Don't Die Under the Apple Tree (6 page)

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Authors: Amy Patricia Meade

BOOK: Don't Die Under the Apple Tree
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Rosie's face registered surprise, but she quickly plastered on a gracious smile. “Thank you, Lieutenant. See what I mean? Absentminded.”
Riordan folded his arms across his chest and grinned as Rosie Keefe swung through the wooden ladies'-room door. “Uh-huh.”
Chapter Six
After a few minutes had elapsed, Riordan watched as Rose Doyle Keefe exited the ladies' room and, with an icy “Good-bye,” made her leave of Pushey Shipyard and stepped onto the cobblestone path beyond. The heavy metal doors creaked slowly shut behind her, blocking out the brilliant spring sunshine and leaving the stark, artificial light of the holding area to create a surreal and foreboding chiaroscuro landscape.
Riordan extracted a pack of Lucky Strikes and a book of matches from his inside jacket pocket. Placing one of the cigarettes between his lips, he fumbled with, and subsequently extinguished, two different matches before managing to get the tip of the slender white cylinder to glow red.
Flicking the third extinguished match onto the concrete floor of the holding area, Riordan took a long drag and wondered if he shouldn't give up smoking altogether. There was a time, just a few short months ago, when he had found the habit most enjoyable. There was, of course, still pleasure to be derived from the tobacco itself: the aroma, the flavor, the slight burn of that initial swirl of smoke as it reached the back of his throat. However, the ritual that led to that memorable puff—opening a stainless steel case to reveal an array of artfully arranged cigarettes, selecting one, and then igniting it with a shiny naphtha lighter—had been abandoned. One of the first casualties of the war.
Urged by the United States government to conserve and salvage strategic materials for use by the military, Riordan had surrendered both his cigarette case (a gift from his former fiancée) and lighter (a gift for fifteen years of police service) at a scrap metal drive in early March. Like other dutiful Americans, Riordan did not begrudge the sacrifice; indeed, he was sorry that, at age forty-three, he was considered too old to fight. Still, doing what he could for the cause didn't mean that part of him didn't mourn the loss of what was such a simple, daily pleasure.
And so, just a few days after the scrap drive, he set about devising a new ritual. Inspired by a George Raft film, the newly lighter-free Riordan tried his hand at striking a match against the heel of his shoe and then using it to ignite his cigarette. After several failed attempts, he discovered that the trick didn't work with the pocket-friendly safety matches found in diners and restaurants, but instead required old-fashioned wooden friction matches. Known as “Lucifers” by the local kids, friction matches earned their name from the fact that they exploded violently and often unexpectedly, which made them particularly dangerous when carried in one's coat pocket, and even more hazardous when carried in the pocket of someone also toting a firearm.
However, even if Riordan was willing to risk both hands and digits, the match-and-shoe trick was impractical for city living. Whereas George Raft had as much camera time as needed to stop, reach down, and light his cigarette, Riordan often found himself being hurried along a busy city street. Stopping to balance himself on one foot, if even for a second, would impede the flow of foot traffic and would result in him being knocked over by the passing crowd.
And so, having relinquished the idea of establishing a new smoking ritual, the lieutenant reluctantly accepted that the world around him was rapidly transforming from one with little money and lots of time, to one where every minute and every dime was spent on making war. It was a world where practicality came before tradition and style, a world of matches, not lighters. A world where a gentleman presented a lady, not with an open cigarette case, but an open pack of Lucky Strikes
.
And even that wasn't the classically styled, handsomely familiar pack of Lucky Strikes to which he had grown accustomed, but the drab white “gone to war” variety, since the ink used in the signature green and gold packaging was laden with chromium and copper, which could be put to better use in shell casings.
Riordan snuffed the partially smoked cigarette in a nearby ash stand and walked to the rear doors of the building. Upon poking his head out, he was greeted with the whirs and bangs of rivet guns and hammers. “Remind Mr. Del Vecchio that I'm still waiting to speak with him,” he shouted to the officer standing guard outside Finch's office.
The uniformed officer nodded and Riordan, eager to return to the relative quiet of the holding room, swiftly shut the sound-muffling solid steel door. Alone with his thoughts, he reflected upon his conversation with Rosie Keefe. The chance encounter had answered few questions, but it had done much to solidify his belief in the woman's innocence.
First, there was her bid to be rehired. If Mrs. Keefe was guilty of Finch's murder, it was unlikely that she'd return to the scene of the crime. One might suggest that she sought to interfere with the police investigation. But, in Riordan's experience, such schemes were strictly the stuff of books and films. In real life, all but the coldest killers had an aversion to revisiting the crime scene. Even if they managed to overcome their feelings of disgust, they would find that tampering with evidence was extremely difficult, if not impossible. Upon arriving at a crime scene, law enforcement officers immediately cordoned off the area and set about collecting physical evidence; anything “discovered” after the initial search was treated with a good deal of skepticism.
Second, Rosie Keefe didn't, in Riordan's mind, quite fit the profile of the killer. Physically, she was petite—five foot four at best—with slender wrists and a narrow waist. Her ability to land a stapler on Finch's temple was the combined result of Keefe's need to escape and Finch being caught off guard.
The scene later that day would have been much different. After lying in wait for hours, Keefe might have still been angry and seeking vengeance, but she would have been operating under far less adrenaline than she had been during her initial confrontation with Finch. As for Finch, he might not have anticipated retaliation from Keefe herself, but he still would have practiced caution during the walk home, just in case an angry brother, husband, or boyfriend was waiting for him at the end of his shift.
Taking into account the location of Finch's body and the number of shipyard employees on the streets at 5:00 p.m., one could only conclude that Finch had been lured beneath the dock and then murdered. Riordan refused to believe that Finch, given the morning's events, would have followed Keefe anywhere, never mind beneath a dark pier on a cool, overcast April evening. But if, for the sake of argument, he had, he certainly would have been wary. If there was the slightest indication that things were not as they seemed, Finch would have lashed out and it would have been Keefe's, not Finch's, body that was discovered beneath the pier.
Even from a psychological standpoint, Rosie Keefe didn't fit the role of killer. Although not an expert, Riordan had read enough case studies to recognize the rudimentary signs of an unhinged personality. In an attempt to get her to let down her defenses, he had thrown a variety of comments in Keefe's direction, all of which she'd fielded without undue or inappropriate emotion.
Riordan's thoughts were interrupted as the rear doors of the brick building swung open abruptly, allowing a tall, uniformed policeman and the short, stocky figure of Tony Del Vecchio admittance. “You wanted to see to me?”
“I did. I've wanted to all day.” Riordan motioned to one of two benches that bordered the side of the room.
Del Vecchio plopped onto a backless bench and stretched his legs out in front of him. Meanwhile, the uniformed officer stood behind Riordan, notebook and pencil at the ready.
“Yeah, I know. Sorry about that. I've been trying to calm everyone down and get 'em back to work.”
“That's all right.” Riordan extracted the newly white package of Lucky Strikes from his pocket and tossed it to Del Vecchio. “How do you like the new job?”
Del Vecchio took a cigarette and tossed the pack back to Riordan. “Ask me in another week or so. It's not easy steppin' into Finch's shoes at such short notice.”
“Very short notice.” Riordan replaced the pack in his pocket and lit his cigarette, this time using just one match. “I checked the records in Finch's office. You passed the foreman's test just two weeks ago.”
“So?”
Riordan watched as the heavyset man pulled a stainless steel lighter from the top pocket of his blue canvas work jacket. Not everyone, it seemed, was willing to make sacrifices. “So, it's almost as though you knew there would be a job opening up.”
Del Vecchio took a drag on his cigarette. “What are you gettin' at?”
“Nothing. Just saying that the timing's pretty strange.”
“Nothin' strange about it. I went to Finch a few weeks back and asked for a raise. I have a wife and three kids to feed and the two boys—say, you got kids?”
Riordan shook his head.
“Then you got no idea how expensive they can be. My two oldest—the boys—are ten and thirteen. Eatin' me out of house and home. Every day I go home, the icebox is empty. So, I go to Finch and explain that I need more money so the wife can buy more groceries. He tells me that I'm already makin' as much as a riveter can make. The next step is foreman, but I need to take a test. So, I take the test.” He proudly hiked his jacket collar up with his thumbs.“Passed on the first try, too.”
“Congratulations, but Finch was already foreman. How would taking a test help?”
“Finch was the
shift
foreman,” Del Vecchio pointed out. “But there's a shipbuildin' foreman, a weldin' foreman, a framin' foreman ... each one is in charge of different things.”
“Hmm, but Finch didn't promote you even after you passed the test.”
“There wasn't a job to promote me to.”
“No openings, huh?” Riordan picked a flyer from the wall above Del Vecchio's head and displayed it. “This here says there's an opening for a day-shift welding foreman.”
“I'm a riveter, not a welder. See, the test I took was for shift or shipbuildin' foreman. Framin' and weldin' have their own tests.”
“Shipbuilding foreman?”
“Yeah, he inspects all the other departments. Makes sure their work looks good. Kinda the top dog. You need to do a stint as another foreman before you make it to that.”
“And the shift foreman?”
“The shift foreman is in charge of schedulin', supplies, hirin', and any employee stuff that can't be handled by the other foremen.”
“In other words, the only job you could have taken was Finch's.”
“No. There's a second-shift foreman and there's been talk of addin' a third shift, but so far we haven't needed one.”
“So your only hope of promotion was if Finch or the second-shift foreman moved up to shipbuilding foreman.”
Del Vecchio seemed to realize the importance of his words. “Ummm ... well, yeah, I ... I guess you could look at it that way.”
“But you didn't? It never dawned on you that there were just two slots—maybe three—that would earn you the cash you wanted?” Riordan grinned.
“Well, yeah, I mean no, I ...”
“What were the odds of either Finch or the second-shift foreman moving up?”
“Finch might have. But not the second-shift guy. He's too new.”
“Leaving just one slot: Finch's.”
“Hey, I know what you're tryin' to do, here. Look, I didn't bump off Finch to get his job. I just did what any other guy would do. I got some work on the side and hoped that the third shift got added.”
“A second job? Where?”
“A pal of mine owns a warehouse nearby. I go after my shift and help sweep up.”
“A janitor?”
Del Vecchio moved his head from side to side as if mentally weighing the significance of this new job title. “Yeah ... I guess you could call it that.”
“And it didn't bother you that you had to get a second job cleaning up after people?”
“Would I rather leave my shift here and go home to my family? Sure. But pushin' a broom a few extra hours a day ain't bad. There are worse ways to make a buck.”
“So, this job? Is that where you were after your shift last night?”
“No, as a matter of fact, I took last night off.”
“Oh? You just got the job. You could afford to take a night off?”
“Like I said, my boss is a buddy.”
“What time did you leave here?”
“Oh, didn't I say? Delaney, Hansen, and me all left early. The guy we got to fill in for Keefe could only work till three and Finch couldn't get anyone else till this mornin'. You can't have a three-man rivet gang, so we all went home.”
“And you were there all night? At home, I mean.”
“Yep, with the family.” Del Vecchio smugly grinned. “That's why I asked for the night off. Didn't make sense to come all the way back here.”
“No, I suppose it didn't. Your, uh, family can vouch for you?”
“Sure they can.” Del Vecchio's smile evaporated. “But I don't know that I like the idea of you draggin' them into this.”

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