by Rick R. Reed
Nick glanced outside. His appointment was growing closer, and he was less and less confident that what he had was worth taking to the police. Ah, well, he thought, pushing the return of his typewriter, what he had was worth suspicion.
The next item he listed on his outline was the X-Acto knife. Great. More circumstantial evidence. It did fit, he tried to console himself, but his detective's mind wouldn't rest. Of course an X-Acto knife fit as the murder weapon, but why Joe's? There must be thousands of them floating around the city of Chicago, along with plenty of razor blades that could just as likely have been used as the weapon in the killings.
He sipped his coffee. Cold. As he started toward the Mr. Coffee in the corner of the room, the phone rang. He emptied his cup and refilled it with hot coffee before quieting the phone's ringing.
"MontPierre."
"Nick, it's Anne." There were traffic noises in the background. "I'm working right now, so I can't talk long, but I remembered something. I don't know if it's important or not."
"Don't worry about it," Nick said, hoping she'd give him something concrete, something that would make him feel he deserved his job as a private investigator.
"A couple of months ago I was going through Joe's things and I found a bunch of newspaper clippings ... all about different murders in Chicago. I asked him at the time what he was doing with them, and he told me he was collecting material for a novel. In light of what's been going on I thought this might be useful."
Nick twisted the phone cord; this sounded good. "Anne? Can you get hold of the clippings? Where were they? In his desk?" If he could produce the clippings . . . well, it was still circumstantial, but it would help his case a lot more.
"They were in his desk," Anne said, and her emphasis on the past tense disappointed Nick. He knew what was coming. "But I think he got rid of them after I brought it up, which is another reason why I'm suspicious. If they were material for a novel why would he throw them away? But I've been over and over-the things in his study so many times I'm sure they're not there."
"Well," Nick said, scribbling down what she told him on a Post-it notepad near the coffee machine, "thanks. I'll tell McGrew when I see him today." He heard someone in the background calling her name.
"I gotta go," she said. "See you tonight?"
"Sure." He replaced the phone in its cradle. He went back to his desk and looked at his outline; he added the information about Pat Young, detailing everything he knew about her and where she lived. He closed this item with a suggestion that she be rigorously questioned.
His next point was that Joe had been missing without an alibi for some of the murders (perhaps all, but they had no way of knowing for sure) and that he had been in Berwyn on the night Rebecca Piccone was murdered. McGrew ought to at least pay attention to that much. A voice in the back of his mind taunted, "But a lot of people were in Berwyn that night besides her hot-tempered husband."
Last he typed in what he thought was his ace in the hole: Joe's visit to Anne last night. The murder of the doorman, Alec Rooney, right in Anne's building, placed Joe at the scene of the crime. If McGrew saw this and didn't believe Joe was involved with the murders, then the man didn't deserve his detective title on the force. And then to come and terrorize Anne afterward ... It almost seemed to clinch the case.
Almost. He didn't kill Anne, after all. And her hiding in the closet wasn't the brightest thing she could have done. If MacAree had wanted to kill her Nick was certain he could have. So maybe McGrew would say the visit to Anne was merely the vengeful act of a wronged husband and the fact that the doorman was murdered around the same time was coincidence. Bullshit, there were too many coincidences. McGrew would believe him.
He had to.
Nick also thought the implied threat to Anne was obvious. Even if Joe hadn't been responsible for the other killings, he was responsible for threatening another person's life. Nick sat back and shuddered: My God, what would have happened if he had found her in that closet? Against his will his mind flashed on a scene of blood and terror. Anne lying prostrate in her own blood, her eyes focused on some distant horror: the horror of the last few minutes as her flesh was shredded with a razor. Her cream-colored bedroom walls were splattered with blood, and the air echoed with her screams.
Enough! Nick rubbed his eyes. Maybe his and Anne's suspicions weren't good enough to convict the guy in a courtroom, but Nick wasn't trying to convict him. He wanted only to call the task force's attention to Joe. Nick was confident Joe would take it from there.
He got up and looked in the mirror. Tightening his tie and running his fingers through his hair, he wished himself luck and prayed that all this would be over soon.
ie A *
At twenty-five, Detective Pete McGrew was the youngest homicide detective on the force. This fact had not gone unnoticed by his peers, who credited his rapid move up the ladder with having a father who had held the position of captain of the Twenty-Seventh precinct for over twenty years. "McGrew's no better than we are," the talk went at Patsy's, a Loop bar near police headquarters where the rookies congregated, "he just has what it takes to get anywhere in this world—connections." Since most of them were still patrolmen, writing traffic tickets and quieting domestic disturbances, their jealousy of McGrew made them unfriendly to the young detective. Some of the older men on thfe force, who were comfortable in their positions, defended McGrew to the rookies, usually on quiet nights when their tours of duty kept them in their patrol cars.
The older men's defense was based on the Lyla Powers case. Lyla Powers was a shrewd businesswoman: she owned two massage parlors (not an easy thing to own in Chicago), a phone sex service, and occasionally pinch-hit for her own escort service when the client was worth it.
Lyla was found tied to a bed in the Ritz-Carlton after a tryst with a New York diamond importer. The red ribbon used to tie her up stood out in bright contrast to the paleness of her skin and her black hair. Like some macabre scarf, her fishnet stockings were wrapped around her neck and tied in a big bow. Covering her genitals (what was left of them) was a sign. Its message was simple: see you in hell, motherfuckers!
The diamond importer was immediately located at his Long Island home and, in front of his wife, five children, and Irish setter, was arrested on suspicion of murder. He had no alibi; he was with her right up until the time she was killed. Two witnesses at the hotel corroborated this fact. A bellhop and a front-desk manager had seen them come and go, and were willing to testify in court as to the certainty of their vision. Lyla's private log disclosed their appointment and his name.
Even though the man insisted he had left her in perfect health, no one believed him.
All through the case, something bothered Pete McGrew. Lyla had a son who was about Mc-Grew's age. His name was Bradley Powers, and as much as possible he had been sheltered from his mother's source of income. He seemed distraught when brought in for questioning. Most of the detectives felt sorry for him and believed his story. But McGrew had seen Powers waiting outside of interrogation, when he didn't think anyone was watching. The man was composed; not at all the victim of tragic death. That was why, to McGrew, the sobbing and blubbering he displayed in front of the detectives rang a false note.
On his own time, and against departmental regulations, McGrew began watching Powers. He watched as the New York diamond importer came closer and closer to life imprisonment. He watched as Powers began taking over all his mother's operations, losing many of the girls to pay cuts he imposed. Which was all right, because Powers just brought in new ones. To McGrew, Powers didn't seem so sheltered. To Mc-
Grew, Powers had a weak alibi (he was at home alone, watching Dynasty, the plot of which he described in detail) and a very strong motive. The oldest motive, in fact, in the world: greed.
McGrew worked hard, letting what social life he had slide. He made contacts with several of the girls in the escort agency, girls who had worked with Powers's mother and who were sticking it out with Powers. Most of the
m were bitter and didn't like Powers, which worked in McGrew's favor.
Just before the New York diamond importer was due to be sentenced, one of Powers's girls quit on him, not able to take the new pay cut Powers had imposed." Powers let something slip with her, and McGrew was there to catch it.
When Wendy Rodriguez was about to quit the agency, Powers threatened her, told her she could end up like his mother. Most importantly, he said, she could see her in hell.
The remark scrawled on the card left at the scene of the crime was never disclosed. Usually, homicide held back certain key details about a case, so that if someone confessed the detectives would have a way of verifying the confession. see you in hell, moxherfuckers! was one piece of information they held back.
It was a flimsy piece of information, but that, along with Powers's activities over the previous two months (not exactly in line with those of a distraught and overprotected son), was enough for detectives to look more carefully into the son's alibi.
A search warrant that produced a video-cassette of a crucial episode of Dynasty in the son's room (the one Powers was supposed to have seen while his mother was being murdered) and testimony from Lyla's second-in-command that Powers often went with his mother as a kind of bodyguard on her "dates" with clients were enough to lead detectives down the road to supplying the kind of information the district attorney needed to put Powers away.
All thanks to Pete McGrew.
Pete McGrew didn't have time to devote to wondering why success had come to him at such a young age. Ever since he was a kid he had wanted to be a cop and had never wavered from that dream. McGrew, if asked, probably would have credited his single-mindedness to his success. He might or might not have added that he was a little strange, as very successful people often are.
Pete McGrew was an observer of people. He never let his guard down; he was always questioning, watching, listening, and wondering about motivations, reactions. He rode the el as frequently as possible to watch people. Sometimes he would work through the car he was riding in, as if he were at a party, extending his hand and introducing himself to people on the train. He tried to draw them out, see how much of themselves they would give to a stranger. He wanted to see their reactions to someone being friendly on a public conveyance where eyes rarely met and conversations were limited. On elevators McGrew would turn his back to the doors and smile at people, trying to start a group conversation. In Laundromats, supermarkets, and bars, McGrew made himself known, usually as the weirdo who wouldn't go away.
But he found out a lot about people and he understood them better than many trained to understand people. He knew just the right chords to hit when questioning a suspect; he was almost flawless in interrogation.
Pete McGrew had gotten where he was because he was good.
Nick looked for a parking space outside the Chicago police headquarters, where the Chicago Slasher task force was housed and where McGrew had agreed to meet him. This part of South State Street was deserted, and Nick didn't have a hard time finding a spot. Just a few blocks north was the Loop, bustling and full of activity; Nick wondered what had happened to make the division so contrasting. He locked his car and thought he'd be on time for once. McGrew would be surprised.
Nick stopped walking when he saw Anne standing outside the pale building that housed police headquarters. She was wearing a white fur coat, and her black hair blew back away from her face.
When she saw him, the nervous look on her face softened into relief. She started toward him. "God, I'm so relieved to see you. I was afraid I'd missed you." She caught up to him and took his hand.
"What are you doing here?"
"I had a break in the shoot and I thought maybe your case would be a little stronger if I was with you to back it up."
"Anne, I really don't think it's necessary. I can handle this by myself."
"Don't start this 'no women allowed' business with me. I'll bet your friend McGrew would want to hear my version of what happened anyway."
"You have a point there."
They stepped into the white-and-gray-marble foyer of the building. Anne was surprised that it was so quiet. "I was expecting Hill Street Blues," she whispered to Nick. She looked around the neat foyer, took in the stainless steel elevators, the guard: a fat guy in a uniform who looked down his nose at Nick while Nick explained who they were here to see. She was reminded of the airport: They had one of those metal detectors you had to walk through. There was a TV monitor behind the guard. Anne felt observed.
After they were frisked Anne followed Nick onto the elevator. "I've never been here," she said.
"Well, it's no big deal." Nick bit his lower lip. "Don't be offended or anything, but I've spent the morning preparing how to tell him about this. So I hope you'll let me do the talking."
She rolled her eyes as they stepped off the elevator. "I wasn't planning on taking over. I just thought it would be a good idea if I was here."
"Sorry. It probably is. I'm just a little nervous."
Before Anne had a chance to ask why, McGrew was standing in front of them. He was a tall man with broad shoulders; he had black curly hair and blue eyes. Clean-shaven. Anne thought she could have imagined him: the perfect Irish cop. His nose was even a little red. She wondered if he was a drinker, then chided herself: That wasn't fair.
McGrew stared at the two of them. He shook his head, wondering how MontPierre had ever found himself such a looker. Nick had told him they might have some information on the slasher case. But why bring the woman along? To show off?
"Nick, how you doin'?" He shook Nick's hand. When he leaned forward, he noticed Anne looking at the gun and holster under his jacket.
"It's been too long,rt Nick said. He turned to Anne and introduced her. Pete shook her hand and appraised her.
"I know it's been a while, but we've really got to make this quick. I'm swamped."
"I understand," Nick said, following McGrew back to his office. They sat and McGrew asked if either of them wanted coffee. When they said no, McGrew was relieved. He had a shitload of work to do and wanted to get them out as quickly as possible. MontPierre's dad was a good cop, but Nick would never be anything more than a second-rate private dick. But he had to hear them out; who knows where that perfect lead might come from.
"Whatd'ya got?" he asked Nick, folding his hands in front of him on the desk. He was ready to listen.
Nick started with the journals and worked his way through the X-Acto knife, Joe's disappearance, his being in Berwyn when Rebecca Piccone was murdered, his relationship with Pat Young, the murder of the doorman in Anne's building, and finally his attack on Anne.
"Are you sure it was your husband, Mrs. MacAree?"
"There's no doubt."
McGrew met her eyes, looked into them for a while. She was certain, he could tell.
"Why do you think he came back?"
"I don't know."
"Really?" McGrew raised his eyebrows.
Anne looked at the gray metal desk. "I suppose he's angry with me for deserting him."
"I thought he left you."
"He did, but only after begging me to come with him." Anne explained about Joe's desperation to get her to come away with him and how it coincided with Rebecca Piccone's murder. "He acted like a baby."
"Well," McGrew said, "I suppose a lot of men, with a wife like you, might act like a baby if they were afraid of losing you." It wasn't a compliment.
"I know what you're thinking."
"What's that?" McGrew smiled.
"That Joe's behavior is that of a wronged husband."
"Well, I did spend some time working a beat when I joined the force. I saw a lot of ugly domestic scenes involving divorces and separations."
"You don't understand, Pete," Nick cut in. "This guy's really crazy." Nick told him about his surveillance of Joe, about the prostitutes and Pat Young.
"He didn't know anybody in Berwyn," Anne put in. "What was he doing there?"
"There coul
d be a lot of reasons." McGrew smiled at them. "We never really know each other. We can't. We can suppose."
"Are you saying there's no validity in what we're saying?" Nick knew he had only circumstantial evidence, but it was damned good circumstantial evidence. He expected more from his friend.
Pete shook his head. "I'm not saying that at all. Come on." He stood. He led them down a corridor into a large room with several desks. Two women were on phones. Three detectives were working at a table. On every surface, computer printouts and sheets of paper were piled high.
"This is our task force headquarters," Pete announced, gesturing broadly around the room. "These papers are leads. Believe it or not, we get a few hundred calls a day. Granted, most of them are cranks, little old ladies who think their next-door neighbor is out too late, wives who want to get back at their husbands. But a lot of them are legitimate leads. The worst part of it is, almost all of them have to be checked out. Even if they sound crazy, most of these people have some basis for calling in. And if we skip one that sounds even barely legitimate, we might be skipping the one lead that could take us to the killer."
"What about our lead?" Anne asked.
"I'd say your lead was a pretty good one. We keep them organized by priority. Yours is priority one. If we can find your husband we'll want to watch him."
"Well, of course you'll find him."
"Mrs. MacAree, I've been working eighteen-and twenty-hour days lately. So has everyone on the task force. Patrolmen have taken a special interest in the case, worried about their wives or their sisters or their daughters. They've been putting in overtime. We are going to really try and find your husband, but I want you to understand what we're up against."
Nick nodded. "I guess being first priority is the best we can ask for."
