Stone Cold Dead (12 page)

“Come on over here, Ellie,” said Frank. “Let’s hear what happened.”

Finn looked me up and down, grinning like a bully. Frank opened the principal’s door and escorted me in. When the police chief tried to follow, Frank blocked him with a bearish arm.

“Get lost, Finn. And learn some manners when you’re talking to a lady.”

“So Joey made good his escape?” I asked.

“Yeah, he was gone before we got here,” Frank drawled. “He must have been driving like a bat out of hell. We showed up here about twelve minutes after your call. Finn took an age to get here.”

“It’s a pretty good car,” I said, “if you don’t mind that Fred Blaylock drove it into the lake last summer. Still smells of wet sometimes.”

“Forget about that. We’ve got to find that kid before he hurts someone. You talked to him for a while. Where do you think he’ll go?”

“He won’t go home,” I said. “The last time he broke out, he stayed in Darleen Hicks’s barn.”

“You think he’ll go there?” asked Frank.

I shook my head. “No. No Darleen. I’m sure he’ll be skulking around Ted Russell’s house tonight. If I were you, I’d set a trap for him there.”

Frank thought on it, and I could tell he liked the idea. And I had a feeling he might want to have the press along to document his triumph.

On my way out of the office, I met Assistant Principal Brossard, who was giving Ted Russell some kind of talking to, but I couldn’t tell if the intensity of his words was due to anger or concern for his well-being.

“Good afternoon, Miss Stone,” he said, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. “I understand it’s been an interesting morning for all.”

“Mine had its excitement,” I said. “Though no more than Mr. Russell’s.”

Ted Russell was a handsome man. Just under six feet tall, with an athletic build and wavy brown hair, he had a soft, angular quality. His eyes were a prepossessing blue—cerulean blue—and they squinted just so when he smiled, which he was doing to great effect at that very moment. He had a large, red scratch on his neck. If I found him attractive, I wondered if an impressionable, young girl like Darleen Hicks might have done the same.

“Do you two know each other?” asked Brossard.

“I haven’t had the pleasure,” said Russell, extending his right hand to me. He stared deep into my eyes with the practiced tenacity of a seducer. I knew that look well. “You have me at a disadvantage, miss.”

“Eleonora Stone,” I said. “Ellie Stone.”

“I’ve heard that name somewhere,” he said, holding my hand, it seemed, until he remembered.

“Miss Stone is a reporter for the
Republic
,” volunteered Brossard, who was the forgotten man in our conversation.

“That’s it,” said Russell, and he released me gently, managing to graze his fingers over my palm as he did. “You’re that girl who wrote all those articles about the Shaw murder case, aren’t you?”

I blushed.

“May we help you, Miss Stone?” asked Brossard, interrupting the lingering gaze between Mr. Russell and me.

“As a matter of fact, I wanted to get a statement from Mr. Russell for the paper. For the article I’m writing.”

Brossard seemed fine with the idea, but Russell demurred politely, saying he’d rather not make a big deal about Joey Figlio.

“But I wasn’t going to ask you about the attack,” I said. “At least not exactly.”

“Then what do you want to ask me?”

“I’d like to know about your relationship with Darleen Hicks.”

Russell choked. Louis Brossard stood by as I stared at Russell, waiting for some kind of coherent answer. Finally he managed a smile and a dismissive wave of the hand.

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Miss Stone,” he said. “I had no relationship with Miss Hicks beyond that of a teacher. Joey Figlio had the crazy idea that there was something untoward going on, but it wasn’t true.”

I asked Brossard if the school’s administration had known anything about Joey’s accusations before today.

“It’s true that we were aware of the rumor,” said Brossard. “Principal Endicott asked me to investigate the matter last fall. I spoke to the girl, several of her classmates, Mr. Figlio, and, of course, Mr. Russell.”

“And what did you conclude?” I asked.

“Both Darleen Hicks and Mr. Russell denied that anything of the kind had ever happened.”

“I would never do that with a student, Miss Stone,” said Russell with an apologetic smile. “Really, I’m not that kind of man.”

Outside the school, I found Chief Finn leaning against my car, smoking the stub of a foul-smelling cheroot, giving some instructions to his men. My handsome cop was listening intently to his boss, but not so much that he didn’t cast a glance my way.

“Am I keeping you from something, Palumbo?” Finn asked with all the feigned sweetness he could muster. My handsome cop flushed red and cleared his throat.

“No, Chief.”

Then Finn pushed off my fender and reeled around to find the source of Palumbo’s distraction. His eyes came to rest on me.

“You?” he asked. “What do you want?”

I pointed timidly to the car and mumbled that it was mine.

“Sorry, what’d you say? I didn’t hear you.”

“I said that’s my car,” I repeated, a touch more forcefully.

“Sorry, miss,” he smiled, cigar squashed between his lips. “Evidence. You can’t have it till I’m done with it.”

He turned back to his men, a couple of whom laughed, while others looked away. Officer Palumbo stiffened, his broad chest growing before my eyes, as he frowned at his chief. Finn took notice and strutted over to the handsome cop.

“You got something to say, Palumbo?” he asked.

Palumbo looked past him and said no. Finn stepped back, regarded him up and down, then sneered.

“Who do you think you are? Vic Mature?”

The same couple of cops laughed, no doubt to curry favor, and Finn smiled at them, relishing his power.

“You and your guinea good looks,” sneered Finn, turning back to Palumbo. “You think that girl over there is gonna swoon over you ’cause you look like some wop actor?” He laughed then looked at me. “Wait till you’re off duty to chase after Jew girls.”

That was unexpected. I gasped, and the cold air bit my lungs. Finn looked to his men as if expecting applause, then I felt a soft touch on my shoulder. I jerked my head to see who was there. It was Frank Olney, his smoldering eyes fixed on Finn.

Frank stepped around me, boots crunching on the frozen slush, and approached the chief, who was still admiring his own wit and basking in the approbation of his sycophants. Then Finn turned back toward me, no doubt to fire off another enlightened bit of bigotry, and saw Frank approaching. His smile vanished from his chapped lips, and his red face froze.

“Key,” said Frank, holding out his hand.

Finn took a half step back. I wasn’t sure whose jurisdiction we were in, but Frank was claiming it.

“I’m not asking again,” said the sheriff, his meaty paw still waiting for the key.

The policemen behind Finn fidgeted, except for my handsome cop, Palumbo, who stood like an obelisk, gazing straight ahead. Finn frowned, huffing hot breath into the frigid air. His lip curled a touch as he squinted at the big man before him. Finally, he smiled and shook his head.

“If you want to take over this investigation, you’re welcome to it,” he said, trying to save face. “I sure as hell don’t want it.”

He slapped the key into Frank’s hand, thinking he’d scored a point or two, or at least escaped with his pride. But the sheriff caught his hand as he tried to withdraw it and held it fast when the chief tried to pull it away. He squeezed it for about ten seconds, refusing to let go, and Finn resigned himself to captivity.

“Thanks,” said Frank finally. “I’ll be happy to bail you out on this one if it’s more than you can handle,” and he flung the pink hand away as if it were mucus stuck to his fingers.

Frank Olney may have seemed like just another big fat guy. But, like those huge professional wrestlers, he was a tough fat guy: a brute who could twist your arm off and beat you over the head with it. And in spite of our rocky start on the Shaw murder case, he’d become
my
tough fat guy.

The police chief waved goodbye over his shoulder and sauntered over to his car as if nothing had happened. Just as if he hadn’t been schooled by Big Frank Olney.

“Here’s your key,” said the sheriff once the city cops had decamped. “You’ll want to move your car before Finn gives you a ticket.”

“Thanks, Frank,” I said, beholden, trying to catch his eye to express my gratitude. I was making him uncomfortable in the process.

“Go on,” he said, patting me on the shoulder to be rid of me, and trudged off to his cruiser.

I climbed into my frigid car, slipped the key into the ignition, and pulled the door closed. There was a thud, and the door banged open again. I yanked it a second time with the same result. Several attempts later, I bowed my head, drew a sigh, and cursed Joey Figlio and Fred Blaylock. My car door would not close properly, thanks to Joey for leaving it open and to Fred for driving it down the boat launch into the lake.

I moved the Dodge into an empty space next to the school buses in the parking lot. I managed to secure the door by holding it shut and locking it. The latch still didn’t hold, but at least the door wouldn’t wave in the wind.

My whole day had been turned on its ear. I’d missed my City Desk meeting and lunch with Norma at Wolfson’s, and I was bruised like an old peach kicked down a hill. But I was in the perfect spot to meet Darleen’s friends. I located bus number 63 idling a few feet away from my car. Some students had already boarded the bus to escape the cold, but most were milling about, stealing a few more minutes with their friends on the blacktop before heading home for the day.

Gus Arnold was reading the newspaper in the driver’s seat, his big right boot crossed over his left knee, exposing half a meaty calf beneath his green work pants. He didn’t notice me when I climbed aboard, but once I’d said hello, he did a double take and nearly fell out of his seat.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I’d like to take a ride, if I may.”

He didn’t like the idea, but I told him I only wanted to see the route and talk to Darleen’s friends. He probably figured he’d rather have me on his good side than not, and he reluctantly agreed.

“Can you drop me here on the way back to the depot?” I asked.

He grunted assent then excused himself to smoke a cigarette outside, anywhere but with me.

Teenage girls are an intimidating lot. There’s no social group more confident in its own superiority with less reason to justify it. They hold dominion over their peers, parents, and innocent adult passersby—men and women alike—bullying and disarming all with sniggering ridicule. A well-placed sigh, histrionic yawn, or a roll of the eyes can inflict more damage, knock the wind out of one’s sails, better than any punch in the stomach. A group of adolescent girls rules without pity or challenge until a teenage boy appears. Kryptonite. The bravado melts into simpering and subservience. I knew this for sure about teenage girls, because I had been one not too long before. And they didn’t scare me.

I asked a couple of girls where I could find Susan Dobbs. They pointed to the back of the bus and a pink-faced girl in a faded red coat and green and-yellow rubber hunting boots—the kind that lace up to midcalf. The look was provincial, even for New Holland, but it was bitter cold outside. Still, I wouldn’t have been caught dead dressed like that, especially in front of boys.