Applaud the Hollow Ghost (7 page)

Finally, I took my mail with me and sorted it while I drove to meet Casey. There wasn't much to sort. The few throwaways I threw away, into a box in the backseat. What was left was a fat envelope from Renata Carroway. Copies of the police reports from Lammy's arrest. There were maybe ten pages, some handwritten, some typed, plus another packet of typed transcripts of statements taken from Trish. I couldn't read it all and drive, too, so they'd have to wait.

Lammy's street had been plowed, and the alley, too. It was, after all, the precinct captain's block. But I knew there'd be no place to park, which there wasn't, and which was why I was meeting Casey at a restaurant with a parking lot.

We left the Cavalier there and walked. I had Lammy's keys and we went down the alley and into the backyard. Casey's only luggage was a duffle bag the size of Rhode Island, but it looked small with him carrying it. He's taller, broader, and a whole lot meaner-looking than I am, even though his disposition is five times more pleasant. He may have the vocabulary of a sailor's parrot, but he's seldom sarcastic and never insulting.

At the bottom of the enclosed back stairs, he set the lumpy bag down, obviously meaning to switch hands before climbing the stairs.

“It shouldn't be more than a week,” I said. “What have you got in there?”

“See if you can guess. Pick it up.”

So I did.

But not for long. “Bricks,” I said, dropping the bag back onto the concrete. “I told you we've been guaranteed no trouble, at least till after the trial. You won't have to wall yourselves in.”

He laughed. “Not bricks.” He lifted the duffle bag again and followed me up the stairs. “Books. I'm way behind in my reading. Plus some clothes, a one-ounce bottle of wine and my chalice in case I wanna say Mass, a few boxes of fig bars, and a couple of six-packs of Pepsi.”

“All the basics.”

We let ourselves in the back door. The apartment had a kitchen, a living room, one bathroom, and three small bedrooms. One bedroom was obviously Lammy's, one his mother's, and the third was made into a TV room. Even in a second-floor walkup, no one ever lives in the living room.

Casey tossed his duffle bag onto the sofa in the TV room. Maybe it was a test, because when the sofa didn't collapse he announced, “This is my campsite,” and moved the bag to the floor.

Out in the kitchen, we popped open two Pepsis and sat at a white wooden table.

“So,” I said, “they're discharging Lammy tomorrow. I'll pick him up and bring him here. Like I said, I got a guarantee I'm sure is genuine. No trouble. You guys can go to the store, whatever. But don't let him out of your sight. One hint of anything, one nasty phone call, you call me and you're both outta here.”

“Fine. But didn't you say Lammy has a job?”

“I'm on my way there. See if I can get them to give him sick days or a vacation or something. No way he could work, even if he wasn't all beat up.” I drained my Pepsi and stood up. “You don't mind? Helping out an accused child molester? I mean, I don't think he did it, but—”

He held up his hand and I stopped talking. “Look at me, Mal.” I did. His voice had a serious, almost angry tone. “You're looking at a bona fide, goddamn drunk. Sober as the Pope, these days. Trying to be a good priest, too. But a goddamn alcoholic all the same. And I could turn back into the same disgusting, stinking lout I was any day of the week. All I gotta do is fall one time.” He crushed the can in his hand. It wasn't empty and Pepsi spurted all over the table. “Sure. I hope this guy didn't do it. On the other hand, whether he did it or not I'm gonna do what I can to see he gets a fair shake. Not 'cause I think he's innocent or not. I mean, who
is
innocent, for chrissake? But 'cause he's a goddamn human being.” All of a sudden he stopped, looked embarrassed, then grinned. “And that, dear congregation, is the end of today's sermon.”

The refrigerator was pretty bare and Casey said he'd make a list and then go to the grocery store. “Maybe I'll fix my famous meat loaf for supper tonight,” he said.

I went downstairs and walked back to the restaurant. It was snowing by the time I drove out of the parking lot and headed for the City-North Canine Shelter. I drove carefully, partly because the streets were slick and partly because I had no interest in shaking off the blue Ford for the second time in one day.

It had been there since I left the coach house for my meeting with Casey. Of course I had Gus Apprezziano's word. But that guaranteed Lammy's safety, not mine. Besides, who said the two men in the Ford were friends of Gus?

CHAPTER
9

T
HE MANAGER WASN'T THERE
, but three employees of the City-North Canine Shelter all claimed they used to like Lammy. He'd been a maintenance worker there for years and none of them knew anything about his family, whether he had friends, or what else he did with his life. He was “real quiet” and “kinda backward,” but “not stupid.” He was especially smart about dogs, “like he has a gift for it.” In fact, it seemed as though he liked dogs more than people, and—even if it wasn't part of his job—he could always calm them down when they barked or even growled at visiting children when they screeched and squealed too much and made the dogs nervous and aggressive.

Lammy was polite, did his work, and hardly ever talked to anyone. Yes, they used to like Lammy, sort of. But not any longer.

They'd hardly believed it when they saw it in the papers and on TV. But then the investigators from the state's attorney's office arrived, and they were shocked to find out it was all true. This guy who flushed the crap out of the dogs' cages and mopped the floors was in fact a pervert, a sexual deviate who preyed on little girls. They'd been urged to search their memories for times when he'd acted strange, “you know, like connected with sex.” They hadn't come up with anything, except that time when this little runt of a terrier that had supposedly been neutered kept trying to hump all the female dogs, no matter how big they were, and Lammy had thought that was funny. Of course, everyone else thought so, too. But …

At first no one recalled ever seeing Lammy touch any child. But when the investigators kept pressing, someone thought of the time this little black girl had come to pick up her dog that had run away and it turned out not to be her dog at all. She cried and cried and Lammy was there and she grabbed at him and he hugged her, and he seemed to have “a kind of a weird look on his face.”

They figured they should have suspected something, but their surprise soon turned to anger. In fact, they were infuriated. How could someone they knew do such a terrible thing?

“Maybe,” I suggested, “he didn't do it after all.”

“Yeah, sure,” one of them said, and all three suddenly stared at me as though I were from an alien galaxy. “And maybe the police just arrested him 'cause it was a slow day, huh?”

“And why'd the prosecutor charge him if there wasn't evidence?” another said. “Where there's smoke there's fire.”

“You gotta be a little sick yourself, you think a little girl's gonna lie about something like that.”

Three decent people. Not mean, or evil. Their working days were spent sheltering strays. And they all agreed. They sure didn't want creeps like Lammy working around them, by God.

And they didn't care much for me, either, if I thought vicious animals didn't belong in cages. Besides, the state's attorney's people said they didn't have to talk to Lammy's lawyer, or anyone working for his lawyer, if they didn't want to.

“I understand that,” I said. “And thanks for your time.” I'd overstayed my welcome. A habit of mine.

“It's those darn lawyers, you know. They're the problem. And people like you, who work for lawyers. You'll all do anything for money.”

“And don't forget the judges, too, who just keep letting these sickos back out on the streets, no matter what they do. Victims got rights, too, you know?”

I decided not to wait around and ask the manager to give Lammy a paid leave of absence.

*   *   *

N
O STATE'S ATTORNEY'S INVESTIGATORS
had shown up at the branch library in Lammy's neighborhood, according to the kindly, silver-haired woman I spoke to. But if they had, they'd have learned that Lammy was a painfully shy patron who came in once every few weeks. Sometimes he'd browse for a while among the shelves at the small facility.

“But he never
loitered,
” she said, frowning at the mere mention of the word, as though loitering were an especially vexing problem. “Most often, he just comes straight to the desk and asks us to order books from downtown for him.”

“What sort of books does he read?” I asked, and immediately, nearly as visible as if it were made of concrete blocks and not of librarians' ethics, a wall rose up between us.

“I'm afraid, sir, we don't keep records of what our patrons read.”

“Yes, but if he so frequently asks you to order books, you must remember—”

“If I did remember, I surely wouldn't tell you. The library is here to serve its patrons. We respect people's rights to read whatever they choose. It's not our business to care what patrons read, nor to keep track of it, nor to inform others about it.”

“I couldn't agree more,” I said. “It's right there in Article Three of the American Library Association Code of Ethics.” That seemed to make a favorable impression, and I was glad I'd looked it up. “So, anything else? Was he ever any problem at all? Like, I don't know, staring at people, bothering kids, anything like that?”

“Nothing. Not one hint of anything.” Her manner eased a bit. “I wish I could be of more help, but…”

“Thanks for your time.” I turned to go, then turned back. “As a matter of principle, you know, I'm happy you won't tell me what library patrons read. On the other hand, though, I don't think Lambert Fleming did this awful thing he's charged with.” Her face softened even more. “But he told me what he likes to read, and I really need to verify things he's told me, so I can know that he's being truthful, that I'm not kidding myself.”

“I understand,” she said, “but—” Just then the door burst open and a gaggle of chattering eight-year-olds burst in. “Oh, the Cub Scouts are here. I really have to go…” She closed her eyes momentarily, as though thinking, then reached down and, from somewhere below the counter, brought out two large books. She set them on the counter, then abruptly turned and marched off toward the noisy newcomers.

I thought of all the ingenious lies I've told to get information from people who've refused it, rightly or wrongly. This time I'd told the flat-out truth, and still got exactly what I was looking for. Was this an effective new technique, or just a fluke?

Anyway, stuck under a thick rubber band that held the two books together, there was a yellow slip of paper. The handwriting on the paper said “Hold: Fleming, L.” I twisted my head to read the titles on the book spines:
Twenty Centuries of Armed Conflict
and
The Seven Greatest Battles of WWII.

Near the door, the librarian was bent over, struggling to get a snow-drenched hooded coat removed from a hyperactive little boy who was grabbing at a book in another boy's clutches, a book with Michael Jordan flying across the cover. “Patience, Corey,” she said, laughing. “This is a library. There are lots of other sports books.”

“So that's what he's interested in?” I asked.

“Oh!” I'd startled her and she stood upright suddenly, which left her holding a miniature parka in her hands, as its former occupant shot across the room toward a display of sports magazines. She smiled at the little boy, and then at me. “Yes. Very limited interests. But,” she added, “he's a good boy. I'd bet on that.”

We both knew she wasn't talking about little Corey.

We exchanged good-byes and I started for the door, thinking maybe I should call it a day and go sample some of Casey's meat loaf. But there was one thing irritating me.

So far that day I'd been to church, to Dr. Sato's, and back home to the coach house. From there it was on to the restaurant to meet Casey, then to Lammy's place, to the animal shelter, and finally to the library. And, with the exception of Dr. Sato's dojo, I'd had a tail everywhere I went. It was getting dark outside, and snowing again, and the two men in the blue Ford were getting on my nerves.

Ah, well, maybe it was time I got on theirs.

CHAPTER
10

T
HERE HAD TO BE
a rear exit from the library, and I found it.

Given the lousy weather, it was likely my baby-sitters wouldn't be sitting more than about a block behind the Cavalier, facing the same direction—east. I went into the alley behind the library and headed west. A block and a half later, I left the alley and turned right, then right again at the liquor store on the corner, and came out half a block behind the Ford.

I used a pay phone inside the liquor store.

“Body shop,” the man answered.

“Put Caesar on. Tell him it's Mal Foley and it's an emergency.”

Caesar Scallopino's an ex-client who'd been finishing up the MBA program at Northwestern's Kellogg School of Management, and getting recruited like crazy, when his dad died at the age of fifty and left a business with eight employees. His mom thought Caesar should take it over for a while so all those people wouldn't be suddenly out of work. That was fifteen years ago. These days, Caesar invents industry-specific financial management software for small businesses, still runs the family body shop near Western and Touhy, and manages to be one of the happiest human beings on the planet.

Plus, he hardly ever asks me why I do the goofy things I do.