by Dan Willis
“Do me a favor,” Alex said. “If he calls back, stall him. Tell him you haven’t heard from me.”
“You on to something?” There was hope in her voice.
Alex grinned.
“Get this,” he said. “The company that bought King’s land at the tax sale, well it turns out the assessor wasn’t just working with them. North Shore Development was entirely made up of Seth Kowalski and ten people who worked for him.”
Leslie whistled.
“And you think Duane King is the one killing them?”
“Makes sense,” he said. “But I’ll need more evidence if I want to get Detweiler off my back. I’m going to go by King’s address and see if he still lives there.”
Leslie gave him an Inner-Ring address and he wrote it in his notebook.
“What do I do if Detweiler sends cops here?” Leslie asked.
“Just don’t let them answer the phone.”
Duane King’s address turned out to be for an elegant brick home a block from the park. If he could afford to live here, he had the money to pay off the taxes on the land he inherited. As Alex stood looking at the tidy home, he wondered if he might be wrong about who was killing former members of North Shore Development.
Steeling himself for disappointment, Alex opened the gate and walked up to the heavy door. It was stained dark and had polished brass hardware and an enormous knocker to match. Alex rapped smartly with the knocker, then took a step back from the door.
“Yes?” An older woman said as she pulled the heavy door open. She had brown hair and thick glasses, and peered at him through the lenses.
“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am,” Alex said, quickly taking off his hat. “But does Duane King live here?”
She smiled and shook her head.
“No,” she said. “I’ve lived here for thirty years.”
That would have meant she moved in around the time King let the land go to the tax sale. Maybe he was having money problems after all.
“Mr. King lived here about thirty years ago,” Alex said.
The woman’s face brightened and she smiled.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “King was the name of the man we bought the house from, my husband and I.”
“You don’t happen to know where he went after he sold you the house, do you?”
“He moved to Florida,” she said. “A town called Boca Raton, there was a doctor there.”
“He was sick?”
“His wife,” the woman said. “Poor thing, she had tuberculosis.”
Alex had never heard of Boca Raton but if there was a doctor there who specialized in treating TB, it shouldn’t be too hard to track them down. The doctor would undoubtedly have more information on the Kings.
“Anything else you can remember about Mr. King or his wife?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s been a long time since I thought about them. I hope she got better.”
Alex thanked her and headed back to the street. TB wasn’t always fatal; there was a good chance that if the mysterious doctor helped her, then Mrs. King might still be in Boca Raton.
The problem was that in order to find out, he would have to go home. Since he didn’t have a fist-full of nickels, Iggy had the only phone he could use to call long distance. It was a risk, with Detweiler looking for him. Alex wouldn’t put it past the man to have a few cops staking out the brownstone.
He sighed and put his hat back on. If he wanted to get Detweiler off his back, it was a risk he was going to have to take.
When Alex reached the brownstone that afternoon he didn’t see anyone staking out the place, but he went around to the alley behind the house just in case. The door to the tiny, walled back yard was protected just like the front door, but Alex’s pocketwatch let him pass without any trouble.
Once inside, he found that Iggy was still out. One of the lessons the old man had taught him about being a detective was that it was often better to ask for forgiveness rather than permission. With that in mind, Alex crossed the kitchen and picked up the telephone receiver.
“Get me Boca Raton, Florida,” he said once the operator came on. Five minutes later he was connected with the operator in Boca Raton.
“I’m looking for a doctor who lives in town,” he told her.
“That would be Dr. Harrison, sugar,” the operator said in a thick Georgia accent. “Would yew like me to connect ya?”
“Is he the only doctor in town?”
“Only doctor for miles and miles.”
“Then go ahead and connect me, please,” Alex said.
Alex wondered how big Boca Raton really was, especially when, a moment later, the doctor answered his own phone.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Alex said. “I’m calling from New York. Are you the doctor who specializes in tuberculosis?”
There was a long pause on the line and Alex thought maybe the doctor couldn’t hear him. He was just about to shout his question when the man spoke.
“I’m sorry, but I think you mean Doctor Gardner.”
“Is he available?” Alex wondered. “It’s kind of important.”
“Doctor Karen Gardener was an alchemist who lived here. She was the doctor before I moved in. I seem to remember she had a treatment for TB,” Dr. Harrison said. “But she died twenty-five years ago.”
It was all Alex could do not to swear. If he didn’t have bad luck, he wouldn’t have any luck at all.
“Did you pick up her patients?” he asked, grasping at straws.
“Most of them, yes.”
“Can you tell me if you’re treating a woman named King for TB?” he asked.
“What’s this about?” Dr. Harrison said, his tone suddenly suspicious.
“I’m with the assessor’s office here in New York,” Alex lied. “It’s come to our attention that a man named Duane King may be the legal owner of some land up here and I was told that he moved down there to get care for his wife. She had TB.”
Alex crossed his fingers. The trick to a really good lie was to make it as close to the truth as possible, that way it sounded believable and you could keep the details straight if anyone questioned you later.
“I’m sorry to tell you, but Mrs. King died a long time ago. Her husband, Duane, is the one who murdered Dr. Gardner. He claimed she sold him a phony cure. King got twenty years at the state pen.”
“Does he have any family in the area?”
“Used to,” the doctor said. “His boy. Duane King lived with him for a while, but the boy got a local girl in trouble and skipped town.”
“You said King got twenty years for a murder twenty-five years ago? So King is out?”
“I reckon so,” Dr. Harrison said. “Before you ask, though, I know everyone in town and he didn’t move back here.”
“Did you know Dr. Gardner before she died?” Alex asked. “Is it possible she sold Duane King a phony cure?”
This time the silence on the line was palpable.
“Why do you want to know?” Harrison asked. “What does this have to do with King inheriting land?”
Alex thought fast.
“Sometimes in old wills there’s a clause about the recipient being of good moral character. I’m just trying to gather as much information as I can.”
“It’s possible,” Harrison said after another pause. “Dr. Gardner was a fair doctor but her alchemy skills weren’t the best. Of course no one knew that until we got a really talented alchemist in town a few years ago.”
“Thank you, Dr. Harrison,” Alex said. “You’ve been very helpful.”
Alex hung up and went to the table to scribble notes in his book as fast as he could. He knew there were alchemical treatments for TB, but they were very expensive. King probably heard that Dr. Gardner had a cheaper formula. Then he sold his house to save his wife and ended up losing her to a quack. Just thinking about it made Alex mad; he had no idea how angry Duane King had been.
Well, he had some idea.
&nbs
p; Alex closed his notebook and sat there at the table for a long minute. He dreaded what was going to come next, but putting it off wouldn’t make it go away. With a sigh, he got up, crossed back to the phone, and called the Manhattan Central Office of Police.
“Detweiler,” the pudgy lieutenant’s voice announced once the police operator connected him.
Alex took a deep breath and wished he had more than one cigarette.
“I hear you’ve been looking for me,” he said in his most eager voice.
“Is that you, Lockerby?” he sneered. “You just cost me a five-spot. I bet Callahan that I’d have to drag you in wearing cuffs.”
“Now what would you want to do that for?” Alex asked, pouring on the innocence.
“Don’t get cute with me,” Detweiler snarled. “You’ve been talking to that muckraker at the Sun. You gave him that list of the ghost’s targets and now the Mayor’s involved.”
Alex closed his eyes and banged his head against the wall. He’d forgotten that the Mayor’s wife was one of the people on the list. Worse, someone at the tabloid had it out for her.
He needed to make this go away. Quickly.
If the mayor got involved, Alex could lose more than just his P.I. license, he could do hard time. Taking a deep breath, he put on a smile. Iggy had taught him years ago that your voice changes when you smile. It makes people want to believe you, even if they can’t see you.
“Well then, Lieutenant, I’ve got good news for you,” he said.
“Don’t try to talk your way out of this, scribbler. I warned you that I’d lock you up if you interfered in this case and I’m going to do just that.”
“You might want to hear what I have to say, first.”
The line went silent and Alex tried to remember one of the prayers Father Harry had drilled into his head as a youth.
“You’ve got one minute,” Detweiler said. “Impress me.”
Alex grinned at that. Detweiler had used that one-minute thing on him before, so he’d gotten his explanation down to forty seconds.
Iggy had told him time and again that preparation was everything.
“I know who the ghost is,” Alex said. “I know that he’s only targeting specific people on that list I gave you. I know who those specific people are, and I know why he’s killing them.”
Detweiler growled on the other end of the line. Alex had to cover his mouth to keep from laughing at the mental image of Detweiler trying to decide if he wanted to arrest Alex or catch the ghost. The former would be immensely satisfying for him, while the latter would get his name in the Times instead of the tabloids.
“Fine,” he said, choosing his career over personal satisfaction. “You come down here and tell me what you know.”
“I’ll be right over.”
“Be warned, scribbler,” Detweiler said, his voice dangerous and calm. “If this doesn’t pan out, the Mayor is going to be calling for your head and I’ll be only too happy to give it to him.”
Alex hung up and dialed Leslie.
“That was fast,” she said. “Is this your one phone call?”
“No, but that may be coming soon,” Alex said, only half joking. “I’m on my way over to the Central Office to give Detweiler everything I’ve got on Duane King. In the meantime, I want you to run over to the library and look up everything you can on that tabloid reporter, Billy Tasker.”
“You want the whole works?”
“Everything you can find,” he said. “I need this guy off my back.”
“All right,” she said. “Just remember why I won’t be here if you need someone to bail you out.”
Alex hadn’t thought of that, but shrugged it off. He really didn’t want the Mayor coming after him and if that meant he had to miss his date because he spent the weekend in jail then so be it. Jessica would understand.
You hope.
“Wish me luck then,” Alex said, then he hung up and went to meet his fate.
21
The Chief
The late afternoon sun lit up the Central Office of Police as Alex approached it for the second time that day. This time he wasn’t going to meet Danny, or even Callahan. Callahan disliked P.I.s but still held a fair amount of respect for Alex and his work. Detweiler, on the other hand, viewed Alex as a bungler who was making his job harder through incompetence and leaking to the press. He’d never believe that the information in the Sun had come from a different source.
The only way Tasker could have learned about the list of names Alex had given the police was from a cop. The Sun obviously had a source inside the Central Office, but Alex knew he’d never be able to sell that idea. Detweiler simply wouldn’t believe it. If it came down to a choice between Alex being a rat or one of his own, Detweiler would blame Alex every time.
Taking a deep breath, Alex savored what might be his last moments of freedom for the foreseeable future. He wouldn’t put it past Detweiler to lock him up just out of spite.
He needed a plan.
The man’s married to the Captain’s favorite niece, Alex thought. And the Captain is a political appointee. He’s concerned with his image. Two-to-One Detweiler’s cut from the same cloth.
Alex needed to appeal to the Lieutenant’s ego.
It wasn’t a great plan, but it wasn’t nothing. Alex crossed the street and entered the lobby. The crowd of reporters seemed to have lessened from the other day, but there were still a half dozen or so sitting in the waiting area.
Alex caught sight of the young reporter with the brown suit that had accosted him the other day. Not wishing a repeat performance, he hurried across to the elevators.
When he reached the fifth floor, Alex found a uniformed officer leaning against the wall just outside the door.
“You Lockerby?” he asked in a bored voice.
Alex felt a twinge of fear. He didn’t think Detweiler was dumb enough to throw him in a holding cell without hearing him out first. After all, Alex had given him good information before. That said, the Lieutenant might want to let Alex cool his heels for a few hours just out of spite.
“That’s me,” Alex said, pasting a friendly smile on his face.
“Detweiler said to bring you upstairs,” he said, nodding for Alex to get back on the elevator.
That took Alex by surprise. The Detectives for Manhattan all worked out of the fifth floor. Above them were several floors of clerks, functionaries, interview rooms, and, at the top, the higher ups. Captain Rooney had an office there, as did the Chief of Police, though the Chief spent most of his time in a satellite office in city hall.
It wasn’t likely that Detweiler wanted Alex in an interrogation room; he could grill Alex just fine in his own office. In fact, that would be better for him as his detectives would get to see him dressing down a meddlesome P.I. Going upstairs could only mean one thing — the Captain wanted in on whatever Detweiler had in mind.
Alex felt his hands shaking, but didn’t dare take a swig out of his flask. The cop escorting him would think it was a sign of weakness and tell Detweiler. Alex didn’t want to give the Lieutenant anything he might be able use against him.
The elevator dinged and Alex and the cop got off on the tenth floor. The Captain’s Office was down the hallway to the right; Alex had been there before the previous year. That time the Captain wanted to hang the murder of a customs inspector on him.
Before Alex had time to wonder what Rooney would accuse him of this time, the cop escorting Alex turned left.
“Where are we going?” Alex asked, falling into step beside him.
“Keep walking,” the cop said in a bored voice.
Alex didn’t have to wonder long. At the end of the hallway they turned again, and the cop opened an ornate door of dark wood with a brass plaque in its exact center. The name Arnold Montgomery was engraved on the plaque.
Arnold Montgomery was the Chief of Police for New York City.
Alex wondered about the plaque. Most men would have had their title engraved on it along with
their names. Chief Montgomery was either so arrogant that he simply expected everyone to know that he was chief, or so humble that such accolades didn’t matter.
As he stepped inside the office Alex wondered which.
A humble man could be appealed-to, mistakes would be seen as human. An arrogant man would have to be told he was right, that he was smart, that mistakes were the fault of lesser, unimportant people.
Alex could work it either way.
Chief Montgomery’s office was surprisingly sparse. His desk was ornate, but clear of debris: only a phone and a note pad occupied it. A couch sat against the side wall with three comfortable chairs facing the desk. A sideboard filled with various awards and bric-a-brac sat against the back wall, and an enormous window behind the desk looked out toward Empire Tower.
There were five people in the room.
A slender man with black hair that was going gray at the temples and a pencil mustache sat behind the desk. He wore a dress blue police uniform with a gold shield and a white braid encircling his right arm. The buttons on his coat were polished brass and his gun belt had a leather strap that ran up and over his left shoulder. The leather gleamed with polish.
This could only be Montgomery, though Alex couldn’t tell if his immaculate appearance was due to respect for the job or if it was, itself, a demand for respect.
Detweiler and Rooney stood in front of the desk. It had been a while since Alex had seen the Captain, but he hadn’t changed appreciably. He reminded Alex of a puppy because the man’s hands and feet seemed disproportionally large for his body, only to be outdone by his nose. Due to his pale complexion and red hair, the nose always looked a bit red, as if Rooney were a hard drinker.
Alex didn’t know the other two people, though he recognized the man immediately. His name was Claude Banes. He was slender and big shouldered, with a handsome face, brown hair, and a cleft in his pointed chin. Alex was surprised a man that ruggedly handsome hadn’t already gone off to Hollywood, but he suspected being Mayor of the greatest city in the world had other charms.
