The repairman startled her. “All done, Miss. Brannon.”
She rose, pocketed the cigarette case, and said, “I’ll get my checkbook.”
He followed her into the kitchen. “That dead bolt on the back ain’t going to help unless you do something with the front.”
Bertha nodded. “I know. This is all I can afford for now.”
The guy took the check and smiled. “Your neck.”
Bertha held the back door for him and said, “Thank you,” beneath her breath saying, thank you for reminding me whose neck’s at risk. Then she shut and locked it firmly behind him.
*
Bertha rang the bell, waited, and pounded on the door. She could hear the shouts of children playing in the road near the corner unit where she’d parked. She heard the hollow thump, thump, thump of a basketball. She knocked again and waited.
The still air between the brick buildings was hot. The sun was almost directly overhead. Bertha shifted her weight, touched the holstered Smith and Wesson beneath her shirt, and raised her fist to knock again. The doorknob turned slightly.
Masey Monahan appeared, her stringy blond hair covering half her face. She was barefoot, wearing the same baby-doll pajama top Bertha had seen her in four days ago.
“He ain’t here,” Masey said, then turned and walked back into the dark apartment, leaving the door open.
“Have you seen him since yesterday?” Bertha called after her.
Silence.
Bertha cautiously stepped into the living room and waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. The room smelled stale and dusty. The air was warm. There was a mess across the floor, a fresh spill of some kind on the dingy carpet. The coffee table was turned on its side, the contents of an ashtray strewn in all directions. A broken lamp was propped against the end of the couch, the shade askew.
“I said he ain’t here.” Masey’s voice startled Bertha. She stood in the archway that separated the living room from the kitchen.
“When was the last time you saw him?”
Masey raked her fingers through her oily hair. Light from the kitchen behind the woman made her scrawny silhouette appear menacing. “He was home last night. I just woke up.” She shrugged her slim shoulders. “He’s gone.”
“You two throw a party?” Bertha asked, nodding toward the upset furniture.
Maisie laughed nervously. “You know how it is.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“I’ll tell him you stopped by.”
“Don’t bother.” Bertha turned to go.
“Wait,” said Maisie.
Bertha stopped.
“You got any blow?”
Bertha hesitated for a moment, then pulled the metal cigarette case from her pocket and tossed it toward Masey. “Knock yourself out.”
Masey lunged for it, but the cigarette case hit the floor and spun toward the kitchen. She fell to her hands and knees, revealing a gaunt, bare thigh as she crawled out of sight.
Bertha took advantage of the moment to look closer at the room. It was too dark to tell much about the stain. It could have been spilled beer. Flies buzzed lazily over the sofa. She wasn’t sure if she wanted Cal Mossman to come home and find her there or not. She stepped back toward the door, and her foot brushed against the broken lamp. She reached to steady it and touched something that was draped over the shade. It looked like a scarf. She stared at it for a moment, then reached down and pulled it off the shade and held it up. In the light from the open door, she saw that it wasn’t a scarf, but a huge necktie. Paisley, like the one Mark Mossman had worn yesterday in her office.
She dropped it and hurried outside. By the time her tennis shoes hit the cement sidewalk she was running, past a barking dog, past the children playing, toward the safety of her Jeep. Footsteps fell behind her, were closing in on her. She tried to push faster, but there was no faster for her; she was going to die.
“Bertha,” a male voice called behind her.
She could hear the pounding of footfalls. Still running almost at the end of the brick row, she reached behind her, unsnapped her holster, pulled the gun, and didn’t stop running until she sprang behind the steering wheel, fumbling for her keys.
“Bertha.” Pop Wilson grabbed the driver’s side door. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. “What you running from? You look like you seen a ghost.” Pop was out of uniform, wearing a pair of khaki shorts and a red T-shirt. His round forehead was covered with sweat. She hadn’t seen him hatless for years, hadn’t realized his hair had receded and gone gray.
Finally Bertha said, “What’re you doing here? Shouldn’t you be home in bed?”
Pop coughed and grinned, then holding on to the Jeep’s open door he bent over and tried to talk. Between deep breathing he managed to say, “My old auntie lives down the street. I took her to the doctor this morning.”
“Good for you.”
“You know,” said Pop. “I could ask you the same thing. No good reason for Bertha Brannon to be in Fat Lady projects that I can see. Unless you’re defending a dope peddler or unless you’re looking for one.”
Bertha’s fear turned to rage. “That’s the second time you implied I was using.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
Pop leaned in the open door sweating profusely and lowered his voice. “You listen to me, Missy. You just walked right into the middle of a stakeout. The police think the place is empty and are waiting for Cal Mossman to show up. But you come and pound on the door, and somebody lets you in. Did you just talk to him?”
“No. I thought you said your auntie—”
“That was earlier. I saw the undercover car and was standing there shootin’ the breeze when you come. I told them I knew you, or you would be in handcuffs. Now, who let you in?”
“Masey Monahan.”
“The girlfriend?”
Bertha nodded. “I guess that’s what she is.”
“She didn’t answer earlier,” Pop said thoughtfully.
“She was pretty strung out. Maybe she didn’t hear them knock. Or maybe she saw who was out there and decided she didn’t want to talk.”
“How you know Mossman?”
“I used to buy from him. That’s what you wanted to hear, isn’t it?”
“So what you doing here now?”
Bertha, still trying camouflage her own respiratory distress, let out her breath slowly. “He came by my place a couple of nights ago. He left something. I was just returning it.”
“Drugs?”
Bertha shifted her position and faced Pop and nodded.
“Sister, why didn’t you just flush them? This is a dangerous place to be.”
Bertha laughed softly. “Never could flush them. But they’re gone now. And I guess I’m safe.”
Pop leaned his elbows on the Jeep’s open window. “There was another murder last night.”
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know, okay? I think you should get a warrant. Something very messy happened in that living room back there.”
“That what you running from?”
Bertha nodded. “The place is a mess. It was dark—shades drawn. I could see furniture turned over. A stain on the rug and evidence that your new murder victim had been there.”
Pop Wilson met her eyes. “What evidence?”
“The guy’s necktie. The one he was wearing yesterday.”
“How do you know what he was wearing yesterday?”
Bertha sighed. “Don’t ask.”
“I got to ask. Did you see him?”
“I need to get out of here. I’ve got a thousand things to do.”
“Give it up, Bertha.” Pop’s forehead wrinkled and his expression was solemn. “We could haul you in. Let the homicide detectives go over everything with you.”
Bertha spoke quickly. “Mark Mossman came to my office yesterday. It was the first time I’d met him. We talked about the Morescki murder. He was there—maybe, t
wenty minutes.”
“We’re jeopardizing this stakeout. Suppose I meet you downtown, and you give Homicide a statement. I’ll do my best to make sure they keep it short and sweet.”
“I need to get to work,” Bertha said, remembering Pat Reed’s action, which she said she’d file today.
“A half hour.”
Bertha started the Jeep and put it in gear.
Chapter Twenty-nine
During the hour and fifty minutes that Bertha waited to talk to Detective Harris, she drank two cans of Pepsi and went to the bathroom three times. Pop Wilson had shown her to a second-floor conference room with a phone and then abandoned her. It had cement block walls painted institutional green, a single window, an empty bulletin board, a rack with several pamphlets (domestic-violence shelters, sexual-assault hotline, and homeless services), and a large mirror that she quickly realized was two-way. Restrooms and an elevator were across the hall.
Bertha called Alvin, told him she’d be in soon, and asked him to draw up a contract and work on Pat Reed. She cleaned her fingernails and read a pamphlet on drug abuse—learned that heroin was invented in 1874 by Bayer Pharmaceuticals and cocaine was one of the ingredients in Coca-Cola back in 1886. She looked out the window and watched people entering and leaving the building below. At two thirty she saw Detective James Harris hurry up the concrete steps. Ten minutes passed before he came through the door.
“Bertha,” he said pumping her hand, “I’m sorry you had to wait. You’ll have to excuse me. I’ve been out digging through the Northeast all morning. I stopped and took a shower on the way in. Wilson tells me you know something about our new homicide. Please, sit down.”
Bertha sat. “If your victim is Mark Mossman, I talked to him yesterday. At my office.”
“Mark Mossman.” Harris put his head to one side and partly closed one eye. “That would be our man. How do you know him?”
“I don’t.”
“But he came to your office?” Harris absently patted his pockets. “You want a Coke or something? Coffee?”
“Thanks, I’m fine.”
“You don’t mind if I record, do you?” Harris produced a small tape recorder from his jacket pocket.
Bertha shook her head no. She made a mental note not to threaten to kill anybody this time.
Harris, finally sitting across from Bertha and placing the recorder between them, said, “I don’t understand. Was he a client of yours?”
“No. I asked Cal Mossman if his brother Mark would talk to me about Joe Morescki. They both worked for him. Anyway, Mark dropped by yesterday.”
Harris frowned. The lines between his eyebrows became deep furrows. “How was he employed by Morescki?”
“He told me he was Joe Morescki’s bodyguard.”
“I see.” Harris rubbed his chin. “In light of everything that’s happened, I think it’s a bad idea for you to be poking around in this business. Very dangerous.”
“Mark Mossman came to me.”
“I understand you visited his brother’s home this morning.”
“That’s a long story. But I think I stumbled into a crime scene. I told Pop Wilson you need to get a warrant and go in there.”
“My partner is finding a judge as we speak.”
“Good. I understand the new victim had his throat cut.”
Harris was silent.
It was a slip. How could she explain her access to that information without getting Toni Matulis in trouble?
She saw Harris consider asking and then change his mind. “The MO sounds like the Morescki homicide, all right. But there are subtle differences.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll admit that most of the time in this business the answer to two and two make four,” Harris said, sucking on a tooth.
Bertha was determined to outwait him. She watched the tiny tape in the recorder turn. The scarred wooden table illuminated one side of James Harris’s face, showing all its flaws. His skin looked haggard and pockmarked, a day’s growth clung to his cheek like cinnamon sugar.
Finally Harris leaned back in his chair and spoke in a soft monotone. “Most murders fall into two categories. Those categories have to do with the perp. What his or her history is, that sort of thing.” He raised his hand and counted them off. “You have organized and disorganized offenders. The crime scene in your office was the result of a disorganized criminal. It doesn’t necessarily have to do with the mess your office was in, but more with what we learned from the coroner’s report.”
Bertha strained forward. “What did you learn?”
“Morescki had been tortured before he was finished off. He had cuts to his upper torso.”
“How does that make the killer disorganized?”
“There’s more.” Harris shook a finger at her. “The disorganized killer tends to return to the crime scene. Clean up later. Hence the death of the security guard.”
“And today’s death is different?”
“Mark Mossman was not murdered at the landfill. His body was dumped there. He was not tortured but shot in the back of the head: very clean. The throat-slashing was an afterthought. Like a message to someone.”
“A message to whom?”
“It could be a message to the other killer or retaliation against Morescki.” Harris leaned on his elbows and frowned. “I’ve given you a lot of information. How about you give up a little to me? Tell me everything you know about the events of the past week.”
Bertha thought for a moment. “I can’t imagine one person with the strength to move Mark Mossman’s body. He was a big man.”
“True. I make it he was murdered in a car, driven to the landfill, and dumped.”
“Then Cal Mossman’s apartment couldn’t be the scene of the murder?”
“I’m not sure of anything at this point.”
“Tell me more about this organized-and unorganized-murder business.”
Harris leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table. “It’s something we’ve learned from the FBI the past decade. There’s more to the crime and crime scene than just the physical evidence.”
“If all the things that have happened the last week were laid end to end, I believe they’d lead to the same place.”
“And where would that be?”
Bertha shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Believe me, after you see several of these, you start to see the patterns,” Harris said. “The disorganized perp is low intelligence, socially immature, abusive childhood, nocturnal, poor personal hygiene. He tends to return to the crime scene, attends the victim’s funeral. His actions are impulsive.”
Bertha nodded.
“The organized murderer is in many ways the opposite. He tends to have a higher IQ and social competence. He will be the only child, or most favored child in the family, but harshly disciplined. He will anticipate being questioned, move the body, you know, place the body to advertise the crime, and volunteer information. Some have been known to become police groupies, though I don’t see that happening here. The organized criminal plans the offense, controls the crime scene, and leaves very little evidence. I think today’s guy was counting on us not wanting to dig too deep out at the Northeast.”
“He’s the same guy who did Morescki?” Bertha asked.
“I don’t think so. The coroner’s report on the last one isn’t in, of course.”
There was a long silence. Finally Bertha said, “You know, I think I will have something to drink. Maybe another Pepsi.”
“Come on, Bertha,” Harris said, not moving. “I’ve been doing most of the talking here. I want you to tell me everything about the events of the past week, and I want you to elaborate extensively about your connection to Calvin Mossman and his brother.”
Bertha took a deep breath. This was the point when she would have advised a suspect to ask for a lawyer. But she hadn’t done anything. There were things she didn’t want to talk about. Toni Matulis for one. Aunt Lucy’s strange connection to Sal
ly Morescki. Bertha’s own connection to Cal Mossman was a sensitive topic, but her past cocaine addiction was no secret. She decided to start at the beginning, though she was sure she’d covered a lot of the information in their last interview.
Bertha noticed a lot of traffic in the corridor and realized that the afternoon shift was starting. She went over the story of the woman who came to her office Friday night claiming to be Sally Morescki. She told Harris about the break-in and the last time she’d seen the woman, who now claimed to be Kim Cornwell. She was in the middle of the story of the fire when the tape recorder clicked off, and Harris turned the tape to the second side.
“Where does Cal Mossman come into all of this?” Harris asked, starting the recorder again.
“I decided I wanted to talk to him when I learned he’d worked for Joe Morescki.”
“How did you stumble over that tidbit?”
“My secretary told me. It’s a matter of public domain, you know.”
“Really?”
“Morescki’s firm had several contracts with the city.”
An angry voice startled Bertha. “What does that have to do with anything?”
She looked up. A uniformed officer leaned against the doorframe. He was middle-aged with dark hair that was very thin on top and looked familiar.
“What you need, Frank?” Detective Harris asked.
The officer shrugged. “I was just passing by when I saw you in here with her.”
Harris stood, crossed the room, and placed his hand on the officer’s shoulder. “Come on. I’m in the middle of an interview.”
Frank pulled away. “Aren’t you gonna introduce us?”
Harris looked from the officer to Bertha and back again. Finally he sighed and said, “Bertha Brannon, this is Sergeant Francis Morescki.”
The man entered the room and extended his thick paw. Bertha half stood and leaned across the table.
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Brannon.” Frank Morescki pumped her hand, his grip so firm that a pain shot up her wrist. He fixed her with a stern gaze, his voice a metallic snarl, and said, “The family business is no business of yours.”
Nine Nights on the Windy Tree Page 24
