The Talk Show Murders (11 page)

Wait till she gets a load of Kelsto
, I thought.

I stopped Carrie from opening the gate and causing a screeching noise loud enough to wake the … bad metaphor.

By lifting the gate on its hinge and moving it very carefully, I was able to open it enough for us to squeeze through.

We were all the way to Wells Street when I realized we’d have to go back.

“Go back? Are you crazy?”

“We … didn’t clean up,” I said. “We left fingerprints.”

“Forget it. I’m not going back.”

“You and I are on a murdered man’s—no, make that on
two
murdered
men’s—blackmail lists. Maybe there’s no evidence of that lying around for the cops to find. And maybe they won’t find your prints on the sill of a half-open window. But that’s a bet with bad odds.”

“How does going back help?”

I explained my plan.

The woman who answered the doorbell at Kelsto’s was tall, fit, and in her fifties, skin the color of caramel, hair wiry and black with streaks of gray. She’d exercised caution, keeping the door locked until, peeking out through the tiny glass panes, she was able to verify that I was “the guy from the morning show.”

She opened the door.

“Hi,” I said. “We’re here to see Larry.”

“Uh … I don’t think … I clean for Mr. Kelsto and Mr. Parkins. They’re not home.”

“Well, I’m sure Larry’ll be here shortly,” I said, stepping into the hall. “He’s expecting us.”

“Thing is … something’s not right here,” she said, forehead wrinkled in concern. “I come in once a week to clean, and sometimes, if they have themselves a party, it’ll be a mess. But this is … Something’s not right.”

She gestured toward the entrance to the living room. Carrie and I looked in on the disorder that hadn’t changed in the last few minutes. “Holy mackerel,” I said, hoping it sounded more sincere to the housekeeper than it did to me.

“This is just terrible,” Carrie said with impressive conviction. But she was a professional liar. She bent down to fondle a few items. “It looks like there’s been a robbery.”

I touched some stuff, too, making sure the housekeeper noticed. “It does look like a robbery. Maybe the police should be notified.”

That panicked the housekeeper. “I don’t want any business with the po-leese. ’Sides, could be the boys did this.”

“Cut up their cushions and throw pillows? Pried the back off the TV?” Carrie asked.

The housekeeper was blinking now, edging toward the hall. Getting ready to scamper?

I quickly joined her, took her hand, and said, “Any robbers would be long gone by now. And we’re here to keep you company. You know my name. I’m Billy. That’s Carrie. And you’re …?”

“Josepha Davis. Josie.”

“Well, Josie, it might be a good idea if you did call the police.”

She shook her head and pulled back her hand. “No. No po-leese. I’ll just clean best I can, and the boys can do what they want about the po-leese when they get here.”

Carrie and I exchanged looks. My great plan wouldn’t work unless she called the cops.

“Maybe you should phone the boys, Josie,” Carrie said.

The housekeeper was amenable to that. “I’ll go get my phone,” she said, and left the room.

I nodded to Carrie, and we took off to the kitchen, where she began wiping the window and sill with a silk neckerchief. Using my handkerchief, I lowered the window and locked it. Then I ran to the back door and gave that a hearty wipe-down.

We returned to the living room to await the next event.

It came in the form of Kelsto’s laughter ringtone.

A few beats after it stopped, Josie joined us, saying, “I couldn’t get through to either of ’em. You say Mr. Kelsto’s supposed to be meeting you here?”

“That was the plan when we talked yesterday,” I said.

“Then he’ll know what to do when he gets here.”

Carrie was looking at me anxiously. “He’s not answering his phone, huh?” she said.

“No. He left it here,” the housekeeper said. “It’s got this sound of folks laughing. I could hear it after I dialed him.”

“I thought I heard laughter,” Carrie said. “But it sounded far off.”

“Basement, I think,” Josie said.

Carrie and I stared at each other. Josie seemed like a nice enough person. I didn’t feel right about setting her up for the shock of her
life. But I supposed she’d eventually have gone down to the basement on her own. In any case, Carrie barely hesitated.

“The basement’s a funny place to leave your phone,” she said.

“Mr. Kelsto uses the basement to practice his comedy,” Josie said. “He probably jus’ put it down and forgot it.”

Carrie frowned. “I don’t know … The condition of this room … Robbers … Larry not being here for our meeting … His phone down in the basement …”

Josie was frowning, too. “I guess I better …” She gave me a pleading look.

“We’ll go down with you.”

That’s me, pillar of compassion.

I positioned myself to block most of Josie’s view, but she’d seen enough. “Oh. JesusMaryJoseph,” she mumbled. “He’s dead, idden he?”

I nodded, and she began to weep.

I helped her back upstairs, straightened a chair in the dining room, and sat her on it. Carrie brought her a glass of water from the kitchen and a towelette to dry her eyes.

She took a long drink of water, almost choked on it, then pushed the glass away. She started to rise. “I got to do … call somebody … an ambulance …”

I put my hand on her shoulder and kept her on the chair.

“You just sit here, Josie,” I said. “I’ll make the call.”

Two uniformed CPD officers arrived thirteen minutes after my 911 call.

One of them, a six-two, black-haired, blue-jawed Officer Boyle, herded us into the disrupted living room, while his partner, a shorter, rounder, browner Officer Gilstrap, went downstairs to corroborate our statement about a dead man in the basement.

It was nearly forty minutes, another four beat cops, and a Cook County medical examiner’s tech team later when, to my surprise, Detectives Hank Bollinger and Ike Ruello arrived. Since it was doubtful they were the CPD’s only homicide dicks, I assumed someone at dispatch had been particularly diligent in connecting Kelsto’s demise to their investigation of the Pat Patton murder. I didn’t know at the time that there was an obvious connection.

Bollinger gave Carrie a curious look and said, “You usually wear a wig, Ms. Sands?”

“Just when I feel like blending in,” she said.

“Might take a little more than that,” Ruello said.

Josie began to tell Bollinger about “poor Mr. Kelsto,” but he interrupted her. “We’re anxious to get your statement, ma’am, all of your statements, but you’ll have to give us a few minutes to look around first.

“Please confine your activity to this room until the technicians from the medical examiner’s office get their work done. And I’d appreciate it if you hold all your observations, thoughts, and questions until I get back.”

He walked to Officer Boyle, who was standing at the entrance to the room, and whispered something in his ear. Then, slipping on blue shoe covers and white latex gloves, he and Ruello went down to the basement to eyeball the corpse.

When they returned, Bollinger asked, “All three of you saw the victim downstairs?”

Carrie and I nodded. Josie made a little moan.

Bollinger asked her if she needed anything. She shook her head from side to side.

He took a breath, then said to Josie, “The technicians are through in the dining room. Officer Boyle’s gonna find you a comfortable chair in there and take down your statement. Okay?”

That accomplished, he sent Carrie away with Ruello and then sat down on one of the sliced chairs, facing me. He removed his minirecorder from his coat pocket and clicked it on. He spoke directly into it, mentioning the date, the time, the address, and his own name. He referenced a case number and followed that with a general description of the semi-destroyed house and the brutalized and tortured corpse of one of its occupants in the basement.

“At the scene are housekeeper Josepha Davis, actress Carrie Sands, and television, ah, performer Billy Blessing, whose statement is as follows:

“Mr. Blessing, would you begin by giving me your full name, your address, and phone number?”

“Local address or home?”

“Both. Also, length of time you’ve been here in Chicago.”

“I already …,” I began, and stopped when I saw him frown.

I repeated the information I’d given him yesterday morning.

That done, he asked, “Can you tell me when you arrived at this address today and why?”

It was clear he wanted everything nailed down tight. I provided the scenario that Carrie and I had concocted before returning to the house. Since it was possible for the police to locate the cabdriver who’d dropped me off an hour before I’d phoned in the murder, I told him that Carrie and I had arrived at pretty much the same time a few hours ago and discovered that nobody was home.

“We figured Larry had gotten delayed, and so we decided to take a walk around and see a little of the neighborhood. We came back. He still wasn’t here. We drove around a little in her car—it’s the violet BMW parked down the street. We came back. This time, the housekeeper answered the bell.”

From there, it was simply a matter of describing exactly what had happened, minus our rubbing away our fingerprints.

Of course, Bollinger had a few more questions.

“Why did Mr. Kelsto say he wanted to meet with you?”

“He wasn’t specific. He said he had an idea he wanted to bounce off me.”

“Couldn’t do that on the phone?”

“I suggested that, but he said he’d rather meet.”

“You and he were … friends?”

“No. I barely knew him. We met a few days ago, backstage at the Gemma Bright show.”

“That would be the same show at which you and murder victim Edward Patton met?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve just come from a screening of that show. You and retired officer Patton and the actress accompanying you today, Carrie Sands. Four guests. Two of ’em tortured and killed. The surviving two are right here at the latest crime scene. That’s turning into one helluva show. Guess I’m gonna have to give it another look.”

It wasn’t a question, and I definitely didn’t have a response.

“Anything odd happen on that show, something that the cameras didn’t catch?”

“Odd? You mean something that would result in two violent deaths? No, nothing that odd. But there was the discussion of the other murder.”

“What other murder?”

“The headless corpse found on—”

“That’s no longer classified as a homicide,” he said flatly.

“I don’t under—”

“It is what it is,” Bollinger said. “Let’s stick to what we’ve got here. Kelsto didn’t appear on the talk show. Any idea why?”

My mind was still on the headless corpse that was no longer considered a homicide. Bollinger had to repeat the question.

“He … lost out to the clock,” I said. “Happens all the time. I think Patton was a last-minute addition. Gemma wanted his take on the truncated body.”

“His take, yeah.” Bollinger’s grin was not at all pleasant. “You and Kelsto meet before the show or after?”

“During,” I said. “We were both waiting to go on.”

“And Patton was waiting with you?”

“No. He must have gone directly to the set.”

“What about after the show?” he asked. “You notice any contact between Kelsto and Patton?”

“No. I think Larry probably left when he knew they weren’t going to use him.”

Bollinger thought about that for a few seconds, then asked, “While you and Kelsto were waiting to appear, he say anything about Patton?”

“He didn’t seem to be a fan. I think he may have used the word ‘asshole.’ ”

“Not a surprise. But to get back to the here and now, you sure you don’t have any idea why Kelsto wanted to see you?”

“I figured it probably had something to do with
Wake Up, America
!

“That how it usually works? Somebody has an idea for your show, you go halfway across town to see them?”

“No. But I’m a visitor here, with the afternoon off. Larry seemed like a nice enough guy. I figured I’d listen to his pitch.”

“What about Ms. Sands?”

“I’d be even more inclined to listen to her pitch,” I said.

“I mean, how did she fit into it? Why was she here?”

“She said she’d got a phone call, too.”

“She tell you this when you and she were driving around in her car?”

I nodded.

“Please answer the questions. This machine doesn’t pick up head movement.”

“She mentioned the phone call while we were driving around,” I said.

“Were you expecting to meet her here?” he asked.

“No.”

He stared at me for a few beats, then asked, “What was Mr. Kelsto’s mood when you talked with him?”

“Mood? I don’t know. Normal, I guess.”

“Would you happen to be acquainted with Mr. Kelsto’s roommate, Mr. Parkins?”

“I don’t believe I am.”

“Wouldn’t know where we might find him?”

“No.”

“Do you have knowledge of any reason why someone would want to torture and murder Mr. Kelsto?”

“No,” I lied.

He made a thing about turning off his machine and putting it into his pocket. “Just between us, brother,” he said, “what do you suppose went down here?”

“A break-in. Robbery. Murder. You’re the homicide expert.”

“Ruello, a fan of yours, says you’re something of an expert, too. Been involved in a couple of homicides.”

“No expert. Just unlucky enough to have been in the wrong places at the wrong times.”

“And now here you are. Third time’s a charm, huh?”

“Like you said.”

He brought up his arm, dipped his long brown fingers into his inside coat pocket, and withdrew a glossy photograph. “You ever see this man before?”

The unsmiling black face that stared back at me was a familiar one.

“Yeah. He was at the show, too,” I said. “Pat Patton’s driver.”

“He’s also Kelsto’s missing roommate, life partner, whatever, Nat Parkins.”

Perfect.