Killer on Argyle Street

by Michael Raleigh

  Killer on Argyle Street

  A Paul Whelan Mystery

  Michael Raleigh

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 1995 by Michael Raleigh

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com

  First Diversion Books edition February 2015

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-621-3

  Also by Michael Raleigh

  Death in Uptown

  A Body in Belmont Harbor

  The Maxwell Street Blues

  The Riverview Murders

  For Cate and Brian, my sister and brother, my lifelong friends

  Prologue

  The totem pole was made of red cedar and stood perhaps twenty feet high. A gift from the Kwagulth people of the Northwest, it bore a great bird with red, green and white plumage and a grinning sea monster with a man riding on his back. The brass plaque in front explained that the totem pole intended to portray Kwanusila the Thunderbird and other denizens of Northwest Coast mythology. The pole had arrived in 1929 and had stood in the park where Addison met Lake Shore Drive for so long that residents of the neighborhood rarely gave it a second look.

  An occasional visitor or confused suburbanite ran the red light while staring at the pole but it had more or less become part of the background for all but children and the tourists.

  A man in a small felt hat stood in front of the totem pole and peered up at it. He was a tanned man of indeterminate age, perhaps fifty, perhaps sixty, lean and sharp-featured and trim in a light coat and gray slacks. There was something foreign about the hat and the pattern in his slacks. The giveaway was the pair of sandals he wore over thick cotton socks. After a moment, he made a slow circuit of the totem pole, looking up and down its length and shaking his head in obvious admiration. As he studied it, he fumbled at the camera hanging from his neck. The rare April sunlight had attracted several groups of picnickers who huddled around their bottles of wine and plastic coolers and tried to ignore the knifelike wind and pretend that something like spring might be coming. Occasionally one of the picnickers looked up at the strange man, who seemed to be having trouble deciding how to focus the camera. A small boy stared at the man, his notice attracted by the man’s odd footware on such a cold day.

  Once or twice the man looked around, smiling as though hoping to engage a native in conversation, but these early sun worshipers seemed preoccupied with their cold chicken and cans of beer. Returning to the front of the totem pole, he backed up and focused. A heavy mass of gray cloud moved in and smothered the sun, and the man lowered his camera and made a little gesture of exasperation.

  He adjusted the shutter speed, took several shots of the totem pole, then looked up again as the sky seemed to darken once more. He gave a little shake of his head, adjusted the shutter speed and took several more pictures, then replaced the lens cap and walked north, in the direction of the tennis courts and the parking lots.

  There were three vehicles in the parking lot, two of them empty. A man sat in the third, a black Ford pickup. He was a big man going to fat, perhaps thirty, with sandy hair thinning at the front. He had spent several moments watching the other two vehicles for signs of occupancy but was now satisfied that they were as empty as they looked.

  He sat with the window rolled down and listened to a country music station, drumming with his fingers on the door. From time to time he looked in the sideview and rearview mirrors, and he made a regular survey of the walkways and the baseball fields to his left. It wouldn’t be a total disaster if he were taken slightly by surprise, but he’d have to come up with an explanation fast.

  From the edge of his vision he caught movement. He turned in the seat to watch the newcomer. A tourist. From the looks of him, a German tourist: camera and a reddish brown tan and light brown sandals over his beige socks. The tourist seemed to be interested in the lone pair of tennis players. Craning a little out of the window, the man in the truck got a better look at the tennis players and decided that the tourist had good taste: they were a pair of tall slim young women, ignoring the cold, their legs red against white tennis skirts.

  He climbed out of the truck, pushed the door closed and then leaned against it. From a pocket in his denim jacket he took out cigarettes and a disposable lighter and had a smoke. The German tourist had moved on from the world of young tennis players and now stood where the park suddenly sloped into a wide saucerlike depression to create the baseball fields. The empty fields seemed to confuse him and after shaking his head and peering around, he consulted a map.

  Then as the big man stared at him, the German tourist suddenly looked up from the map and smiled directly at him. The big man recognized the pale blue eyes and even white teeth, the wolfen smile.

  He was startled, and for a moment he did not know how to react. Then he took in the rest of the man’s appearance, down to his ruddy tan, and laughed in spite of himself.

  Like a goddam chameleon. He shook his head and waved to the tourist, who now folded up his map and came forward, still smiling.

  The big man grinned and told himself that you had to hand it to the guy: a little out of it, too old for them to take him seriously any more but a smart guy in his way. The tourist was only a few steps away now and for just a sliver in time the big man felt nervous. This was the first time he’d met with the other man alone and he wasn’t sure why he’d agreed to it. No, there was always the same reason you did things.

  The big man shivered. “You oughtta be wearing a coat. It’s cold.”

  The tourist gave him a look of mild contempt. “It’s nice out. It’s windy, that’s all. I lived here for a long time. It’s spring, this is what they call spring here.”

  The big man laughed and shook his head. “I lived here all my life, there ain’t any fucking spring here. It’s spring in your imagination. And you look like something out of the Alps. Where’d you come up with this getup?”

  The tourist flashed a shy smile. “It’s easy. Changing your appearance is no trouble at all. I’ve done it a thousand times.”

  “You’re a whaddyacallit, a chameleon.”

  “Yes, I sure am.”

  “So, you, uh, you got a proposition for me.”

  “What’s the hurry?” He looked around, took off his alpine cap and replaced it on his fine, straw-colored hair.

  The younger man looked back toward the street. “Come on, let’s get in the truck, fuck this outdoor shit.”

  Shaking his head, the tourist walked around the front and climbed into the cab, and the big man pulled himself up and slid behind the wheel.

  They both lit cigarettes and smoked as they began their conversation. Fifteen minutes later, the tourist climbed out of the truck. He paused with the door open for several seconds, staring at the other man, then closed the door. As he walked away from the truck, he kept his head down and when he reached the sidewalk near the tennis courts again, he pulled out his map and began to study it. When he left the area, he was still staring at his map.

  Inside the truck, the big man sat with one hand on the wheel and stared straight ahead in the direction of the lake. He was bleeding from a small chest wound just to the left of center, and he was dead.

  One
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br />   Paul Whelan paused outside his office building and stared at it. A storm had blown out an entire window on the first floor. And since the absentee landlord wouldn’t be likely to have it fixed for another six months, the tenant, a church-run social service agency, had covered the big hole with tape and several black plastic bags. Whelan thought it made the place look like a weary man with an eye patch.

  A foot or so from the front door, a dead squirrel lay directly in the center of the sidewalk. The few people likely to enter the building to do business with the Korean importers or the flyblown travel agency or the social workers or Paul Whelan Investigative Services would have to step over the little gray corpse if they were serious.

  Whelan stooped to look at the squirrel. He was mildly surprised to see a dead squirrel, having long assumed that if a squirrel could survive in Uptown it would have to be immortal. He had never quite figured out what squirrels found to eat in Uptown: the closer you went toward the lake the more barren the neighborhood became, trees grew scarce, lawns disappeared. Birds could fly away looking for food; squirrels were stuck here. Whelan looked for cause of death and found no marks, no bruise from a fall or collision, no tiny hole from a little maniac with an air rifle. Just a dead squirrel on his doorstep. Whelan cast a suspicious glance a few feet to his left, at the new tenant on the ground floor of the building, Mr. Cheeseburger, a dank, tiny hamburger stand that had already earned a dark reputation on the street. Had the poor squirrel gone rooting around in Mr. Cheeseburger’s dumpster and died eating bad things?

  He looked across the street. The pool hall had gone under, replaced now with a large day-care center. The squadrons of kids and grown men who’d congregated on this corner had been greatly reduced in number but you could still find a few leaning on cars and watching people go by. There were two of them now, teenage boys, both black and neither having the slightest notion how he’d spend the day. Whelan waved, got their attention, motioned them across the street.

  They did the gangster walk in slow motion, a couple of young dudes who couldn’t be hurried, and when they reached Whelan, the taller of the two pointed his chin at Whelan.

  “Morning, guys,” Whelan said.

  “Wha’ sup,” the tall one said.

  “I need a favor.” He pointed to the dead squirrel behind him. “I need that gone.”

  The smaller boy snickered and looked at the other boy out of the corner of his eye. The tall one went another shade of sullen.

  “That right?”

  “Yeah. Can you take care of that for me?”

  The taller one stared, looking to see if his manhood was somehow being ridiculed. Whelan pulled a five from his pocket.

  “Buy yourself a Coke.”

  The tall boy’s gaze rested on the bill for no more than a half second, then he shrugged. “Whatchoo want us to do with it?”

  “Get a piece of newspaper and wrap it in that, and toss it in a garbage can for me. And don’t let this guy see you,” Whelan said, indicating Mr. Cheeseburger with a nod. “He’ll make burgers with it.”

  The smaller boy grinned and Whelan thought he saw amusement in the tall boy’s eyes. Still, the kid wasn’t moving or taking the five.

  “How come you don’t do it youself, man?”

  “I’m supposed to be a businessman. Be bad for my image.”

  And now the tall boy allowed himself a smile. He reached out casually and took the bill, then looked down at his companion.

  “Go get some paper, man.”

  “Thanks, guys.”

  The tall one made the most noncommittal of nods and the small one went scurrying off to find newspaper. Whelan went inside.

  He could hear Nowicki before he reached the second-floor landing. Mr. Nowicki’s presence was proving to be a mixed blessing: on the one hand, Whelan was no longer the sole occupant of the second floor, a position he had occupied for more than a year. This meant that the building’s miserly owner now saw fit to turn on all the hall lights and even open the rest rooms on the second floor, bringing these most basic trappings of respectability to Whelan’s business. On the other hand, Nowicki was already becoming an irritant. He was a sallow man of average height, with a pronounced stomach and light brown hair, and greeted Whelan effusively whenever they met on the stairs.

  Officially, his business was called A-OK Novelties, and an amateurish pink sign on the door to his office boasted TOYS, GAMES, FAVORS, NOTIONS, FOR EXPORT AND IMPORT. A-OK Novelties occupied the suite across the hall from Whelan, and through its clouded glass door Whelan was privy to the many passionate conversations of Mr. Nowicki. It was not only the proximity of A-OK that allowed Whelan to hear what went on across the hall, but also the loud, grating quality of Nowicki’s voice and his intense manner of speaking, as though each conversation might end before he used up his nickel. Profanity was a salient feature of these conversations, a rather dull, uninspired profanity, and this much told Whelan that Mr. Nowicki had not gone to the better schools. Still, he managed to use the same three or four obscenities in imaginative ways, including the use of the word “fuck” as four different parts of speech. A large number of Nowicki’s conversations seemed to be with someone named Lou, and Lou was apparently unreasonable and bad-tempered.

  Whelan had never seen anyone but Nowicki going in or out of the office, and though he had all his long life wondered what “novelties,” “favors,” and “notions” were, Whelan was pretty well convinced that Mr. Nowicki didn’t sell any.

  At the moment, Nowicki was calling someone on the other end of the line an “ungrateful fuck.” Whelan paused to listen and then realized that his own phone was ringing.

  It kept ringing as he fumbled with his keys at the outer door. He crossed the room, set down his coffee and picked it up.

  “Paul Whelan.”

  “You made it in to work!” a voice said, a loud, raucous female voice with a laugh built into it. “We can call off the search parties, Paul Whelan’s at work.”

  “Good morning, Shelley. It’s ten after nine, for crying out loud.”

  “More like twenty after by my watch, but what the hell, you came in and that’s the main thing.” He could hear her taking a long hissing drag on a cigarette.

  “I take it I’ve had calls already.”

  “Of course. They’ve been lining up on the pavement to see you. Yeah, hon, you had a call. A Mrs. Evangeline Pritchett. Said she came in to see you and you weren’t there.”

  “That means she saw the dead squirrel.”

  Shelley laughed. “She didn’t mention it. She was at your office at eight-thirty, sweetheart, and you weren’t there, so she went home and called your office.”

  “Did you tell her I was in a meeting?”

  “I told her you were barely conscious at eight-thirty. I’ve got her number.” Shelley’s laughter rumbled into the phone. “Says she was referred to you by your cop friend Bauman.”

  “Oh, Lord. This can’t be good news. Give me the number, Shel.” He wrote it down. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it, babe. Oh, and we may have a personnel change around here.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  “No, but Abraham is.”

  Whelan felt his mood brighten. One of the great trials of his professional life was the fact that his answering service chose to relieve Shelley with a chirpy little man from India, whose perennial struggles with English grammar and idiom had resulted in something close to a new language. Phone conversations with Abraham could open an ulcer.

  “Wait—don’t tell me he got that job as a police dispatcher?”

  “No. But he got another one. Says he’s going to work at the end of the month for a cab company.”

  “Oh, Lord—driving?”

  “No. Dispatching cabs to the far corners of our fair city.”

  “God help those who need cabs,” Whelan said. “Later, Shel.”

  “Toodle-oo.”

  He called Mrs. Pritchett and apologized for being away from the office when she ca
me by.

  “Should I come by now?” the woman asked.

  “No, it’s my turn. Where do you live?”

  She gave him an address on Wilton, less than a half mile from his office.

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” He didn’t leave immediately but crossed the room and stood before his newest purchase, the one intended to catapult his agency into something close to the twentieth century: a tall, gleaming, silver-and-blue water cooler. He poured himself a paper cup of icy water that hurt his teeth. The cooler gurgled and he resisted the impulse to pat it.

  A couple of men in a car gave him the look as he pulled up in front of the building on Wilton but Whelan ignored them. At the top step, a white-shirted security guard moved aside for him to pass.

  Mrs. Pritchett lived on the third floor. The hall was chilly and the narrow strip of carpet that ran timorously down its center was stained and smelly, but somewhere on this floor there was a genuine cook at work. Whelan thought it smelled like gumbo, or at least some exotic species of chili. He could also make out the faint but familiar odors of pork chops fixed the way Grandma Whelan used to make them, breaded and then tossed into their own molten pool of Crisco: little warheads of cholesterol, but to Whelan’s way of thinking the way God intended pork chops to be cooked. He smiled at the memory of his grandmother, a permanent nemesis to his parents and the person who had introduced him to coffee, Pepsi-Cola, and the concept of a piece of cake after a breakfast of waffles.

  Mrs. Pritchett’s door was the third one down and he could hear a radio playing old music in the background. He knocked twice and waited. Someone cut the radio and scuffed quietly toward the door.

  “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Pritchett? It’s Paul Whelan.”

  “Yes, sir, just one moment.” It was a pleasant voice with the faintest hint of an accent.