Dark Alleys

by Rick Polad

  He drove along the lake with the windows rolled down. He liked the wind and the freedom of driving along the shore next to the water where there was no hint of the sins on the streets just a few blocks inland.

  Chapter 25

  Spencer wheeled the Mustang into Stosh’s driveway at 2:15. The Cubs were in the second inning, losing four to one. After parking on the gravel next to the concrete drive, Spencer rang the back doorbell and waited. No answer. He walked around the side and peeked in the window. The game was on and Stosh was asleep in his chair. Stosh had given Spencer a key after his folks had died in case he needed a quiet place to spend some time. Spencer let himself in the back door and quietly closed it. He knew Stosh had been up early and wanted to let him sleep.

  Spencer made a ham and cheese sandwich, grabbed a bottle of beer, and tiptoed into the living room. He set the bottle on the floor, balanced the plate on his lap, and ate while he watched.

  WGN went to commercials as Spencer washed the last bite down with a long swallow of Schlitz, the beer that made Milwaukee famous. It was Stosh’s favorite beer and the first label Spencer had emptied by himself. He set the plate on the floor and glanced about the room which hadn’t changed a bit for as long as Spencer could remember. The front wall was filled with windows with a long table beneath. A vase on the table always used to be filled with fresh flowers. Now it was empty. Spencer meant to bring some every time he came, but never remembered. Next to the vase was Stosh and Francine’s wedding picture. The TV was on the wall opposite the couch. Stosh’s favorite chair, a recliner, and Francie’s rocker sat in front of shelves along the fourth wall, with an end table between them. The shelves held photos and books. The only change in the room since Francie had died was a layer of dust.

  In the last of the fourth, the Cubs went ahead with a grand slam. Spencer let out a yell that woke Stosh.

  Stosh stretched and looked over the intruder, noticing the plate covered with crumbs and the almost-empty bottle of beer on the floor.

  “Hey, just make yourself at home,” he said in his best polite but gruff manner.

  “Thanks. I already did. But I did it quietly so you old people could get your afternoon nap.”

  Glancing at the clock, Stosh asked, “How long you been here?”

  “’Bout an hour.”

  “I miss anything?”

  Spencer filled him in.

  Stosh humphed. “They build you up and then they let you down. I’ll bet you they go a hundred years without winning another world series.” The last had been in 1908.

  Spencer laughed. “If I thought you’d live that long, you’d have a bet.” He finished his beer. “You want one?”

  “Sure. Grab some chips too, okay?”

  “Be right back.”

  They watched the rest of the game in relative silence, which got even more silent after the Dodgers returned the grand slam in the ninth. The game over, Spencer gathered the empty bottles and started for the kitchen. Stosh handed him the half-empty bag of potato chips.

  As Stosh took the bag, Spencer said, “Thanks for the heads-up on the girl, Stosh.”

  “Sure. I knew you’d hear and be worried.”

  “I’m still worried.”

  “Yeah. I figured. But right now you’d better be worrying about me. Get rid of that stuff and get back in here so I can chew you out.”

  Stosh had called Rosie when he got home in the morning and told her about the white blouse. He knew she and Spencer ran together on Saturday mornings. Telling Rosie served two purposes: she would tell Spencer about the murder so he would know it wasn’t Laura, and Stosh wouldn’t have to deal with Spencer’s questions. Stosh stretched and closed his eyes.

  Spencer returned and, hoping that Stosh was asleep so he could get away without a lecture, tiptoed to the couch.

  With eyes still closed, Stosh said, “So, what possessed you to do something that stupid? You got more brains than that.”

  “I know Stosh. I got caught up in the moment. I was worried about her. And it was just an alley.”

  Frowning, Stosh replied, “Wanna take a ride? I’ll show you another alley not far from there.”

  “Point taken.”

  “Good. Now what the hell is all this about?”

  Settling back into the couch, Spencer answered with a shrug, “Nothing more than I already told you. Ben asked me to see if I could find out something about her. She was picked up for prostitution a while back. Doesn’t seem the type.” Spencer told Stosh about his chat with Tim. “You find out anything?”

  “Nothing on Laura Douglas other than what you already know. No trail, which points to something else you already know—that isn’t her real name. Laura Justine is indeed from Naples. She’s twenty-four. Called a friend down there who tells me the address is in a very ritzy neighborhood.”

  “Yeah, rich family in real estate. She’s got kind of a classy look about her.”

  Stosh continued. “She was assumed to be kidnapped, but no demands were ever made. They ran the usual and nothing turned up. Parents hired the P.I. who found her in Detroit. They sent the letter you found but got no reply. P.I. said she moved out shortly after the letter would have arrived, and he lost her. He also reported that she appeared to be safe and coming and going as she pleased. And she can continue doing that because she is twenty-four and can indeed do as she pleases.”

  “Yeah. She certainly wasn’t kidnapped. Looks like she left of her own accord. I’m guessing Laura is trying to find her sister.”

  Stosh nodded. “And here she is in Chicago, still none the worse for wear according to you.”

  “Except that now she’s really missing.”

  “From you, maybe. But it looks like this girl is good at disappearing and doing so under her own free will. Just cuz you don’t know where she is doesn’t mean she’s missing.”

  Spencer shook his head. “She disappeared, Stosh. She should have been in that alley somewhere, but she was just gone.”

  “Maybe she ran. Maybe she knew she was being followed, hard as that may be for you to swallow.”

  “She wouldn’t run. She was with a john. He wouldn’t have run with her without wasting some time asking questions.”

  Stosh pulled up the footrest and stretched out in the chair. “Spencer. It’s my day off. You get me something to look into and I will. We already swept the alley and there was no sign of her. I think you gotta give her more credit than you are. Face it—she lost you.”

  With a perplexed look, Spencer said, “She can’t lose me if she doesn’t know I’m there.”

  “Maybe that’s your mistake. Assume she did know you were there. Then it might make sense. And if you ever do find her again, tell her the next time we run into her she’ll face charges for falsifying a driver’s license. Now shut up, I wanna watch golf. And I’m gonna smoke a pipe.” Giving Spencer a stern look of warning, he said, “And I don’t want any crap from you.”

  Spencer raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Me? Certainly not. You want to kill yourself, go right ahead.” He held out his hand, palm up, in the direction of the tobacco tin Stosh kept on the table next to the chair.

  * * *

  Stosh opened the tin of London Dock and began the tedious process of filling and tamping. Spencer watched with fond memories as Stosh lit the tobacco, drew just the right amount of air through the bowl, and sent a thin gray line of smoke curling up to the ceiling. The smell of the tobacco brought back memories of lazy days when he would sit on the porch with Stosh and his dad, both of them carefully and lovingly working their pipes, and listen to stories about the good old days.

  They watched golf in silence, Stosh relaxing with hands folded on his stomach and Spencer fretting over the possibility that Laura might have gotten the best of him. But once Spencer accepted that, he realized that also meant she was safe. Kicking off his shoes, he arranged a couple of pillows behind his head and stretched out on the couch.

  At the first commercial, Spencer asked, “You got anythi
ng on the murder this morning?”

  Stosh rolled his head to the left and stared at Spencer. “What happened to our relaxing afternoon?”

  “I’m still relaxing. And by the looks of it, so are you. Just a simple question, like how you doin’ or how ‘bout those Cubs?”

  “Yeah, sure. What makes you think my information is there for the sharing?”

  “It’ll probably be in the papers so what’s the harm in knowing early?”

  Stosh placed his pipe in the glass ashtray and let down the footrest. “And what exactly do you want to know that Rosie hasn’t already told you?” he asked gruffly.

  Ignoring the jab to Rosie, Spencer answered, “You knew about the blouse. So you saw her, right? So I’m wondering if the coins were there.”

  “You are, huh? Well, that’s still being kept quiet so it won’t be in the papers.” Spencer started to answer, but Stosh held up his hand and cut him off. “I know you wouldn’t tell a living soul, but I’m not taking any chances. I don’t even want to know that you already know whatever it is you think you know. If anything ever got out and you were involved, it would come back to me. Most of the force knows you’re always hanging around here drinking my beer. They’d assume you got it from me.”

  “Got what?”

  “Whatever. I want to be able to say with a clear conscience that I know nothing about it.”

  “About what?”

  “About whatever we’re talking about, that’s what.”

  Spencer thought for a minute and then said, “So you have nothing here?”

  Stosh glared at Spencer, turned up the TV, and answered in a voice filled with frustration, “Right, I got nothin’.”

  “Nothing on the coins?”

  After taking a deep breath, and trying to erase the picture of the girl’s stomach from his memory, Stosh said quietly, “Spencer, there was very little left of her midsection. It was a bloody mess. I don’t know if the coins mean anything or not, but I doubt it. We’re dealing with a wacko. For some reason the guy went nuts and ripped her apart.”

  “Were the others mutilated?”

  “Not that bad.” He took another deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “But they were?”

  “Yeah, I guess, if you consider anything beyond a stab wound mutilation.”

  They sat in silence for a few seconds as Spencer thought about how to carefully phrase his next question. “Seems kinda strange, doesn’t it?”

  With a wary look, Stosh asked, “What?”

  Like a lawyer slowly building his case, Spencer spoke slowly. “Well, on one hand you’ve got a guy making a bloody mess.” He looked at Stosh who was looking back with no expression. “On the other hand, he leaves a pile of coins in a pattern.”

  Spencer stared at Stosh, hoping to see if his guess about the coins was right.

  Stosh stared at Spencer, only slightly moving his eyes. “How stupid do I look?”

  Spencer laughed. “Can’t blame me for trying.”

  Stosh grunted. “I need another beer. You want one?”

  “No thanks. Gotta get going.”

  Stosh started to push himself out of the chair.

  “Hey Stosh, you know Jack the Ripper was never caught.”

  Giving Spencer a scornful look, Stosh said with astonishment, “Are you nuts?”

  “No, I was just...”

  “You were just suggesting that a hundred-year-old man is stalking women in the streets of Chicago and has enough energy to attack them and cut them apart. You are nuts!”

  Spencer sat up on the couch. “No, don’t be silly. I’m suggesting that the victims and the mutilation are the same. And since he was never caught, someone else with the same inclinations might think they could get away with it too.”

  Stosh exhaled loudly through his nose and shook his head. “First of all, he was caught. At least they thought he was.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “From what I remember, they knew who the guy was and tailed him. He knew he was being watched and ended up in a nuthouse.”

  “How did they know it was the right guy?”

  Stosh arched his back to stretch out tight muscles and then relaxed. “They didn’t, for sure. But the attacks stopped when they started the tail.”

  “Could’ve been coincidence.”

  With a shrug, Stosh answered, “Could’ve been. But that’s a big coincidence.”

  “I agree. Did they have any evidence against the guy?”

  “Not really. Technical evidence back in those days was virtually nonexistent. No fingerprints even. They pretty much had to catch somebody in the act.”

  “So why did they suspect this guy?”

  Stosh scratched his head trying to remember. “There was a witness. Somebody thought he saw the guy with a woman before she was murdered. But he was unwilling to testify.”

  “How come?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “It might be worth checking Stosh. Look at the patterns.”

  Stosh nodded. “Sure, you just drop out of the academy and then tell us how to do our jobs.”

  “Stosh, I didn’t mean...”

  Cutting Spencer off with a wave of his hand that meant don’t worry about it, Stosh stood and replied, “Couldn’t hurt. I’ll see what I can find.” He left for the kitchen thinking that somewhere on the shelf he had a book about Jack the Ripper.

  * * *

  Spencer was thinking about Jack the Ripper when the doorbell rang. Shocked out of his quiet thought, he jumped. Stosh yelled for him to get the door. Half expecting a thick London fog to roll in, Spencer slowly opened the door. It wasn’t Jack. It was the mailman. He had a package that was postage-due a quarter. Spencer pulled a wrinkled bill out of his pocket and paid him. As he closed the door, he wondered why these women would continue to walk the streets when they knew there was a madman wandering around. And that madman obviously didn’t look threatening, for women were willing to walk into dark alleys with him. It didn’t make much sense. He put the box on the TV.

  Stosh returned with a beer. He looked at the package, ignored it, and sat back down.

  Spencer watched him sit and asked, “Aren’t you going to open it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Mind if I ask why not?”

  Stosh set down his bottle and gave Spencer a disgusted look. He got up and left the room, returning in less than a minute with an armful of ten boxes similar in size to the one on the TV.

  “Here you go. You want to open them, be my guest.”

  With a confused look, Spencer asked, “Mind explaining?”

  “They’re ties from Aunt Bessie who is a little… well, confused. She sends me birthday presents that are the ties I used to send to Uncle Ed when he was alive. After three or four, I stopped opening them, but I couldn’t bring myself to throw them out.”

  “For ten years she has sent you ties?”

  Pursing his lips and tilting his head back, Stosh answered, “No, probably for five or six years. She can’t remember when my birthday is, so they just arrive at odd times, and always postage due. Her postage meter stopped a while back.”

  “At least she remembers.”

  Glad to have the conversation changed from business, Stosh nodded and agreed. He dropped the boxes on the floor next to the chair.

  Spencer announced that he was having dinner with Rosie and had better be going, but needed to make a pit stop. When he returned, Stosh was opening one of the boxes. It held a wide tie with yellow and olive diagonal stripes.

  “Classy,” said Spencer with a smirk.

  Stosh shot him a hard look and told him to enjoy dinner and not to bother Rosie about business.

  Spencer promised he wouldn’t. Business was the farthest thing from his mind. He let himself out the front door. As he walked by the front window he saw Stosh reaching down for another tie box.

  Chapter 26

  Spencer picked up Rosie and pulled up in front of Gibsons Steak House at 7:15. It was th
e best steakhouse in Chicago. The doorman opened Rosie’s door, and one of the parking attendants wheeled the Mustang off to that secret spot where parking attendants find parking. Rush Street was always crowded, especially on a Saturday night, and Gibsons was packed. People were standing outside waiting to get in.

  Joining Spencer on the sidewalk, Rosie looked wide-eyed and said, “Spencer, we’ll have to wait hours—look at this crowd.”

  With a laugh, Spencer said, “Do not worry, madam. We have reservations,” and started parting the crowd. He took her hand and she followed closely, driven by fear of being swallowed by the crowd.

  “How did you get reservations? I heard they don’t take reservations,” Rosie said in his ear.

  Spencer looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Dad had a special table. He and Mom came here at least twice a month.”

  “Good evening, Spencer,” said the hostess. “How nice to see you again. I apologize, your table is not ready, but we have another available. Would you like to wait approximately twenty minutes or be seated now?”

  “Another table is fine, Christy. Thanks.”

  They were led to a table covered with white linen on the far wall and slid into the booth opposite each other.

  “Good evening, Mr. Manning. Would you and your guest like a beverage?” the waiter asked as he placed menus on the table and filled the water glasses.

  “Sure, Manny. I’ll have my usual, and bring us a plate of the mixed appetizers, please. Rosie, what would you like?”

  Too busy gawking around the room at the people, Rosie didn’t respond.

  Spencer touched her arm and she snapped her head back to him. Trying not to laugh, he asked again.

  “Oh, chablis, please.”

  Manny nodded and disappeared.

  Spencer took a drink of water. Rosie turned her attention back to the room.

  “Spencer! That’s the mayor over there!” Her mouth hung open. “We’re having dinner with the mayor!”