The Case

by Leopold Borstinski

  Bottom line: Mrs. McCready was stinking rich and when she divorced her husband, she wanted to make sure he didn’t get one stinking dime of her old man’s money.

  We figured this sounded like a fabulous opportunity and suggested that she pay us one hundred dollars a day to follow him around and capture some photographic evidence that could later be relied on in court. Mrs. McCready didn’t blanch at our price and we knew this would take us quite a while, so instead of being a quiet summer, we banked ourselves a winner.

  Thanking Mrs. McCready for having the foresight and confidence to speak with us, Ed shepherded her out the door and we made plans, having secured a week’s money in advance.

  OUR FIRST THOUGHT was to blow the entire bundle, but Cheryl grabbed the greenbacks out of our hands, because she knew we had bills to pay. Besides, we’d blow the whole stack on a horse - and she wanted to get paid every week over the summer. Sensible girl, that Cheryl. I always said I should have married her.

  Now, you might well be forgiven for thinking I’ve spent most of my life following dames around in order to take photos of them in clinches with some lucky randy lad and you’d be pretty much on the money. Most cases most years have been jealous spouses - of either sex. The one thing they all share is they know that the other one is cheating on them, but the only way they can truly believe it is if some schmuck like me uses a camera on the situation.

  Ed took the first shift: Mrs. Gravy-Train had given us her husband’s work address and the location of their home, along with a brief itinerary. Ed started at about six in the evening and the intention was for me to take over six in the morning or so, but after he grabbed his car keys from his desk and his jacket from the back of his chair, I never saw him alive again.

  Instead, just after one, I received a knock on the door. An insistent rat-a-tat that can only originate from a detective’s hand. Bolt upright on my couch, I almost slipped on the Bourbon bottle by my foot as I jumped up and went to open the door.

  “What’s up, officer?”

  “Hi, Jake.” The irony of my question was not lost on the Sergeant standing in front of me. Sean and I had known each other since we were kids and, despite sitting the exams, he had never been promoted to detective - much to the annoyance of himself and, more importantly, his wife.

  “Wanna come in?”

  “Love to, Jake. Love to.”

  Something about his tone made me wake up a little faster than I wanted.

  “Bit early for house calls, Sean?”

  “I know…”

  “So…?”

  “Sit down, Jake.”

  “Oh Jesus. What’s happened? What’s happened to Ed?”

  I figured it had to be Ed, as there were only three people who’d have got Sean to make his way to my troubled neighborhood in the middle of the night: Cheryl, Ed or my ma. Chances were that if it had been Cheryl, Sean’s manner would have been different. If it was my ma, Sean would’ve waited until morning. That left Ed.

  “We found Ed in his car about twenty minutes ago. Dead.”

  I slumped down onto the couch. I had intellectualized it was bad news about Ed, but I was expecting it to be that he was found in the drunk tank somewhere or he’d got into a brawl. Both were frequent occurrences. This was the first time he’d died on me.

  SOME BEAT COP had been walking round his block on the look out for trouble when he noticed a guy asleep in his car. When he got closer, he could see the blood splatter on the windows, glistening in the moonlight. Then he called for backup and found Ed was far from asleep, plugged with what looked like a single shot to the head and multiple shots to the torso. How many? Sean didn’t have the precise number right now, but a lot.

  I went into the bathroom and threw a large amount of water on my face to sober up and hopped into Sean’s blue-and-white to go to the scene.

  When we arrived, police tape was already up and two of Chicago’s finest were holding the crowd at bay. The two guys were stopping the three dog walkers from letting their pooches take a shit all over the evidence. And that was respectful too.

  Ed’s body was in one hell of a mess. Chunks of his brain were still dripping down the inside of the windows and small pieces of torso were splattered over the front and rear passenger seats even though Ed had been shot while behind the wheel. Given the sheer volume of blood, this was definitely the primary scene - no way the car was towed here from some other location while it was in that state.

  I looked at Sean and he looked back at me, eyes trailing to the ground. He shook his head and sloped off to give me some time alone with Ed.

  After a couple of minutes quiet contemplation, I turned round and went over to Sean.

  “You know I have to ask you a few questions.” A statement, not a question in itself.

  “Sure thing. Shoot.” Then I winced at my own unintended joke. Sean winced too.

  “When did you last see Ed?”

  “In our office at around six, maybe six thirty. Cheryl will know. Then he left.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “On a case.”

  “Who’s the client?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that. Look, it was the first day of the case and, before you ask, no, Ed didn’t have any enemies - apart from every single person he put inside when he was a cop and everyone he’s taken a photo of ever since in a marital dispute.”

  Sean just stared at me.

  “Best I can offer you is that if anything turns up in the case that even smells as if it might be to do with Ed, I’ll drop a dime soonest.”

  Sean nodded, aware that was probably the best deal on offer tonight.

  “That only leaves the widow.”

  “Let me take care of that. You can question her some other time, okay?”

  “Sure thing. We’ll be over in the morning shift, so just make sure you do it by then.”

  “I’ll head off now if you’re done with me.”

  “For now, Jake. For now.”

  Sean got one of his boys to drop me back to my pad, so’s I could grab a change of clothes and snatch my car keys from the kitchen table. By the time I reached Ed and Veronica’s, the clock was showing seven - it had been a long night.

  7

  VERONICA OPENED THE door only a few seconds after I pressed the doorbell.

  “Hey you!”

  “Hi, Veronica.”

  “What’re you doing here?”

  “Got some news. Can I come in?”

  “What? Sure.”

  Veronica turned round and I caught the door before it closed on my nose. She sauntered to the living room and I followed her to sit down on their two piece sofa. Veronica sat next to me and placed her hands daintily on her lap. I placed my hands on hers because I knew the next few minutes were going to hurt her a lot.

  “It’s about Ed.”

  “?”

  “He stayed out last night to follow an errant husband and was found shot in his car in the small hours of the morning.”

  “What?”

  “Ed is dead.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “No. No joke. This is real. This is what has happened.”

  “Oh my good god.”

  “Yes.”

  “Stay with me.”

  “Sure thing.”

  I smiled and reached over and hugged Veronica long and hard. We remained that way for minute after minute, both receiving some comfort from each other’s body. Both not wanting to stop as that would mean the world would turn again. But eventually we did.

  The day was filled with mixed emotions - the shock of knowing Ed was no more, hung over me like the shroud that would cover Ed’s face nine days later.

  There was another emotion at play too: absolute and total relief. With Ed gone, I was now the sole owner of Adkins & Schwartz Investigators, our P.I. business, but the relief came from the fact that Veronica and I had been seeing each other every time Ed had taken a night shift for the last eight months. So Ed’s death would certainly
change the dynamic in Veronica’s house.

  I stayed with Veronica for several hours until Ed’s family arrived. I couldn’t face dealing with the Schwartz clan today. Not today of all days. And I couldn’t face being in the same room as Veronica and not be able to touch her. Then I made my excuses and left the house to the sound of Ed’s ma wailing in grief. Just another day in Mrs. Schwartz’s world. She enjoyed wailing like a banshee did Ed’s mama.

  When I got home, I poured myself three fingers of Scotch and drank to the man’s memory, because I knew I’d feel too guilty drinking to his memory in front of his mother or wife at the shiva. I stayed, hiding in my apartment for the rest of the day and then I visited Sean the next day, the Tuesday.

  THE CORONER HAD issued his report but there were no surprises: the bullets which had addled his body were the cause of his death. What the report never said in these circumstances was who pulled the trigger. And that was what I wanted to know. The good news was the initial indication gave the shooter as a single person who Ed had wound down his window for. That means either they were wearing a uniform or they were known to Ed. The fact Ed’s gun was still in its holster beneath his jacket showed he had not tried to defend himself. It had been quick.

  The chances someone was impersonating a cop or a GI were pretty slender, which meant it boiled down to an unknown assailant known by Ed. They got up close and personal, but who would have known he was sitting in a car in a random street in the city. The answer, of course, was no-one, but there was someone who would have easily found him in a random street in a car in the city: Mr. McCready.

  I wasn’t the only one to reach the same conclusion, because by the time I trolleyed over to McCready’s house, he was gone. Sean had picked him up an hour or two earlier and he was answering questions in the station house. Thirty minutes after the interrogation began, it was over. Way before I could get to the station, McCready had confessed to the murder, although his motive was wafer thin.

  According to the transcript of the interview, McCready said he was afraid for his life because he’d seen the same car behind him as he’d driven all around the city. So when he noticed it was parked on the other side of the street from his mistress’ apartment, he thought it might be her husband and went outside to deal with him. He walked over, having taken his gun out of his jacket pocket, and the guy opened his window. Without looking too closely, McCready started blasting away. Only after he’d run out of bullets did he realize he’d shot the wrong guy. Ed was a complete stranger to him.

  And that was the end of Ed.

  THE NEXT QUESTION in my mind was why didn’t Mrs. M mention her husband carried a gun in his jacket pocket - that may well have changed our approach somewhat. I mean, if we’d known he had a rod we’d have used a telephoto lens not a Chevy across the street. Mrs. McCready seemed none too distraught when I visited her that afternoon, given her husband was still waiting a court appearance to get bail. Something at the back of my mind told me Mrs. M might not stump bail for the chump. After all, she wanted to divorce him, he’d been found in another woman’s bedroom and he’d murdered the guy Mrs. M had sent to spy on him. She had a right to be none too pleased.

  When I’d settled down in their library - yes, the mansion was big enough to have a library - Mrs. McCready offered me tea, to which I declined. She shrugged and asked the butler for a pot for one.

  “How are you doing, Mrs. McCready, given all that’s ... happened?”

  “Well, these things are a trial, aren’t they?” she responded with a half smile on her face.

  “Sure are.” I hadn’t quite figured out how to ask her why she set my friend up to be killed by her husband, so I skirted some more until an idea popped into my head.

  “I guess this means your divorce will be easier to come by.”

  “You know, I hadn’t thought about that. But yes, there should be no contest - even if he is acquitted.”

  “I doubt if there’s much chance of that. The bullets that killed Ed - Mr. Schwartz - were a match to his pistol and he’s admitted it, anyway. Open and shut case, if you ask me. He’d need an amazingly sharp lawyer to get him out of this hole.”

  She smiled at me, almost breaking into a laugh.

  “Well I don’t think he has the money for an amazingly sharp lawyer, now does he?”

  “No?” I asked, already knowing the poor schmuck was being left out to dry.

  “Oh no. I couldn’t possibly support a man who was a cold-blooded killer.”

  Now it was my turn to smile.

  “And did you know he packed a pistol when you hired us?”

  “Pistol? Of course not. I wanted some photos of the man in flagrante delicto. I didn’t want anyone to get hurt, let alone murdered.”

  “For sure?”

  “Why yes. The most I imagined happening was that Mr. Schwartz might end up having a conversation with Harvey and that might have been enough to get the matter set straight.”

  While she was clearly a greedy, conniving shrew, somehow I believed she just wanted to protect her family’s money and nothing more. Besides, she had a cute nose. If it wasn’t that her husband was in the slammer and Veronica might well have been warming my bed up for me, I might have made a move.

  But I didn’t. Instead I went home and freshened up. Grabbed some toast and coffee and headed over to the widow, Veronica Schwartz.

  I was pleased to find she was alone: his family had let her be for a day having sucked all the life out of the air in the house since the morning after Ed stopped breathing. Veronica had turned her back on her own ma and pop many years ago and the only support they’d show Veronica would be to tell her: “I told you so”. But they didn’t hear about Ed’s death for another six months or so.

  VERONICA OPENED THE door to me and I walked straight in and hugged her as soon as we had closed the door behind ourselves.

  “Everything’s goin’ to be all right, baby.” I reassured her.

  She dug her arms into my torso just a bit more but said not a word. We stood like that for two, maybe five, minutes and then I broke the hold we had on each other and sauntered into the living room and sat down on an easy chair. Veronica padded over to the drinks cabinet and poured me a stiff one. Then she sat down near me on the leather sofa.

  “What am I going to do, Jake?”

  “About what in particular?” With such an open question, I couldn’t guess if she was thinking about the choice of coffin or what would happen between me and her. The latter I didn’t want to deal with right now and the former I had no idea about - I’d never organized a Jewish funeral before.

  “About Ed?”

  “Um, I don’t quite know what you mean. What do you need to do about Ed?”

  “Why, bury him of course.”

  Inside, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. She just had no idea what to do about the arrangements.

  “I can help you choose a coffin, if you like?”

  “What for? Coffin? What’s there to choose? A box is a box. I mean, the police say they won’t be releasing the body for another week at least and I need to get that man underground much sooner than that.”

  After much more conversation, it turned out that my ignorance of Jewish funerals was at the heart of my confusion. A Jew should be buried within twenty-four hours and certainly shouldn’t be hanging round a morgue for a week or two, merely because the paperwork hadn’t been put in place right by a Gentile coroner. And, for the record, everyone gets buried in a plain coffin - nothing fancy like those Catholics.

  The next few days went very slowly; each day drawing out its dying breath from the moment the sun rose to the point when it was no longer visible on the horizon. I tried to spend as much of my waking hours with Veronica either in her bed, in her arms or just in her presence. I wasn’t used to seeing her outside her house as we had spent the time we had together hiding in her bedroom. Now, we could go anywhere and be seen in any place because she was the grieving widow and I was the consoling business partner.


  Funny thing was the more time we spent together, the more we got on each other’s nerves. Without the safety umbrella of a secret affair, we didn’t really appear to have too much in common or have much tolerance of the other’s point of view. Now, it could just have been the grief speaking, but the truth was that neither of us were exactly grieving. If we didn’t like him enough when he was alive to keep our hands of his personal or business partner, there wasn’t much chance we’d like him enough to cry about his death after he was gone.

  The day after we’d buried him, Veronica told me she was going to sell up and move to California. The life policy Ed had paid into ever since he’d started sleuthing would give her a very comfortable nest egg and she couldn’t think of anything to keep her in Chicago and she was right. Spending time in a sunny climate sounded a much better prospect than spending time with me. And we both knew it.

  Two months later, Veronica moved and shipped out to the west coast. I stayed in the Windy City. The best time I ever had with her was the day I told her Ed was gone. We spent the entire afternoon and most of the night in bed together, talking and making love as though the weight of the world wasn’t on our shoulders. And it certainly wasn’t on Veronica’s.

  PART FOUR

  NEW YORK 1962

  8

  HEADING DOWN THE steps of the plane, with Simone Lambretti waiting at the bottom to greet me, was one of the more stressful moments of my life. But there have been moments of tension every time the iron hand of Don Michael has waved in the shadows.

  A year after I met the Don, a formally dressed gentleman entered my offices and asked for an appointment. His three piece suit shrieked out foreigner and my guess was correct: he had one of the funniest English accents you’ve ever heard in your life, like an alto version of Queen Elizabeth herself. All clipped vowels and straight back. When he eventually died, I reckon they found a broom handle stuck up the dude’s ass, if you get what I mean.