “Is he in trouble?”

  “He might be,” I said.

  “I’m not surprised,” the voice said. “Are you a cop?”

  “From New York City,” I said.

  “I don’t want to get involved if you’re a cop.”

  “I’m just trying to find Troy,” I said with the sincerest inflection in my voice I could muster.

  There was a half-minute of silence before the electric door lock buzzed. I opened the door and stepped into a large hallway. I looked for an elevator, but there was none. I had no choice but to take the stairs directly in front of me. I challenged myself by taking two steps at a time just to see how my legs handled it. I made it to the second-floor landing with no problem, but once there, I had to stop to catch my breath. I decided to take the rest of the steps, one at a time.

  What was I trying to prove?

  On the fourth floor, I walked down a brightly lit hallway, reading each red-painted door number until I found 4-B.

  I knocked.

  I heard the security change jangle on the other side of the door, and then the door opened. An attractive dark-haired woman looked out at me through the few inches of the door opening. “What did you say your name was?” she said.

  “Maxwell Graham,” I said.

  “Show me your badge,” she said.

  I showed her my ID and shield. She opened the door.

  I was looking at an attractive woman, perhaps in her thirties. Although she wasn’t wearing makeup, her natural beauty precluded it. Her skin was of a caramel creaminess, and her eyes were a mesmerizing emerald green. She was wearing a knee-length white satin robe and matching bedroom slippers.

  “Thanks,” I said. I walked into a small living room, sparsely furnished but neatly kept. A leather sofa sat beneath a pair of windows that looked out to the street. There was a small desk in one corner, and a large screen TV hung from a wall bracket opposite the sofa. A potted floor plant completed the furnishings.

  She closed the door and reattached the door chain.

  “You can’t trust anyone these days,” she said, “especially in this neighborhood. But I’m well protected.”

  I wasn’t sure just what she meant by “well-protected”. A woman living alone in a bad area, in a building with scant security, and a single door secured only with the addition of a chain lock, didn’t seem well protected to me; especially one as attractive as her.

  “I apologies if this is a bad time,” I said.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “I work nights.”

  “Are you a dancer?” I said.

  She laughed. “Do I look like a dancer?”

  I had put my foot in my mouth. Even thru the robe she was wearing, I could tell she had the right figure for a dancer and great legs. I stood for a moment, not knowing what to say.

  She made a quick pirouette to further mock my assumption as she made her way to the desk. She removed something from the top drawer, and when she turned back to face me, she was holding a nickel-plated Colt 1911 with ivory grips. She held the gun with the barrel pointed at the ceiling and waved it about threateningly. The nickel reflected the light like a well-polished gem.

  “See, well protected,” she said.

  I stepped back and put my hands in the air.

  She laughed as she walked closer to me. “Relax,” she said. “I’m a Los Angeles police officer.” She removed her shield and ID from the pocket of her robe and held it up for me to see.

  I put my hands down.

  This could make things easier or harder, I thought.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Don’t be sorry,” she said. “I’m flattered. Have a seat.”

  I remained standing. “I won’t take much of your time,” I said.

  As she returned the gun to the desk drawer, she said, “What’s your interest in Troy Conlon?”

  “I’m in the middle of a murder investigation,” I said. “He may be a suspect.”

  “I’m not surprised,” she said.

  “I suppose you’re pretty familiar with Conlon.”

  “What L. A. cop isn’t?”

  “The info I received, lists you as his ‘girlfriend’.”

  “Ex,” she said. “It was a long time ago before I joined the police force. We’d met at an employment agency. I had just lost my job.”

  “Troy was employed there?”

  “No, he was looking for work, too. He was always in and out of a job, always broke.”

  “Did you have a steady relationship with him?”

  “For about three months, until I made it onto the police force. It was just as well.”

  “How so?”

  “His drinking got out of hand. I couldn’t take it any longer. I dumped him.”

  “How did he take that?”

  “Not very well, he couldn’t accept it. He stalked me for a while and threatened me.”

  “Were you afraid for your life?”

  “I wasn’t sure what he was capable of when he was drinking. But I wasn’t afraid of him. I can take care of myself.”

  “By the way you handled that cannon, I believe you.”

  She was amused at that and gave me a big smile.

  “His rap sheet is pretty extensive,” I said, “but nothing that comes close to murder.”

  “It could be just a matter of time with Conlon,” she said. “The guy’s a wacko when he boozed up.”

  That was something I already knew. I hoped she would tell me something I didn’t know.

  “I haven’t seen him in a while,” she said, “maybe he turned over a new leaf.”

  “He’s in New York,” I said. “His brother was murdered; he flew in for his part of the inheritance.”

  “He’s a suspect in his own brother’s murder?”

  “One of several,” I said, “but the more I dig up on him, the higher up on my list he moves.”

  “The guy’s a pathetic asshole,” she said.

  “I’ve heard those adjectives before,” I said. “Can you tell me anything more that might be helpful?”

  “I don’t know what more I can tell you,” she said. “You seem to have him pinned down pretty well. The hard part for you comes now,” she said.

  “What’s that?” I said.

  “Proving beyond a reasonable doubt that he’s your murderer.”

  Chapter 24

  I had gotten everything I could on Troy Conlon. My trip wasn’t as fruitful as I’d hoped it would be, other than I’d found that disturbing photograph in Troy Conlon’s desk. At least that would justify my trip to Briggs.

  My flight landed at Newark Liberty at 10:15
p.m. The push and shove through the airport terminal was a nightmare. Waiting in one line or another was incessant agony. It reaffirmed to me why I disliked air travel.

  I took a cab back to my apartment. The drive on Route 78 took an hour, and I nodded off twice. When I got home, I tossed my bag onto my bed, stripped down to my skivvies, and dropped onto the bed next to it. I text Sandy to let her know I’d gotten back safely. Then I fell asleep.

  It was raining lightly when I woke up. My night table clock read: 8:30 a.m. I felt like I had a hangover. Maybe I had what some people called “jetlag”. I wasn’t sure since I hadn’t had enough experience with long flights to know.

  I missed hearing Sandy’s voice but knew she couldn’t answer her cell phone because, at this time of the morning, she’d be tied up in court. So, I text her and told her I’d call her later that afternoon when I got a chance.

  I put on my bathrobe and fuzzy slippers and went downstairs to my mailbox. I found my mail piled neatly on the small table, secured with a rubber band. Before I went back upstairs, I knocked on Mrs. Jankowski’s door. I could hear her using her vacuum cleaner. I knocked again until she shouted out over the sound of her vacuum. “I’m not interested.”

  “It’s not a salesman, Mrs. Jankowski,” I yelled through the door. “It’s me. I just wanted to let you know I’m home.”

  “Your mail is on the front table,” she shouted back.

  “Thank you,” I said, “I’ve got it.”

  Back at my kitchen table, I sorted through my mail: a water bill, an electric bill, two magazines that I’d never subscribed to, and one legal-size envelope with no stamp or postmark. It had a single sloppily handwritten word on it: “Graham”.

  The envelope flap had been tucked in, not glued. When I slid it back, I found a single folded sheet of paper inside. I unfolded the paper by its corners and read the typewritten words. There were plenty of typos and misspellings, as if the writer were grammatically inept or was unfamiliar with the use of a typewriter, or both. At the bottom of the page, was presumably David Crockett’s scrawled signature. It didn’t take me long to realized Crockett was confessing to the murder of Father Conlon. He gave his reason as a deep hatred toward the father for destroying his relationship with the only girl he had ever loved, Eileen Conlon. He said he was sorry and knew what he had done was wrong and hoped God would forgive him. “Don’t try to find me,” he wrote. “I’ll keep running until I get away or I’m caught.”

  Above the signature were the words, “Tell Eileen, I love her.”

  I went to my kitchen drawer and got a Ziploc bag and placed the letter and envelope inside. If we could prove this letter to be genuine; it could be the beginning of the end to this case.

  I called Briggs to let him know I was back. I didn’t mention the letter or offer any info about my trip. He said he wanted to see me right away.

  My morning shower felt great. I finished it up by letting cold water stream down over me for almost five minutes. It brought me back to life.

  I scrambled a few eggs, seared two sausage links, and drank two ten-ounce cups of coffee. I put some “Doo Wop Gold” in my disc player and listened to my favorite music while I ate breakfast. It was therapeutic. It felt good to wind down and sit alone quietly for a change. The only thing I liked better than having breakfast alone was having breakfast with Sandy.

  I put on a pair of khakis, a long sleeve shirt, and my corduroy jacket. I put Crockett’s letter in my inside jacket pocket along with my cell phone. I shut off the disc player, clipped my gun to my belt and went downstairs to the Chevy.

  The rain had stopped, and the sun was warming the day quickly. I took a long deep breath of the cool morning air, which felt good after having endured the oppressive air on the west coast.

  My Chevy Nova was parked where I’d left it, undisturbed; other than a mosaic of bird droppings, which had obliterated the windshield. I hiked back upstairs and got some spray window cleaner and a roll of paper towels and spent the next ten minutes clearing the window. When I was finished, I tossed the cleaning supplies in the back seat and got in behind the wheel. I hoped the Chevy would start after having sat for two full days. If it didn’t, I’d have to get the jumper cables off the back floor and ask Mrs. Jankowski for a jump from her Volkswagen Beetle.

  I’m not superstitious, but I mentally crossed my fingers and turned the key. There was a short rumbling of the motor, then a hesitation. I waited and then turned the key again. After a loud pop and a groan, she started with her usual billow of blue smoke. I smiled and patted her dashboard as a token of my gratitude and drove away.

  ***

  Briggs was at the water cooler getting a drink when I walked into his office. His suit jacket was draped over the back of his desk chair, and his tie was loose. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. “Want a drink, Graham?” he said.

  It wasn’t a good sign when he referred to me by my last name.

  “No, thanks,” I said.

  Briggs drank his water, then crushed his cup and tossed it into the wastebasket. Back at his chair, he sat upright and looked at me. “I hope you’ve got good news,” he said. “City Hall is up my ass and I need to tell the mayor something viable.”

  I sat down in his guest chair and took my cell phone out of my pocket. I brought up the picture I had taken of the photo I’d found in Troy Conlon’s desk drawer. I handed the phone to Briggs. He looked at it.

  “The hell is this?” he said.

  “That’s a picture I took of a photo I found in Troy Conlon’s desk drawer in his room,” I said.

  “Did he draw that sick shit on it?”

  “Probably,” I said.

  “But why does he have it and why is he keeping it?” Briggs said.

  “It obviously indicates hatred and a desire to do his brother bodily harm,” I said.

  “Obviously,” Briggs said.

  He studied the photo for a few more beats, and then said, “This guy’s our man. Why don’t you make the arrest?”

  I took Crockett’s alleged confession letter out of my pocket, removed it from the envelope, and slid it across the desk to Briggs.

  “It hasn’t been to the lab yet,” I said.

  Briggs opened it by its corners and began to read.

  “It was in my pile of mail when I got home,” I said. “No postmark or stamp. Somebody probably hand-delivered it to my box.”

  “If they were clever enough to put it in your mailbox without getting caught,” Briggs said, “You can bet we won’t find prints on it.”

  He finished reading the letter, then looked at me. “You think this is genuine?”

  “I have my doubts,” I said.

  “Seems contrived to me.”

  “I agree,” I said. “Not many people use or even have access to a typewriter these days. Most printing is done on a computer.”

  “We can trace the paper,” Briggs said. “Find out where it was purchased and then follow up on it?”

  “Could be a thousand places that sell that paper,” I said, “It’s common stock. It would take forever.”

  Briggs looked down at the letter again and said, “I don’t believe this crap. This guy’s on the run and trying to take the heat off himself.”

  “Maybe,” I said, “but I’m not sure Crockett killed anybody. I don’t have a shred of evidence that substantiates it.”

  “Then why’s he telling us he did?”

  “Maybe he’s not,” I said. “Maybe somebody else is telling us he did.”

  “The hell are you talking about, Max?”

  We were back on a first name basis again.

  “Maybe somebody else is trying to take the heat off them self by setting up Crockett.”

  “This is getting more convoluted every day,” Briggs said. “What am I gonna tell the mayor that makes sense?”

  I stood, and retrieved my phone and the letter and put them back into my pocket. “I’ve got a working hypothesis that might solve this case if I can tie a few end
s together,” I said.

  “If you know more than I know, Max, you better tell me now. I need info.”

  “It’s just an idea,” I said. “If I’m right, it’ll close this case. Meanwhile, you can tell the Mayor and council members about the photo and the letter.”

  “And what else do I tell them?”

  “Tell ’em Graham’s on the case,” I said.

  Chapter 25

  The following morning Danny and I were having breakfast at “Snookie’s Diner” on 8th avenue across from the Port Authority Bus Terminal. It was a place we frequented often. I liked their breakfast menu. Danny liked their waitresses.

  He was working on a six egg omelet, a double order of rye toast, orange juice and coffee. A customary white napkin was tucked neatly into his collar by his tie like a bib. Danny was meticulous in his dress and a single speck of food arbitrarily landing on any part of his day attire would be a catastrophic occurrence to him.

  We sat in a booth by the window and watched the hustle and bustle of vehicular and pedestrian traffic. It didn’t matter what hour of the day it was; the maelstrom of midtown was always the same, part of the charm and character of New York City.

  “Sandy bought me two framed prints,” I said. “She said they were copies of priceless original paintings, a Pollock and a Picasso. One looked like a ball of string that had come undone, and the other looked like a blue alien creature with two eyes on one side of its head. She had me hang them on my bedroom wall where she said they would go perfectly with the wall color. I didn’t know what to say to her except, ‘thanks’.”

  Danny dunked a piece of toast in his coffee and smiled. “You need to be more understanding,” he said.

  “I am,” I said, “but I don’t need a blue alien staring down at me whenever I climb into bed at night. And it might put a damper on things when we’re making love.”

  “Turn out the light,” Danny said.

  I scraped the rest of my oatmeal from the bottom of my bowl and downed the rest of my coffee. As I did, I heard Danny’s fork drop on his plate. When I looked, he was staring out the window; his eyes intense on whatever he was searching for.

  “What is it?” I said.

 

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