The Judgment (8 page)

I made certain that Conroy was escorted away so that he wouldn’t have to face the press.

But I didn’t have that luxury.

I was the point man. It was my duty to try to spin-control what had come from the stand. I did my best, talking into a battery of microphones, and later to individuals:

I pointed out that the only case the prosecutor had came from the lips of Det. Sgt. Ralph Smerka.

I said we would show Smerka was lying.

They didn’t believe it.

Nor did I, but it was at least something to say.

W
hen I got back to the office, I had a message from Sue. I reached her at her office.

“Dinner tonight?” she asked.

“No more late-nighters?”

“Not tonight, although I’ve been paying for it all day. I feel exhausted.”

“Nerves can do that to you. You lost that professional detachment for a minute; that’s all. A nice meal, a good sleep, and you’ll be the same tough, noncaring cop you’ve always been.”

“You certainly know how to cheer a girl up. Would you mind if we went out? I’m not up to cooking tonight.”

“I’ll pick you up at your place. Six okay?”

“Perfect.”

“Anything more on that kid? I’m not prying, just curious.”

“The blood work shows the Higgins boy had been given a large dose of Valium, just as the medical examiner thought. He thinks it was stuck into ice cream, judging from the stomach contents. The boy will be buried next Friday.”

“That’ll be a sad day.”

“Tell me about it. As a matter of fact, Father Chuck is going to say the funeral Mass. The boy and his family are
members of Father Chuck’s congregation. I plan on going,” she said.

“Why? I should think you’d want to distance yourself from anything personal.”

“This is work. I’m checking on all sexual deviates in Kerry County. I just might see someone I recognize at the Mass. Anyway, it’s worth a try.”

“This business is weird enough. You don’t mean you think the killer would have the balls to show up at the funeral?”

“We’re dealing with someone strange, very strange. There’s no telling what he might do.”

“Or she.”

“Yes, that’s always a possibility. Men don’t have a lock on psychosis. There are plenty of sick women out there.”

“Maybe I can get away and go with you.”

“You don’t have to, Charley.”

“It would make me feel better. I handled something routine for the family some while ago. Father’s name Frank?”

“That’s right, Francis. He took it pretty hard; so did the mother, of course.”

“I’ll pick you up at six tonight,” I said, cutting it short, hanging up.

I was just about to pack it in for the evening at the office, leaving me with enough time to grab a shower before picking up Sue. Then the phone rang.

Mrs. Fenton had gone for the day, so I picked it up on the second ring.

“Sloan,” I said.

“Sloan, this is Mark Conroy.”

“What’s up?”

“Nothing much. I just received some information I thought you might like to have.”

“Like what?”

“Where they’re keeping the Mouse.”

“No kidding.”

“They have him stashed at the Whitehall.”

“That’s a retirement place.”

He laughed. “Good selection, when you think about it. All you have to watch out for are young people. Everybody else has white hair and walks with a cane. A gunman would stick out, unless they come up with a very old one. They have an apartment there for him, but they have enough guards to hold off an army.”

“Is he registered?”

“Not under his own name. He’s listed as Philip Marlowe. I suppose that was some cop’s idea of humor. Anyway, I thought you might want to drop by and pay him a social visit.”

“Why do I get the idea that he doesn’t want to talk to me? Maybe the guards, eh? How did you come by this little piece of information?”

“Friends,” he said, his tone indicating that was as much as he wanted me to know.

“Why do they have him covered like they do?”

There was a pause. “I suppose they’re worried that someone might just drop by and knock him off.”

“Someone like you.”

“Yeah. No Mouse, no case. But remember, the Mouse knows a great deal about who does what kind of drug business in this city. The dealers might be getting a little antsy on how much he is spilling in that retirement home.”

“They won’t let me see him.”

“Probably not, but it’s bound to have a profound effect.”

“Why?”

“The Mouse will see that you know where he is. Other people, too, maybe? That might just stop his mouth.”

“I’ll drop by, but I don’t deal in terror.”

“Look, Sloan, I know you don’t believe me, but I am telling the truth. If that money’s gone, the one who would have stolen it is the Mouse. He’s got to be getting nervous, no matter what. He’s got a million parked away somewhere
and someone might just stumble on it.”

“I’ll try to see him, maybe put it to him just like that.”

“Let me know, one way or the other.”

As soon as I hung up, the phone rang again.

“Mr. Charles Sloan,” a brisk young woman asked, her tone pleasant but not familiar.

“This is Charley Sloan,” I said.

“Just a moment for John Rivers.”

I waited. Rivers was about my age and a senior partner in one of the big Detroit firms. We had tried some cases against each other when we were younger. I hadn’t seen him for years.

“Charley, how are you?” he said, his voice as oily as a snake.

“I’m fine, Jack. And yourself?”

“Just fine, Charley. Couldn’t be better if I tried. I’ve been reading about you. You’ve become famous.”

“Working at it. What can I do for you, Jack?”

“How about lunch tomorrow, Charley? I think I have a proposition that might interest you. I can drive out there, if you like.”

“I plan to be in the city tomorrow anyway,” I said, and I did. I planned on dropping in on the Mouse. “Name the time and the place.”

“How about the Rattlesnake Club. One o’clock?”

“Suits me.”

“Good. I really look forward to seeing you.”

I hung up. I wondered what he wanted. His firm was a law factory and highly political. Maybe he was going to offer me a job, or was looking for one. Whatever it was would have to wait until tomorrow.

Sue spent the night at my place. Our lovemaking had become less frantic, more comfortable, like an old married couple who understood the needs and desires of the other.

In the morning, she went home to change, and I fixed myself some toast and coffee.

I read the newspaper and took my time. I wasn’t enthusiastic about seeing the Mouse, and doubted if I could get to him. Still, he was the key witness in the Conroy case and I had to make the attempt at least.

The morning was cold and brisk, with clouds driven by a fresh wind scudding across the sky. Thanksgiving was just around the corner. Sue wanted me to go with her to her parents’ for dinner that day. I had gone along last year. They were nice enough, but they made a point of bringing up marriage with every other sentence. I remember being uneasy, so this time I begged off.

I drove into Detroit just after the rush hour, so the traffic was no problem.

The Whitehall had been a posh residential apartment house, then a hotel, and had flourished during the Twenties and Thirties in Detroit. Built on the Detroit River, just across from Belle Isle, the city’s island park, it had been a fashionable place, with a huge, tiled indoor pool.

Like the rest of the city, the Whitehall had slipped slowly economically and would have closed, if it hadn’t been rescued by thé religious group that established it as their retirement facility. It offered private apartments where meals would be provided if needed, and other levels of care right down to a skilled nursing staff.

When you checked into the Whitehall, you knew it was for the last time.

Except if you were Det. Sgt. Ralph Smerka, alias the Mouse. And, given the circumstances, that thought might have crossed the Mouse’s mind as he entered the Whitehall for the first time.

I found a parking space near the entrance and walked through the doors into the lobby. The lobby had been maintained with much of the splendor as when the place had enjoyed better days. The furniture looked a bit worn and old people, very old people, were sprinkled around the place. Some reading, some playing cards, and some just
wandering about, pushing their walkers before them.

I half hoped the Mouse wouldn’t agree to see me. The place made me feel uncomfortable.

The Whitehall still had a hotel-style desk, but no one was there. I rang a bell and waited.

“Don’t move.” The voice came from behind me. Expert hands ran up and down my body, searching for a weapon.

“Okay,” the voice said, “you can move now.”

I turned and faced a young man dressed in running togs. He looked as out of place among the white-headed residents as a preacher in a house of ill fame. But that didn’t seem to bother him.

“Charles Sloan,” I said. “I’ve come to talk to Smerka.”

“I’m Patrolman Jenkins. I saw you in court. How did you find out we were here?”

“Friends,” I said, echoing Conroy’s explanation.

“Pretty sharp friends. Do you have a court order, or something from the prosecutor?”

“No.”

“Then you can’t see him. Orders,” he added, smiling.

“You can check with the prosecutor,” I said.

He paused. “Well, even if I got his okay, maybe the Mouse might have some objections.”

“Check with him, too.”

He thought that over. “Okay, I’ll do both. Have a seat over there. I’ll be back.”

I sat in a high-backed chair, the kind all hotels used to have in their lobbies.

An old man, wearing two sweaters, limped up. He had an aluminum cane.

He must have been close to ninety.

“This is a nice place,” he said.

“Looks that way.”

“Food’s not bad. Most of these places load you up with cheese and potatoes, but this place is pretty liberal with meat and chicken. It makes a difference.”

“I suppose it does.”

“The women, too.” He cackled. “Lots of ’em, mostly widows and lonely, if you get my drift.”

I couldn’t help smiling.

“It’s a little chilly, that’s my only complaint.”

“I take it you’d recommend it?” I presumed he thought I was looking the place over for a parent or some other relative.

“Sure would.” He winked at me and leered. “You’ll love it here.”

Jenkins returned before I got into any other conversations.

He was smiling. He seemed to be smiling all the time.

“The prosecutor says you can have five minutes, but one of us has to be present.”

“Fine by me.”

“The Mouse didn’t want to talk with you, but finally he said he would. I don’t think he likes you much.”

“I run into that a lot.”

Jenkins laughed. “I bet you do.”

They had the mouse in a suite. I was surprised that the Whitehall still provided such elegant residences.

He was sitting at a table playing solitaire.

Jenkins stayed, although two other young policemen left.

“You got five minutes,” Jenkins said. “Not a second more.”

“What do you want, Sloan?” the Mouse growled.

“I want to know why you’re testifying against Conroy. You’ve been lifelong friends.”

“Because he’s a prick,” he said, placing a card down on one of the stacks. “A crooked prick. He was setting me up. He’s a user, that one. Be careful, Sloan. He’ll use you, too.”

“Maybe. But why the sudden change after all these years? If he’s a prick and a thief, it sure took you a long time to find that out.”

“He’s clever,” he said.

“Do you think he was making you the fall guy for the W-91 Fund?”

“Sure. If anything went wrong, he’d point at me and say I was the only one handling the money.”

“When did you realize all this?”

“Not long ago. I’m a cop, too, and a good one. One morning I woke up and realized what was happening. I was probably the closest friend he ever had, yet here he was putting a noose around my neck if he ever needed it to save his own. He uses people, then throws them away.”

He laid down another card. “But not this time.”

“You realize that without you there’s no case.”

He nodded.

“Did you go to the prosecutor, or did they come to you?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I’m not even supposed to be talking to you. But I went to the prosecutor. Actually, I went to the Mayor’s Squad.”

“Why the Mayor’s Squad?”

“The mayor’s the source of all power in this city. I figured I’d be safer if he was on my side.”

“I take it I can’t change your mind about testifying?”

“Not unless you want to take a fall for obstruction of justice.” He laid down another card.

Jenkins coughed. “Your five minutes are about up.” He smiled again. “Orders, you know.”

“Do you have any message for Conroy?” I asked.

“Sure,” the Mouse said. “Tell him this is one time he won’t get away with it. Tell him he’s abused one too many people. Tell him … oh, fuck it, what’s the use?”

“That’s it, Mr. Sloan. Time’s up,” Jenkins said.

“Okay. Thanks for seeing me.”

The Mouse merely nodded and went back to his cards.

Jenkins walked me out of the room and into the hall.

“Not much of a conversationalist, is he?” I said.

Jenkins shrugged. “This is the most he’s said since I’ve been around him.”

“Why is that? Why the heavy guard? Nobody wants to hurt the Mouse, at least not that I know of.”

“That’s just it. Nobody knows. We’re playing it safe.”

“Are you a member of the Mayor’s Squad?”

He nodded.

“Like it?”

He laughed. “Like I said, your time is up, Mr. Sloan.”

In the old days I knew how to kill time. It was simple then, just park on a bar stool and put the mind on autopilot.

But I couldn’t do that anymore.

I had a couple of hours to kill. I hung around the shops in the Ren Cen, shopping, or at least giving that appearance. I visited a bookstore and browsed until they began getting suspicious.

Finally, and gratefully, it was time to go. I retrieved my car and drove to the Rattlesnake Club, one of Detroit’s finest restaurants. It wasn’t a club and was open to the public. And there hadn’t been a rattlesnake in downtown Detroit since 1692—if there were any then. The owner just liked the name.