The Haunting Ballad (27 page)

The aroma of coffee led me to a small kitchen, where my friend greeted me eagerly. “Lazarus has risen!”

“Barely. Yeah, apparently I'm alive.”

“I've brewed you some coffee. Shall I whip you up an omelet? Or some French toast?”

“No, just the coffee.” I seated myself at the kitchen table. “Where's your lady friend? I don't remember seeing her last night.”

“Because you didn't.” Mr. O'Nelligan poured me a cup. “Marguerite was heading out of town for the evening, but she passed on her keys to me. Once I'd explained your situation.”

“Too bad, I wanted to meet her. You said she was sparkly.” I took a deep drink of black coffee and immediately felt less fuzzy. “Speaking of my situation, what the hell is it?”

“Do you remember what transpired?”

“Sort of. Some guy shot at me. Me and Spires.” The image of the young singer's crumpled body returned to me. “Jesus, what happened to Spires?”

“He's alive, but apparently his injury was severe. A bullet in the chest. I believe he was operated on last night.”

“When did you get there? Right after we were shot?”

“By the time I arrived at the Mercutio, you'd already been transported to the hospital. I hastened there directly. I must admit, it was a terrible interval for me—waiting to see how badly you…” My partner glanced away and blinked several times. “Thank God, you were intact.”

I touched my head. “Sure, you could call it that. Just a graze—isn't that what they say? In the Westerns, it always sounds so rugged.
I'm okay, Dusty, it's just a graze.
Truth is, it barely seems like I've been shot. Feels more like I tried to butt a brick wall. So, what about the guy who did it? Did they catch him?”

“As it happened, a young patrolman was only two blocks from the Mercutio when he heard the shots. He raced to the scene in time to give chase but never caught up with your attempted assassin.”

“Assassin … Lincoln had an assassin. Gandhi had an assassin. I don't think I'm important enough to merit one.”

“Someone might have thought differently. Though, of course, we don't know if you were the intended target or Byron Spires.”

“Must be Spires, right? I suppose some irate boyfriend might have resented him romancing his girl.” I could have added
I speak from experience.
“After all, he's the one who took the full brunt of things.”

“True, but it's equally possible that you, Lee, were the intended victim, and young Spires was struck down by accident. It's also possible that our investigation into Lorraine Cobble's death might be the reason for the attack.”

“You think that's really it?”

“I couldn't say for certain, but someone may have found our explorations threatening.”

I pondered that a moment and suddenly felt more than a little woozy. It was one thing to think I'd been an innocent bystander caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was another to imagine someone wanted to turn me, specifically, into a cadaver. If that was the case, then Spires was the unfortunate bystander. I suddenly felt remorse—an emotion I sure didn't want to have where Byron Spires was concerned.

“I may have put Spires in harm's way,” I said, mostly to myself.

“In harm's way…” Mr. O'Nelligan repeated the words slowly. “That's the phrase Minnie Bornstein used, remember? When she shared her concern that one of us two might run into trouble. It seems her premonition has proven accurate.”

I gave a little shudder. A dim memory from the hospital floated to my brain. “Some police detectives talked with me last night, didn't they? Everything's a little cloudy.”

“That's not surprising,” my partner said. “After all, you suffered what nearly amounts to a concussion. Yes, the detectives did speak briefly with you.”

“Smack wasn't one of them, was he?”

“No. I inquired about Detective Wilton and was told he was off duty. You were asked last night if you'd gotten a look at the gunman. You reported that he wore a black coat, but provided nothing beyond that.”

Something occurred to me. “I didn't happen to say he had red hair, did I?”

“No, why?
Was
his hair red?”

“I don't know, since he was wearing a hat, but I'm thinking of Cardinal Meriam. Maybe he's here in town and got wind that investigators were poking around. Maybe he's the one who pushed Lorraine off the roof.”

“What makes you suggest that?”

Whatever my answer was—and I'm not sure I had one—was put off by the sound of a door buzzer.

“Expecting someone?” I asked.

“I am.” My friend vanished deeper into the apartment, and I heard him buzz in whoever was down below.

I set my cup aside, stood, and gently touched my head again. Still there. I heard a door open in another room, followed by muffled greetings. Mr. O'Nelligan reentered the kitchen with his guest.

Audrey had her arms around me so fast I barely registered that it was her. She kept me enwrapped for almost a minute. I could feel her body tremble against mine and knew she was sobbing silently.

Finally, she stepped back and wiped her eyes. “I was out late last night at the drive-in with my folks. Mr. O'Nelligan didn't reach me till this morning.”

“I thought it best not to distress you in the middle of the night,” our friend explained. “Especially since the patient had already been put to bed.”

Audrey drew in a deep breath. “Oh God, Lee. When he called and said you'd been shot in the head—”

“Geez!” I stared sharply at my partner. “You didn't really put it like that, did you?”

Mr. O'Nelligan looked aghast. “I certainly did not! My presentation was commendably subtle.”

“He's right. Sorry,” Audrey said. “Still, no matter how carefully worded, it still amounted to you being shot in the head.”

I deepened my voice. “It was just a graze, Dusty.”

“What?”

“Never mind. I'm okay, Audrey. I was lucky.”

“Lucky?” She gave me a quizzical look. “Do you realize, Lee, that in the year and a half since you took over your father's business, that skull of yours has managed to get rammed, punched, or shot at least three times that I can recall?”

I thought about it and realized she was right. “Even Dad would have been impressed with that record.”

My fiancée scowled. “Only
you
would brag about getting your brains addled.”

“It's nice when a woman is proud of her man.”

Audrey smiled begrudgingly. “What a piece of work you are, Mr. Plunkett.”

There was something I needed to bring up. “You know about Byron Spires?”

Her smile faded. “Yes, it's dreadful. I've been praying for him. I hope he pulls through.”

“So do I.” However much the singer rankled me, I certainly didn't want him laid out in a morgue. Especially if he took a bullet intended for me.

Audrey made me review what had happened last night. She listened intently, squeezing her eyes shut when I came to the moment when the shots were fired. I did my best to minimize the situation, but I knew I wasn't fooling her. When I finished the account, Audrey reached over, gripped my hand, and said nothing.

I suddenly remembered Mr. O'Nelligan's mission. “How'd it go yesterday with Hector Escobar?”

“I never saw him,” my colleague said. “By the time I arrived at the grocery, he'd already left. I can try again today.”

“If you want, but it's Cardinal I'm wondering about now. I need to call Smack and see what he found out. Where's the telephone?”

Mr. O'Nelligan led me into the adjacent living room, and Audrey followed. I pulled out Smack's number, grabbed up the phone, and started dialing. I was feeling motivated and mad.

“Lee, don't just go leaping back into things,” Audrey said. “You need to rest up. You've been shot, for heaven's sake.”

“Shot, but not shut up.” My Cagney was going full steam, and his dialogue was atrocious. “I've got a little red bird I need to pluck.”

Mr. O'Nelligan softly groaned.

Smack Wilton was in at the station. “Heard you had a little mishap,” he said. “Coulda been worse, though, kid. At least you didn't take one in the chest like your buddy Spitz.”

“Spitz?”

“Mortimer B. Spitz.” It sounded like he was reading it off some notes. “The guy who got shot with you. Goes by the moniker Spires, but I guess that's just his show business name.”

Before last night, I would have been delighted to learn that the dashing Byron Spires was, in reality, Mortimer Spitz. Under the present circumstances, I wasn't deriving much satisfaction from the fact.

“Any word on his condition?”

“I hear it's touch and go,” Smack said.

“Did they find the man who shot us?”

“Nothing solid yet, but the guys on the case tell me they may have some witnesses who saw him when he was galloping off.”

“What about Cardinal Meriam? Anything on him?”

“Not a lot. Canadian. Arrested for vandalism last winter. Charges dropped. Present whereabouts unknown. That's all I found.”

“What's his real first name?”

“Spencer. Y'know, like Spencer Tracy.”

Nothing with an
A.
“How about his middle name?”

I heard Smack ruffling through papers. “Lawrence.”

After thanking Smack for his trouble, I hung up and shared what I'd learned with Mr. O'Nelligan.

“Spencer Lawrence Meriam.” My partner rolled the words around on his tongue. “No A. M. there.”

“So there goes that theory,” I said. “Seems Cardinal wasn't the one who wrote that note. Not to say he couldn't still be our rooftop rogue.”

“What are you two trying to figure out?” Audrey asked.

Briefly, I explained about the note and its unknown author.

Audrey listened carefully, then nodded. “I get it, Lee. Well, I can think of someone right off the bat.”

“Someone who could be A. M.?”

“Uh-huh. Maybe you overlooked him because you've only heard his name in its short form.”

“Short form?”

“Yes, like ‘Lee' is short for ‘Leander.'”

I cringed a little; I hated to hear my full name.

“Likewise, ‘Tony' is short for ‘Anthony.'” Audrey paused for effect. “A. M. could stand for Anthony Mazzo, couldn't it?”

Mr. O'Nelligan and I turned to look at each other, neither saying anything.

Audrey laughed. “I'll take that as a yes.”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

 

Back to the Mercutio. All three of us. This followed an impassioned debate in which I adamantly refused to let Audrey join us in confronting the man who might have killed Lorraine Cobble. The other half of this debate consisted of Audrey, with equal adamance, refusing to let me an inch out of her sight after I'd nearly gotten my fool head blown off. When I looked to Mr. O'Nelligan for support, he merely shrugged, unwilling to get caught in the crossfire. I ended up caving in, but only under the condition that I could be sure of her safety. I called Smack Wilton back, explained that we might be facing off with a dangerous man, and asked if he could meet us at the Mercutio. Not sounding overly convinced or concerned, he told me he was presently spoken for but would arrange for a uniformed officer to show up.

Audrey drove us across town. She located a space to park right behind Baby Blue, whose windshield, in my absence, had been decorated with several parking tickets. Outside the coffeehouse, we found Smack's promised cop, a stocky, cynical-looking fellow.

“We don't need you to go in with us,” I explained, “but we'd be grateful if you stayed within shouting distance.”

The cop nodded curtly and stationed himself a few yards away. It wasn't yet noon, and the Mercutio's door was locked, but after some persistent knocking, Tony Mazzo opened up and ushered us in. There was no one else in the place.

Mazzo looked surprised to see me. “I'm so glad to find you ambulatory, man! After last night. Vicious, just vicious. Poor Byron. You're doing okay, though?”

I removed my homburg, revealing my bandaged head. “In a manner of speaking. We need to talk with you.”

Mazzo gestured us to a table. I made sure to take a seat between him and Audrey. Whatever his response to our accusations might be, I didn't want the tall, blocky ex-soldier within arm's length of my fiancée.

I pulled the typed note out of my jacket and smoothed it out in front of him. “Did you write this?”

Mazzo's jaw clenched as he stared down at the piece of paper. “Why would you think that?”

“A. M.—Anthony Mazzo.” I glanced over at Audrey and caught a tiny smile on her lips.

“You know, I don't have a monopoly on those initials.” Mazzo fidgeted with his handlebar mustache. “Could be anyone. Like…” He glanced around, trying to conjure up a name. Any name.

“Like Ace Morgan, perhaps?” Mr. O'Nelligan offered. “His initials are also A. M.”

Caught off guard, I stared at my partner. “Who's Ace Morgan?”

“He's the leader of the Challengers of the Unknown, a team of purple-garbed comic book adventurers. They have an intriguing origin tale.”

Where the heck was he going with this?

Mr. O'Nelligan continued. “Having survived unscathed a horrific plane crash, the Challengers believe that they're living on borrowed time and conduct their lives accordingly. An interesting concept, isn't that, Mr. Mazzo—living on borrowed time? The knowledge that, at any moment, one's fate may catch up with one. That fate could be, for example, the revelation of a secret.”

The Grand Mazzo wasn't looking so grand. “I don't know what you're—”

“Come now, sir.” Mr. O'Nelligan leaned in toward him. “You obviously have something you wish to unburden yourself of.”