A shotgun blast exploded from behind. The projectiles hit the ceiling, raining plaster over the living room. Ducking and screaming, the remaining party members squeezed into the kitchen and then scrambled down the stairs.
Brouthers pointed the shotgun at Edward. “Are you the pill who broke my record player?”
Edward stood shaking, his hands raised in surrender. “No. I’m Maura’s friend.”
Brouthers grinned at him and lowered the shotgun. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t mister morphine.”
Edward looked back to the wall. Timothy wasn’t there. Allison and Maura had left. The guests were gone. Edward was all alone with David Brouthers.
The hot breeze began as gentle susurrations, but as midnight passed and Allison crossed a lonely intersection, it became a fierce, rustling rush of heat. The spindly trees along the sidewalk bent, their leaves flickering back and forth against the bark like ticker tape.
The air lashed against Allison’s face. Beads of sweat dribbled on her chest before falling chilly onto her sternum and finally seeping into the cotton fabric of her dress. The sounds of footsteps on the pavement could be heard between the whirring whistle of the air. Or was it an auditory illusion? Every time she looked back, there was no one following her.
“Hello?” she yelled.
A traffic cone sputtered from around the corner and was swept along the street, flipping over several times before wedging itself into a storm drain. She kicked off her heels, slowly bending down to pick them up. “Go to hell, Tim!” After a few stumbling, backward steps, she decided to run. Her thighs grew tired and sore after a single block, turning the last stretch into a staggering, gasp-filled trot. Jesus, help me.
She turned one more corner and slammed into the glass door of The Red Rising Theater. The keys fumbled from her handbag, slippery and clanging against one another. They fell from her grasp. No. No. The sound of her pulse throbbed in her ears as every movement slowed down. The key butted against the lock, refusing to go in. Fiddlesticks.
The sweet release of the door’s tension reverberated through her hand. She slammed the door shut and pressed her quivering face against the glass, her see-saw breath creating a mild fog. All she could see was the empty Chicago street. No one was out there. Her muscles slowly expanded. A scared little laugh came from her belly. Foolish ’til the end.
The power in the Red Rising Theater had been shut off since Sunday. It was usually such a bustling space, actors going back and forth in various stages of dress, grips measuring and hammering, and the husky shouts of Jenny echoing about. Now abandoned and quiet, the building struck Allison as eerie and forlorn, wholly unnatural.
She stumbled to the ticket booth, her hands waving blindly above the bottom shelf. Horus smoked. He’s got to have a few lighters stashed down here. She found a Colibri that still worked. The light vibrated along the narrow hallway, a flickering red above a solid blue flame. The guts of the building groaned in the background. It was one of those noises that empty buildings made from pockets of air or the contraction of wood or some other such scientific explanation.
A dry, faded bloodstain covered the floor underneath the still-erect balcony. The curtain was fully drawn, exposing the crossover along with the entrance to the wing.
While she walked to the dressing room, Allison had the vague notion she was dreaming. She pinched her leg. Why would that work? Why would a pinch wake me up? It’s a dream pinch. It isn’t real.
She flipped the lighter shut, setting it on the chest of drawers and then fumbled around in the dark in search of the bottom drawer’s knobs. She pulled it off its hinges with a short little pop, exposing the floor underneath. Her hand stretched into the corner as far as it could without quite reaching what she was looking for. Allison lay flat, wiggling her fingers along the ground. The lighter fell off the top of the dresser, scattering across the room and smacking into something. Shoot. The tip of her nail brushed against some tissue paper. That’s it. She secured the edge of the tissue between two fingers. Her hand pulled out in a fist. In her grasp was proof of murder.
After a long, frustrating search, Allison found the lighter. A few clicks of the button and the flame caught, its wavering reflection glowing in her wet eyes. What if Tim is waiting at the apartment? I’ll go to Eddie. He’ll help me. His address must be in Jenny’s office.
About half way down the wing, Allison noticed a light dancing in odd, widening arcs. As she got closer, one hand gliding along the wall, the light grew bigger and began to shimmer with more movement. At about five feet, she could see the face above the light. It had a grin so wide both rows of teeth showed. Allison looked into eyes she had seen many times before. They morphed into the eyes of a stranger. With dawning fright, she looked back down at the light and saw it was not a light, but rather a reflection of the Colibri’s flame—an evil, sinister reflection in the blade of a razor.
CHAPTER 9 what you don’t know gets you killed
10:30 a.m. Wednesday, April 10th
Murder is a curious affair. To look at someone and say ‘you shall breathe nevermore’ requires a level of passion I would not think the human mind capable. Reality provides ample evidence to the contrary. Not only are people capable, but given the opportunity, they are inclined. Passion was at the heart of Lisa’s murder. I cannot solve how it was committed…not yet anyway. Perhaps I can discover from which heart this passion lies buried.
Rowan sucked in his gut, barely buttoning his trousers before letting the paunch expand over the waistline. His pallid, craggy hands slung a tie around his upturned collar.
Jenny was so distraught when it happened. Days later, she reverted to viciousness. It is self-defense. A woman like that, a damaged, bitter shell, must protect herself. It seems Grizz is capable of murder, but this one? It does not feel right. Mr. Thompson is a foot soldier. Why would a delivery driver be fired? Edward was either late or stealing his shipment. Why is Maura afraid of the police? Is her fear convergent or parallel to Lisa’s murder? Timothy’s passion lies on the surface. It is not in a murderer’s best interest to play his hand like that…unless he is doubly cunning. Allison knows something. She must. Why else would she—
The telephone rang from Williams’s desk. Rowan’s hands held tightly onto the ends of the tie. “How…How to tie a Windsor?” I have performed this simple action countless times. His hands twisted the tail and the blade in every possible direction and combination. Nothing was recognizable to him. “Oh, God. I am losing my mind.” Rowan dropped the tie to his feet and stumbled out to the phone.
Grady’s voice rasped with shell-shocked solemnity. “You’d better get down to The Red Rising Theater, Manory.”
“There has been another murder.”
“Just get down here.”
The signs of the city’s despair moved left to right through the cab’s window. Free coffee for the unemployed. No Micks, No Wops, No Armenians. Death to the Bourgeoisie. Four children for sale–Inquire within. Closed. Most of the buildings were closed. People stood beside empty storefronts, broken glass lying about the sidewalk under their feet. A burning stench drifted through the air without an identifiable source.
Entertainment and death are the only remaining enterprises, and business is booming. I did not expect another murder. Not so soon. The second murder is always different from the first. It is one of those lessons you learn and then quickly forget.
Rowan pulled the tie from his pocket. He closed his eyes. Over, under, up, and through. Success. His head fell back onto the seat. Today I forget a knot. Tomorrow, my name. And there will come a day, sooner than I realize, when a stranger will be staring back in the mirror. Everything I have spent my life building will vanish. The only thing remaining will be the cold, looming specter of death.
“Twenty.”
Rowan snapped back to consciousness. “Pardon?”
The hack looked at him through the rearview mirror. “We’re at the theater, pops. Twenty cents.”
The cop stationed
at the theater door extended a bully club toward Rowan’s chest. “Move along, Frankenstein. Ain’t nothing to see here.”
“I am Rowan Manory. Sergeant Grady is expecting me.”
“Oh. Sorry. I gotta be careful. We’ve had photographers trying to get in here. They can smell a good story.”
“It comes with the job I suppose.”
“No, I mean literally. If you stand outside the fire escape, you can smell it. I had to give a couple of the rats a shiner.”
“Have you seen the body?”
“Uh-uh.” The cop leaned in close and whispered. “But it smells like shit mixed with meat back there. Whatever happened, it ain’t good, and we’re to keep it under wraps.”
Grady was sitting in the front row with a hat flopped over his knee. Rowan had never seen him look so contemptuous, so utterly defeated. “Come on, she’s in the dressing room. Brace yourself.”
“I have seen it before,” said Rowan.
The sergeant shook his head. “Not this you ain’t. Even I ain’t seen this before. We got a nutter on our hands, the kind that gets studied by eggheads in white rooms.”
The flashing of camera bulbs and the cracking of glass came from the doorway. The cold, heavy smell of rot overtook the air in the wing. It swept to the back of Rowan’s throat. He raised his velum. Grady stopped to cross himself before entering.
Allison’s body lay sprawled against the chest of drawers, both palms turned toward the ceiling. The final moment of horror was etched on her face.
Rowan knelt in front of the corpse. “Do you believe me now, Grady?”
The sergeant pursed his lips. “We don’t know for sure if this is connected to Pluviam. It’s still speculation. I sent men to find the cast and question them as to their whereabouts on Tuesday night.”
“To my eyes, it appears that two separate weapons were used, yes?”
Grady nodded. “As far as we can tell, a straight razor was used on the throat and then a kitchen knife…Is that right, Davis, a kitchen knife?”
Davis, a short, ghoulish man with fat cheeks and bloody, pale-green rubber gloves, stood motionless in the corner. “I said it looks that way. Don’t quote me ’til we get her to McKinley in post.”
“In all probability, a kitchen knife was used to do…” Grady pointed at the body. “…that.”
Rowan tilted his head at the blank space where the drawer had been pulled out. “What did the cast have to say?”
“We haven’t been able to locate Maura Lewis or Timothy Brown yet. Jenny Pluviam and Edward Filius were cooperative, but neither has an alibi. There are no prints and we don’t have either weapon although we do have a good idea where the razor came from.”
“Do you have a working motive?”
“Yeah, a pretty damn good one if you ask me. Timothy Brown and the victim were at a party last night. Scummy little bug named Brouthers threw it. Witnesses saw them fighting. Allison seemed to implicate him in Lisa Pluviam’s death. Maura Lewis and Edward Filius were there as well. We’re treating this as a crime of passion.”
And yet, it is clearly the opposite. Rowan stood. “What’s this about the murder weapon?”
Grady sucked his teeth at the only good piece of news. “It’s likely from the bathroom of the victim’s apartment. We found Timothy Brown’s shaving case minus the razor.”
“How convenient.”
“What do you mean, how convenient?”
Rowan patted his forehead with a handkerchief. “The faster you get me the address I asked for, the faster I will know what’s happening.”
“But Brown’s the man, yeah? Somebody strong had to do this, right Davis?”
“Ask McKinley.”
Rowan lit a sloppily rolled cigarette. The loose paper erupted into a large flame. He stamped it out under his shoe. “Who found the body?”
“Jenny Pluviam.”
“May I speak with her?”
Grady shook his head. “We took her back home. Imagine walking in on this without warning. She’s in shock.” He looked back at the wing. “Where’s your buddy?”
Walter whistled as he skipped up the stairs, the melodic sweetness of Gene Austin’s vocal playing in his head. There she is. There she is. That’s what keeps me up at night. Oh Gee whiz, Oh Gee whiz. That’s why I can’t eat a bite. Now ain’t she sweet? See her coming down the street. I ask you confidentially, ain’t she sweet?
The blades of the hall’s window fan whooshed like a windmill struggling to keep pace with a tempest. Crimson walls surrounded a crimson carpet with only the tarnished brass of the door numbers ruining the monochromous red. The fan’s deformed shadow stretched the length of the hallway.
Apartment 304. A small tap of his knuckle went unanswered. When a more strident knock yielded the same result, Walter rapped at the door with full force.
The door cracked open and a woman stuck out her nose. Her speech was marred by a stiff bottom lip, perhaps the result of a stroke or two. “Can I help you, sir?” She opened the door a bit wider. Although the bones of her face had retained their firm youthful shape, her skin had sagged around that still imposing structure, giving her a constant disapproving look.
Now, that is a biddy—a woman dying to be played with. A gigantic Maine Coon emerged, rubbing its face against the woman’s calves. Walter knelt onto the dirty floor like a child playing on a rug. “What an adorable kitty. Is it a he or a she?”
“It’s a he. That’s Mr. Jinx. He’s the resident troublemaker.” She reached down and scratched the cat’s chin. It responded with a soulful, high-pitched mew.
“ Aww, Mr. Jinx looks like a tiger, but he sounds like a little girl. What’s the breed?”
“Pure Coon. He’s terribly friendly.”
“May I pet him?”
She gave the goofiest of misshapen grins.
Walter held out his hand, snapping his fingers. “Puss, puss. Puss, puss.”
Mr. Jinx rolled into the hallway, its paws pointed straight up, exposing a furry belly. The woman clasped her hands together under her chin. “That’s his invitation to play. Jinxy doesn’t do that for everyone. He must like you. It’s a gift to be liked by a cat; they’re very particular creatures.”
As Walter rubbed Jinx’s belly, its eyes dilated and its limbs closed on his arm like a trap. The front claws dug into his wrist while the back ones ripped into the sleeve with a series of rabbit kicks. Walter tried to yank his arm away, but the cat’s grip kept him in place. “Takes it rather seriously, doesn’t he?”
“When my husband ain’t home, the fuzzy monster hasn’t got anyone to play with. Got a lot of aggression, he does. Refuses to take it out on me, bless his little heart.”
Distracting the cat with his left hand, Walter managed to free himself from its clutches. “Madam—”
She corrected him. “Shirley Bridge.”
Dots of blood swelled over the scratches on his wrist. “Shirley, my name is Walter Williams. I am looking for the landlord of the premises.”
Shirley stood a bit straighter. “Well, like I implied earlier, my husband ain’t home. But I’m the landlady.”
“Thank goodness. I much prefer landladies to landlords. They’re so much more pleasant to look at.”
She cocked her head, birdlike. “What can I do for you, Walter?”
“I was trying to get in touch with an old friend, a Mr. Thompson.”
Shirley put her nose in the air. “Ain’t no Mr. Thompson who lives here.”
“Perhaps you know him as Grizz?”
She frowned. “Oh, Grizzy. What you want with him?”
“I haven’t seen Grizzy for ages. I don’t even know what he’s doing with himself these days, but I found out his address and came to say hello. I knocked on his door downstairs, but he doesn’t seem to be home.”
“Grizzy is a very busy man. Comes in and out a lot, but he keeps to himself, so I can’t say what he does.”
“Anything you could tell me about my friend would be most helpful.”
Walter’s face dropped from character. “How did you get to be so clever?”
“You should work for Cargill, Walter. I’m sure they have plenty of turkeys for you to butter up. But I ain’t no turkey.”
“No, you are not. I’m a private investigator.” Walter gave her his card.
Shirley’s hand trembled with excitement as she held it. “You investigating him then?”
“I suppose I am.”
“Is Grizzy dangerous?”
“I don’t know yet. That’s why I’m here to ask him some questions. Perhaps I can ask you. Does Grizz stay here often?”
“No, he must sleep somewhere else.” Shirley pushed her tongue against her cheek. “He does have meetings in that apartment though. European meetings.”
“I don’t understand. What do you mean by European meetings?”
“Strange-looking gentlemen, probably Jews. They call each other comrade.”
Mr. Jinx took hold of Walter’s ankle and bit through his sock. Fucker. “What do these Jews talk about?”
“I tried to listen, but they play the radio real loudlike and I can’t make out their words. Political discussions from what I can muster. Yesterday, he left here with three men. I heard a bit of their conversation.”
Walter leaned in close to the ever-widening crack in the door. “As I said, anything would be helpful.”
“Grizzy said he could always go Southwest and get some more.”
“Some more what?”
“Just some more.”
“Hmmm. Southwest. That’s rather cryptic.”
“I thought so, too.” Shirley folded her arms. “Why would he give a direction instead of naming a place like a normal person? I have a theory about where he was headed.”
“Yes?”
“He calls it Southwest because he can’t remember the name. It must be some little town no one’s ever heard of.”
“That’s a fine deduction. Have you ever thought about becoming a detective, Shirley?”
The Opening Night Murders Page 12
