When Old Midnight Comes Along
Page 18
That had the effect I wanted. His face went stupid. Then his eyes turned bleak. “I’ve gone too far now to go back, though, haven’t I?”
That was the effect I’d hoped would miss him.
“Disposing of you shouldn’t be too difficult,” he said to me. “Your work, I’m sure you’ve made your share of enemies on both sides of the law. When you turn up on a trash heap, I don’t suppose the taxpayers will take a big hit on the investigation. Holly—well, I’ll figure something out. Two unexplained disappearances in one man’s domestic life may be asking a lot for the authorities to swallow, but if I work it right, you won’t be in a position to cause the kind of inconvenience Paula did; and since we never consummated the engagement, I won’t have to go through the messy business of proving you dead.” Suddenly his face softened. “I did want to marry you, put the past far enough behind it wouldn’t catch up. There’d be time to start over somewhere, with a stake to support us.”
While he was talking to her I cast my glance around for something to throw. I’d have to lunge for the telephone-intercom set on the desk, and there were the wires to hang me up; Lawes wasn’t so drunk his reflexes wouldn’t prove more than a match, and the pistol would do the rest. The pictures on the walls might as well have been hanging in the British Museum for all the access I had to them.
No, there was only one thing handy.
It was ungentlemanly as hell. I grabbed hold of Holly with both hands, squeezing her arms hard enough to leave bruises, and hurled her at the man holding the gun; hurled her as if I were George Washington heaving all the gold in the U.S. Treasury across the Potomac.
THIRTY-THREE
Somewhere in the stygian tunnels of Detroit Receiving Hospital, the Golden Girls were bickering over a communal cheesecake. Somewhere in the world they’re doing the same thing, every minute of every day. A TV sitcom that’s run its course is the nearest thing we have to a perpetual motion machine.
I sat in a generic waiting room browsing among the unfamiliar faces in a two-month-old issue of People, wanting a smoke but knowing that some overweight health-care professional in a flowered smock would come looking for me the minute I left.
I had the place to myself. All the heavy traffic was outside Emergency, where they stacked the GSWs, DUIs, and DOAs before dispatching them to their destinations. The staff at Receiving specializes in removing slugs, drawing blood, and hanging tags on toes. I’d spent time there in the past, on gurneys and on hard benches. A stale magazine filled with glamorous strangers and regular doses of canned laughter were a distinct improvement.
“Man, I hope for his sake the guy that decorated one of these places the first time took out a patent. He’d be laying on a beach somewhere next to the inventor of the orange construction barrel.”
I looked up at John Alderdyce coming in from the hall. He wore a made-to-order outfit fashioned from raw silk and starched linen. I said, “I thought all you retirees turned your business wear into grease rags.”
“Save that for some pensioner. I’ve got a job.” He sat on the settee opposite mine and showed me a gold-and-enamel shield pinned to a stiff leather folder. “Special Consultant to the Detective Division, as of this morning.”
“I didn’t know the department had one.”
“Neither did the department, until it tagged me. My first job’s to sweat Albanian Al Zog, our friendly incarcerated gang-banger, in partnership with Oakes Steadman, on loan from the state police. We already know he planned to squeeze Francis X. Lawes for bankrolling the Monte Carlo job once his parole comes up in three years and change; all we need is for Al to confirm it. Which he will, if he doesn’t want to do his full bit for failing to cooperate in a homicide investigation.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Did Lieutenant Stonesmith say thanks?”
“She didn’t have to. She’d already paid for it. What about that clumsy bluff Zog tried to run about Lawes buying the hot ring, the one with all the holes in it?”
“He’s smarter than he looks, using a transparently phony confession as a stonewalling tactic. It was good enough to fool some pretty sharp interrogators in Robbery Armed.”
“Albanians are clever. We didn’t even know the country was there until they raised the Iron Curtain.”
“Speaking of Steadman,” he said, “he and Kid Kong found George Hoyle’s nest-egg hidden in his house: A smartphone with a picture of the low-rider Albert White borrowed from the impound, plate and all, time-and date-stamped. Nothing on that Impala Marcus Root was following; probably just a random distraction. Oh, and a sign in the background advertising the Lions’ training camp. That puts the car a couple of blocks from where Root was killed.”
“Nice to know the team’s good for something. Do you think Hoyle saw the whole deal?”
“We’ll never know, without his testimony; but who needs it? White’s facing a court where there’s no appeal.”
“I didn’t know you were so devout.”
He lifted his brows, jerking his thumb back over his shoulder.
I flipped the magazine shut and scaled it at the nearest table. “She’s getting dressed, waiting for her release to come through by tramp steamer. I’m her ride.”
“Damned decent of you, considering you’re the reason she’s here.”
“She was light enough to throw and heavy enough for the job. Where’s Lawes in the system?”
“Booked and printed, hollering lawyer. Prosecutor’s pushing for no bail. He’ll settle for Lawes’s passport and an electronic tether. He’s subpoenaing Paula, by the way.”
“You’re welcome for that too. For what it’s worth. She doesn’t have anything concrete.”
“He’ll call her as a reverse character witness. Judge’ll throw it out, but it’ll take more than that to dig the worm out of the minds of the jury.” He rearranged his big shoulders; somewhere on the other side of the earth a tidal wave wiped out a village. “We’ll be lucky to get him five years in minimum security on the felony homicide; maybe two more for the attempt on you and Pride. If we can get the feds involved, some of the contractors he got to pay for play may get nervous and turn state’s evidence; that’s a game-changer. These days, public corruption draws more fire than the murder of a bookkeeper.”
A nurse came in, as pretty and cheerful as a party balloon. “Mr. Walker? She’s all yours.”
I stood. To Alderdyce: “What’s Marilee think of your new job?”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
“I’d rather face another gun.”
We shook hands.
* * *
Holly Pride was sitting in a wheelchair when I entered her room, clutching a plastic bag containing her personal stuff on her lap. She had on the same outfit she’d worn when I brought her to the hospital after turning Lawes over to the police. Her crazy crooked bangs were in order and her outfit didn’t show many wrinkles. That was what would have taken most of the time while I waited. The cast on her right ankle glared antiseptic white where her foot was propped on the flat metal doohickey that swung out from in front of the wheels.
“Should I sign it?” I said.
“Artists usually sign their work. Did you have to use me as a weapon?” She rubbed her upper arms; it was anyone’s bet which healed first, the fractured ankle or the bruises my fingers had left.
“I don’t think so well on my feet. Anyway, he let go of the gun. I haven’t made a circus catch like that since the army.” I worked the fingers of my right hand. I’d backhanded the Glock across Lawes’s mouth, scraping my knuckles on his teeth. “If it means anything, I think he did love you enough to marry.”
“It doesn’t. I was a means to an end, like all his other shortcuts.” She stopped rubbing her arms. “I’ll have to testify, won’t I?”
“Not soon. Lawes’s lawyer will get the trial date put off as long as he can while the noise dies down in the press. You’ll be on your feet making the rounds of the employment agencies before you’re summoned.”
“There’s not enough to receive. I spend most of my working day trying to avoid getting caught in the World Wide Web.”
She smiled. “Well, maybe we can figure something out together. Meanwhile you can take me to lunch; someplace without a dress code.” She smoothed her skirt. “I’ve already passed twice on the low-sodium, no-sugar-added, overcooked hogslop they dish up here.”
“I know a joint where the food is twice as tasteless and almost as cold.” I stepped behind the chair and grasped the handles. “Spot me a few bucks? I’m having trouble lately collecting from clients.”
BOOKS BY LOREN D. ESTLEMAN
AMOS WALKER MYSTERIES
Motor City Blue
Angel Eyes
The Midnight Man
The Glass Highway
Sugartown
Every Brilliant Eye
Lady Yesterday
Downriver
Silent Thunder
Sweet Women Lie
Never Street
The Witchfinder
The Hours of the Virgin
A Smile on the Face of the Tiger
Sinister Heights
Poison Blonde*
Retro*
Nicotine Kiss*
American Detective*
The Left-Handed Dollar*
Infernal Angels*
Burning Midnight*
Don’t Look for Me*
You Know Who Killed Me*
The Sundown Speech*
The Lioness Is the Hunter*
Black and White Ball*
When Old Midnight Comes Along*
VALENTINO, FILM DETECTIVE
Frames*
Alone*
Alive!*
Shoot*
Brazen*
DETROIT CRIME
Whiskey River
Motown
King of the Corner
Edsel
Stress
Jitterbug*
Thunder City*
PETER MACKLIN
Kill Zone
Roses Are Dead
Any Man’s Death
Something Borrowed, Something Black*
Little Black Dress*
OTHER FICTION
The Oklahoma Punk
Sherlock Holmes vs. Dracula
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Holmes
Peeper
Gas City*
Journey of the Dead*
The Rocky Mountain Moving Picture Association*
Roy & Lillie: A Love Story*
The Confessions of Al Capone*
PAGE MURDOCK SERIES
The High Rocks*
Stamping Ground*
Murdock’s Law*
The Stranglers
City of Widows*
White Desert*
Port Hazard*
The Book of Murdock*
Cape Hell*
Wild Justice*
WESTERNS
The Hider
Aces & Eights*
The Wolfer
Mister St. John
This Old Bill
Gun Man
Bloody Season
Sudden Country
Billy Gashade*
The Master Executioner*
Black Powder, White Smoke*
The Undertaker’s Wife*
The Adventures of Johnny Vermillion*
The Branch and the Scaffold*
Ragtime Cowboys*
The Long High Noon*
The Ballad of Black Bart*
NONFICTION
The Wister Trace
Writing the Popular Novel
*Published by Tom Doherty Associates
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LOREN D. ESTLEMAN has written more than eighty books—historical novels, mysteries, and Westerns. Winner of four Shamus Awards, five Spur Awards, and three Western Heritage Awards, he lives in central Michigan with his wife, author Deborah Morgan. You can sign up for email updates here.
Thank you for buying this
Tom Doherty Associates ebook.
To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.
Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup
For email updates on the author, click here.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
I: Forgetting Paula
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
II: Remembering Marcus
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
III: Forgetting to Remember
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Books by Loren D. Estleman
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
WHEN OLD MIDNIGHT COMES ALONG
Copyright © 2019 by Loren D. Estleman
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Michael Graziolo
Cover photograph by Jeanne Rouillard
A Forge Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates
120 Broadway
New York, NY 10271
www.tor-forge.com
Forge® is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC.
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-19717-7 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-19718-4 (ebook)
eISBN 9781250197184
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.
First Edition: December 2019