Dark Blonde (8 page)

Rick left his rusty Ghia at the Gateswood estate and we rode together straight to Gail’s bungalow.

“They came up empty on the estate grounds,” Rick said. “At least nothing obvious. They’ll fine toothcomb and dust for prints in the guesthouse, though it’s my opinion they won’t find any prints but family and staff. Whoever placed the body took almost theatrical pains.”

“Someone went to a lot of trouble, just to haul the body to the estate. Someone who wanted awfully bad to embarrass the congressman. Can’t think of any other reason. What’d Burk take you aside for when we came out?”

“He wanted me to know that he couldn’t be seen collaborating with me with Gerard snooping around, but that he’d appreciate any tips or insights I had to the murder. I filled him in on the Sophocles marker. He majored in mathematics, acquainted more with Euclid than Sophocles. Burk’s caseload’s been pretty heavy. He thinks Gerard will micromanage this one and wasn’t too happy about it.”

“Gerard’s a rabid Pekinese when there’s a chance to get his picture in the paper. I don’t care too much for Burk either.”

“Burk’s a good cop. You should try to keep from irritating him.”

“For your sake, I’ll try not to pee on his shoes.”

“I got the information on the Japanese groundskeeper and the casino where Gail worked briefly as a hostess. I’ll check those both out later.”

We pulled up to Gail’s bungalow. The police hadn’t been there yet. Inquisitive little Elmore’s three-wheeler still blocked the walk but the mad questioner was nowhere in sight, a good thing because I didn’t have any more answers to unanswerable questions. Mostly I had questions: Who slugged me? If I’d interrupted his little treasure hunt, what was left to tear apart? What was the object of the ransack? Was it still inside the bungalow? Had the slugger returned?

Inside the house looked the same. A housekeeper’s nightmare.

“Show me where you were sapped. We can see what was left undone from there. I assume when you entered the house you heard nothing?”

“Quiet as a closed library.”

A rustling sound came from the back bedroom. Rick drew his .32 automatic just as a sparrow flitted out of the bedroom and dive-bombed us, perching on the living room curtain rod and letting us know he didn’t appreciate sharing the place with private investigators.

“A little bird told me,” Rick said, holstering his .32.

“That punched out door pane makes the place one giant birdhouse party for his friends.”

Rick spotted something over by the fireplace and took a thick maroon book off the top of the pile. Greek Tragedies. The inside of the book had been cut out, creating a hiding place large enough for a revolver. Rick sniffed the opening, raised his eyebrows and said: “Mary Jane. This is where she kept her stash. I gather this text wasn’t extra credit.”

Rick passed the book to me and moved a few more books around. I stuck my nose in to verify the odor: “Even a hop-head wouldn’t go to all this trouble for a few ounces of weed. Whatever our hit and run thug was looking for, this wasn’t it.”

“Or he would have stopped with this room.”

“Maybe I’m learning from you?”

We moved into the kitchen and I showed Rick where the sap had made acquaintance with my skull. There was space enough for a woman or a thin guy to stand between the refrigerator and the back door. It was a deep recess allowing someone to hide in shadows. I felt stupid.

“So this is where he got you. Could have been a woman or a rail-thin man. Stand where you got hit and I’ll squeeze in.”

I stood with my left side to the refrigerator and leaned over reaching for the door. There had been some pans and trays in the floor and I’d leaned for the doorknob.

“Judging from your position, the lump on your head, the sap would have come down in an arc, like this.”

“Not sidearm? And no woman could have hit me that hard.”

Rick showed me the motion a few times. “Not sidearm. Unless he stepped fully out into the kitchen he couldn’t have done it. Overhand and down, right handed, and a man about my height, no more than six feet. You probably fell slightly forward in the direction of your lean against that wall. The blow would have pushed you maybe a foot or more. Did your head strike the wall?”

“I was too busy looking at constellations. Now that you mention it there is a bit of tenderness on my crown. With the gorilla inside my lump it wasn’t something I registered.”

“So let’s assume that the intruder worked his way from the living room through the backrooms, bathroom and into the kitchen when he heard you on the walk. Footsteps there echo off the adjoining apartments. Or possibly he heard you at the door using your key. He would have had enough time to crouch in there. Leaving through the back door meant a good chance he’d be heard, plus whatever he wanted was significant enough to wait to see if you’d leave. When you came into the kitchen, he slugged you and probably went back out through the front. Judging from the looks of things, I’d say he’d looked everywhere.”

“Why not just use the back door?”

“If you hadn’t noticed it’s locked and the old type skeleton key’s on a hook over the sink, plus the pans are still strewn in front of the door.” Rick retrieved the key and unlocked the door. The house was set so deep on the lot there was no back yard, just a breezeway that led to an alley intersecting the block. There was a parking pad but no garage.

“I knew I made you junior partner for some reason.”

We picked our way back into the bathroom and bedroom. Nothing had been disturbed except for some newer bird droppings around the sink.

Rick picked up a few of the empty prescription bottles. “You’re right about the girl having quite a drug store. Only a few of these have labels, so the rest must have been provided by her social set. Doctor Lorimor’s the only name here, mild narcotics for sleep, nerves. A pretty high dosage and pill count. Questionable.” He slipped the empties into his inside pocket.

“Give the good doctor a call? Ask him why we shouldn’t consult the local medical practices board?”

Rick nodded. I followed him back into the living room where we poked through more books. No cut out insides to any of them. I could see the wheels turning in Rick’s head. He returned to the kitchen and began opening cabinets. All of them had been emptied, contents strewn across the counters and floor. In one corner of the kitchen opposite the back door stood a foot-square tall table with a drawer, the kind of table used for a telephone, with a low shelf near the floor joining the legs. The drawer was open but hadn’t been emptied. There were a few blank tablets and pencils in the drawer and some hairpins. Nothing else. Rick pulled the drawer out and dumped the contents. From the bottom of the drawer, under a strip of duct tape, came a glittering key with a blue plastic top.

“The last place he hadn’t looked,” I said. “A locker key. Bus depot maybe. Number B312.”

“O’Hare.”

“You can look at this and tell me it’s the airport? How do you know it’s not a bus or train locker?”

“They’re black topped. This one’s blue. I saw those lockers on my prodigal return to New Jersey this past week. B312 — most likely concourse B.”

It was dark now and much colder. The wind was picking up moisture off the lake, cutting through overcoats, just practicing for another exciting Chicago game called “winter survival.”

We headed west on Englewood and stopped at the red light on the next corner. In my rear view mirror I spotted Burk’s unmarked Chevy pull up in front of Gail’s. I don’t think he made me, because they got out and went directly down the front walk to her place without looking down the street. On the opposite side of the street and up one house, a white Pontiac with two big heads topped with hats, tipped over the eyes, like they were staking out Gail’s house. They weren’t cops because they moved out into traffic when Burk and his broomstick arrived. They stayed two blocks behind us and pushed a yellow light to keep up.

They have bad intentions, son. Shake them if you can.

I silently thanked Dad.

“Two hats following in a white Pontiac sedan. Small pair of binoculars in the glove box. See if you can get a license number. I’ll slow down suddenly.”

I downshifted after barreling through the next green light, so as not to show my brake lights. The Pontiac closed the distance to about a block before slowing. Rick faced front. “Got it. I’ll check the plate with my contact at motor vehicles. Are we headed to O’Hare?”

“After we shake our shadows. No sense in letting them think we found anything. I’ll let them think we’re headed home. We can easily shake them near your place.”

I turned north on Cicero and held just under the speed limit until we got to Lawndale and 26th. Then I poured on the gas and made two quick rights, tires squealing. I cut through an alleyway, squeezing past a garbage truck that pulled out behind me, blocking the way. I came out next to Isolation Hospital, traveling a block the wrong way down a one-way street then backtracked to Cicero heading south. Rick gripped the armrest and nearly bit through his pipe. Our friends were probably still cursing at Rocco & Son’s Hauling. There’s one job you have to have the utmost respect for. The Pontiac would have to back up a half block and go around, then guess which way we turned out of the alley.

“Isolation Hospital, how very appropriate. Nice driving. Remind me to get my Blue Cross paid up.”

Concourse B was full of Shriners leaving a convention. There were more tassels than a strip show and every one of the sloshed old boys hadn’t missed a meal. Chicago’s a great convention city — bored middle aged men can find just about anything they want; some get laid for the first time in a decade, some get bruised up and rolled, many get pounding hangovers and wonder what happened to their wallet, and each year a few wind up in a gutter with their throats cut. Big cities offer all sorts of vice and amusement and plenty of fodder for the newspapers. Chicago isn’t lacking in those departments.

We found B312 and kept walking around the concourse. Rick got us coffee and a newspaper and an oversized carry-on bag with a Chicago Bears logo, so we could look like two private detectives who were also football fans watching to see if anyone was waiting for the liberator of locker B312. I stuffed Rick’s raincoat in the bag. We sat against the wall 100 feet from the locker. Rick poked a hole in the front page and held the paper up in front of him. I resisted a gag line.

I loosened my tie, fed myself a Lucky, and watched people coming and going in all directions. A detective’s job is a strange way to make a living. You develop a sense about anyone in a few seconds of watching them move, talk, gesture, the way they sit or stand. You catalog each one against what you know about human nature. Most of the time you can tell a lot by watching a person in a public place — are they confident or lost, in a hurry or nervous for some other reason; do they travel often or is this the first time they’ve had the courage to fly; and most important, are they staking out a location or are they just killing time between flights. I was pretty good at sizing up people, but there are always a few who surprise me.

A redheaded mother with nice legs, no wedding band and a tired smile refereed two small towheaded boys, one with a Cubs hat and the other White Sox. The younger kid with the Cubs hat seemed to be losing. Just like real life. I thought about suggesting to her that she switch caps, just to even things out.

An ancient couple with wispy hair and canes were noisily sawing wood, her head on his shoulder, his beak sharp and upturned like he smelled rain. They sat directly across from the wall of lockers. Most of the others milling about were passing through, or in and out of restrooms. A few were buying magazines and candy from a stand at the far end of the room, next to the entrance to concourse C.

I nudged Rick. “The man at the far end of the room against that magazine rack and the broomstick sitting at the end of the row with those gray-hairs. They both buy their duds at the same cheap rack. They want to project a tough image with those extra shoulder pads. Can you see them through that hole? You know you poked a hole through a picture of Gerard’s cheesy puss? He wouldn’t like that.”

A boarding announcement echoed over the marble floors for Delta flight 389 to New Orleans. A few heads went up, fewer went down again. The redhead blocked a right cross from the Sox kid aimed at the Cubs cap and hauled both darlings toward the gate.

The cheap suit at the magazine rack put down the trashy yellow paperback he’d been breathing on, picked up a battered brief case and strode off toward boarding.

The thin bird perched at the end of the row with the matching wrinkled outfit looked around, lit up a coffin nail, and stretched a scuffed pair of brogues out in front of him. He kept looking up and down the concourse jittery like. He had slicked back black hair and darting eyes. No chin. Spindly ankles stuck out of brogues big enough to be ocean-going barges.

The coffee was too hot but good. I took a flask from my inside pocked and cooled it some, then enjoyed a long drink. “Maybe there was a sale at Robert Hall’s. We have one cheap suit left. He looks like another private dick — you know the type, sallow complexion, mean to small animals, bored, a complete turn-off to dames.”

“You’d know if anyone would. I’ve only been your crime-fighting partner a few months. I don’t see anyone else that might be interested. Care to make a casual approach to the locker in question? See if he flinches?”

“You’ve had too many graduate classes. You don’t even talk like a cop anymore. How do you expect to make a decent PI? I take all the risks while you’re the career cop with 29 years behind you?”

“How do you think I lasted that long, sonny?”

“Alright — here’s how we’ll handle it. I’ll walk around some and sit down a seat away from the guy. When I do, you get up and go to the locker. If the guy makes a move, I’ll be right behind him.”

I got up and stretched. The guy was looking the other way. I headed back to the entrance of concourse B and then doubled back, following the row of seats behind the guy. He’d had his nose broken and whoever set it must have been cross-eyed but it didn’t do much to detract from the guy’s looks. He’d have been plenty ugly with a perfect Roman nose. He had a post office bulletin board face. His hands were boiled turnips. His temples sunk like an old man’s but he was no more than 40. His face was 20 miles of potholed road. Rosacea crept up his neck and jaw. He flipped his half finished butt on the floor and watched it smolder. He had interesting ideas of entertainment.

I switched my .45 to my right overcoat pocket and walked around. I took a seat two away from his. He didn’t look up. An early boarding call came for a flight to Miami, and the two grandparents stood stiffly, stretching but still half bent over. They shuffled past in front of us. Rick folded his paper, picked up the Bears bag and walked directly to the locker. The ugly guy came to life like someone had stuck a cattle prod up his ass. He jerked forward in his seat and I caught a glimpse of a bulge under his right arm. With his scrawny torso a pocket comb would have made a bulge.

Rick must have noticed the oldster’s snail-like progress because he continued on down the row of lockers and fished in his pocket like he’d lost the key. He was buying enough time for the grandparents to clear the path between Mr. Hamburger Neck and him. When Rick passed the locker and tried his key on one further on, the ugly guy sat back, pulled out a rumpled pack of Pall Malls and dug the last one out, tossing the crumpled pack on the floor next to the smoldering butt. I’d hate to camp in the same woods with this idiot.

The cold grip of my .45 was reassuring. I had at least 40 or 50 pounds on this goon, and he looked like he’d blow away in a good wind. He took out one of those Gold Medallion pulps with a half-dressed dame on the cover and bent his unrepentant nose into it.

I never knew how slow an old couple with canes could be until those frail members of the human race got to the gate. By the time they reached check-in, a second boarding call came.

Rick turned and walked back down the row of lockers, and quickly stuck the key in one that opened. Ichabod flailed upright and dropped the trashy book on the floor next to the cigarette wrapper that smoldered on the row of ash from the cigarette butt. If the hot stuff touched the paperback it wouldn’t waste time smoldering. The cheaper and trashier a book, the quicker it burns. Must have something to do with inflammatory prose.

The guy started forward quickly and I came up behind him even quicker. The barrel of my .45 inside my pocket jabbed into the guy’s ribcage. Hard sinew. He made a startled little grunt high pitched for a grunt, like a woman might make. He screwed his head back to see me.

“Pick it up, pimplehead. You wouldn’t want to start a fire in here, would you?”

He bent slowly and came back up. I took the book out of his hands. Jailhouse Sluts. It figured. I tossed the book on the seat for the next pervert.

He tried to face me but I stuck the barrel in hard and said “uh-unh. Face front. Walk easy and slow, nothing jerky, hands in front of you. We’re going in that men’s room over there next to the gate. A .45 slug can put quite a hole in a guy. For a twig like you there wouldn’t be enough left to hang your belt around. Now move and don’t reach for your weapon unless you want to breathe out of your liver.”

The stalls were empty except one at the far end. Two teenaged punks and a businessman were using the sinks. I stuffed the mug into the stall, shut the door and pulled his coat down over his arms like a peeled banana. I yanked out his gun, an air-weight shortnose .38. In the other pocket was an old time blackjack, likely the same one that’d sapped me.

The guy was the right height and frame. Hatred danced in his eyes. Spittle hung in the corner of his mouth. He reeked of BlackJack gum, Wildroot and B.O. I raised a knee into his groin. He doubled over. With a knee on his back pushing his cadaverous face down into the toilet I flushed it next to his nose and stuck the cold barrel of my .45 next to his carotid artery. I ripped out his wallet, flipping through it with one hand. Harry Stutt, private investigator’s card from Kansas City, but no firearms ticket. Nearly a hundred in cash.

“Private dick, eh, Harry? They let you run around with no weapons permit down in Missouri?”

He grunted. I pushed his face into the water, kick-flushed the crapper and kept the pressure with my knee between his shoulder blades. When I let up a little he came up sputtering and cursing, saying his permit had expired and he’d left it behind. The teenagers hollered and yakked but were smart enough to mind their own business and went out. Urinals on the far wall flushed. Shoes shuffled next to the stall and out.

“Unless you want me to keep your ugly puss under for a few flushes, tell me who hired you and why you staked the locker.”

“None of your — ”

Flush flush flush. “What’d you say, Harry? I’m having a hard time hearing. You hear this? I cocked the .45.”

“Okay, bud. You’ve got me this time. Attorney hired me.”

“He have a name?”

“Brockway. Kermit Brockway.”

“He hired you to stake out the locker? Give me the rest.”

“I was to follow the Gorovoy woman around for two weeks. See who she hung with, where she went.” More sputtering. “That’s it.”

“So why the locker if you’re supposed to be tailing Gail Gorovoy? I suppose you’ve read the papers?”

“I seen them. When I turned in what I had to Brockway he ordered me to nab whoever came for the locker contents and bring them to him. Gave me cash in advance. I needed the work.”

“How’d he know about the locker?”

“It was in my report. She put a briefcase in the locker four days ago.”

“And you tore her place up looking for the key. You seem to exhibit a total lack of respect for the property of others. Who’d she hang around with?”

He stiffened and spit into the bowl but he didn’t deny being at Gail’s bungalow. “Come on bub, you’re killing my back. I can’t give you any more. Not if I want to keep breathing.”

The knot on my head was still sending pain messages down my spine. It would have been so easy to squeeze off one round and cure this guy’s acne for good. Flush flush flush. I’d have to be satisfied with a little water torture.

“Maybe the cops’d like to talk to you about Gorovoy’s murder, about Brockway and how he ties in. Maybe I should haul you downtown, let Burk and his boys work you over some. Without that weapons ticket you’d lose your employment quick. Gerard’s got pull with the licensing board. Even in Missouri.”