Dames Fight Harder
Maggie Sullivan Mystery #6
M. Ruth Myers
Copyright © 2017 by Mary Ruth Myers
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Contact
www.mruthmyers.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published by Tuesday House
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to my daughter, Jessica Myers, for sharing her insider’s knowledge of the commercial construction business, albeit in the twenty-first century with its many changes since Maggie Sullivan’s day.
Ongoing thanks to the Dayton Police History Foundation for its wonderful window into an important element of Dayton’s past, and to the organization’s secretary-treasurer, Stephen Grismer for patiently answering my questions.
Any errors in the story you are about to read are entirely my own.
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
DAMES FIGHT HARDER
READ ALL THE MAGGIE SULLIVAN MYSTERIES
OTHER NOVELS BY THIS AUTHOR
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Late March
1942
ONE
Spring fever is a dangerous malady for a private eye. It blinded me to signs a hit man was waiting for me.
In the four months since Pearl Harbor we’d had nothing but defeats in the Pacific. The elevator in my building was on the fritz. But spring had come to Dayton and it was glorious. My head was so stuffed with daffodils and discovering the hat I wore matched the lacy pink of redbud trees that I didn’t notice the door to my office was unlocked.
“Don’t go for your gun,” a man’s voice warned as I entered.
I froze, my arms around a bag of shoes to take for resoling and my Smith & Wesson in my purse. I was pretty sure the man the voice belonged to was a friend, but events can cause people to change on a dime. His unexpected appearance here, and the way he’d been lying in wait, kicked every nerve in my body to full alert.
“Pearlie, you just about scared me to death. Okay if I turn on the light?”
Reaching from his spot behind the door, he did it for me. His razor-thin body, with its economy of effort, flowed into view.
“Didn’t want to wait in the hall and I had to see you first thing. Rachel’s in jail.”
“For what?”
“Murder.”
Ditching the bag of shoes, I sank into my chair and stared.
Rachel Minsky, the woman he worked for, was my one close woman friend. On the outside, she was a pampered and pretty. Underneath, she was tough enough to run her own construction company.
“Did she do it?”
Pearlie walked to the pair of windows overlooking Patterson and opened one an inch or two. He lit a cigarette.
“She says she didn’t.”
Rachel had a gun. She could use it very effectively. She wouldn’t kill someone in cold blood, but like me she knew the law couldn’t always be counted on for justice. Pearlie turned to face me.
“They’ve got her at Ford Street. She wants to see you.”
“Me?” I stopped swiveling side to side in my chair. “Look, Pearlie, I’ll help her any way I can, but her lawyer may not want a private eye traipsing in to see her. He may think it makes her look guilty, he may have his own gumshoe on retainer—”
“She wants to see you. As soon as you came in, she said. I don’t think she’s talked to a lawyer. Anyways, she was real specific I wasn’t to contact her brother.”
One of her brothers was a lawyer. Maybe more than one. Rachel had several, and she’d mentioned them a few times, but she didn’t talk much about her family. They were well off, I knew that much. She’d joked that she was the black sheep. I didn’t think it was because of money, though. Rachel was plenty successful as a businesswoman. It was probably the businesswoman part they didn’t like. Most likely they thought she ought to be married with kids.
I already was on my feet.
“What if they won’t let me?”
Pearlie didn’t frown the way most people would, but I could tell by the way his eyes had stilled that he was thinking. Without warning he flicked his half-smoked cigarette out the window and came toward my desk. Leaning across me, he picked up my pencil and wrote on the pad by my phone.
“I’ll be at that number til noon. Mid-afternoon I got a piano lesson. You know how to reach me there. I’ll check in.”
“Keep trying.”
“Yeah. Line of work you’re in, you ought to get yourself an answering service.”
“Pearlie, wait.” He already was halfway to the door. “Give me a dollar.”
He pulled a money clip out and peeled off some bills.
“If you’re running short, I got plenty.”
I chuckled. “No shorter than usual. Just a dollar. That way I can say I’ve been hired to have a look at things in Rachel’s behalf.”
For the first time that morning, his lips drew back in the hint of a smile. It was how I imagined a wolf looked preparing to feast. He put his money clip away. At the door he paused and gave the jamb a soft tap with the side of his fist.
“Rachel don’t always ask for help when she needs it. She keeps things to herself.”
I thought I understood what he was trying to say between the words.
“If there’s anything I think you should know about, I’ll let you know. In any case, I’ll keep you posted.”
He nodded, satisfied. I locked the door, wondering what kind of mess I was going to find when I talked to Rachel, and whether, if necessary, I’d be willing to lie to get her out of it.
* * *
Dayton had two main police stations, the fancy one downtown for the brass and detectives, and the not-so-fancy one for everyone else. The workhorse station, variously referred to as Ford Street, CPS, or on rare occasion Central Police Station, was a sprawling two-story building. It housed the jail, the booking desk, the motor pool and other day-to-day functions. Before the new dispatch center opened on Monument, it had housed that, too.
I parked my DeSoto on Sears and walked down the alley-like street in front of the station’s front entrance. My fingers were crossed that silver-haired Seamus Hanlon wasn’t on desk duty. He and another cop had been my late father’s closest friends and were my godfathers. When I’d hung out my shingle seven years earlier, we’d made a pact: I wouldn’t ask for information or favors where their work was involved and they wouldn’t stick their noses into my cases. If it came to a tussle over whether or not I got to see Rachel, I didn’t want it to be Seamus I had to argue with.
A kid so green looking he had to be a trainee was running the desk. Seamus, who came in early, must have gone to breakfast. Or maybe he was filling in on street patrol or in a cruiser. As was the case everywhere, men were leaving the force left and right as their draft numbers came up.
“I’m here to see Rachel Minsky,” I said. “You booked her early this morning.”
“Are you her lawyer?” His tone conveyed doubt.
“I’ve been hired to help with her case.”
He looked around for someone else to give input, but no help was in sight. Pulling a list toward him, he hunted her name. Then he slid the visitor’s log toward me.
“You need to sign in. Put the time. And, uh, you need to show me identification.”
Opening my purse gave me time to weigh pros and cons. I showed him the Special Detective license bearing the signature of the chief of pol
ice. His manner became more official.
“Okay. Follow me. I’ll have someone take you back. You’ve got five minutes.”
TWO
I’d been to see people in Ford Street lockup before. Its two dormitory-style women’s cells were upstairs. The dimly lighted aisle looked bleaker than I remembered. The smells were worse, too, and the echoes. Or maybe it was just different when you were going to see somebody you knew.
Rachel Minsky reminded me of an expensive doll in Rike’s department store. Her skin was creamy; her face a perfect oval. A wealth of black hair fluffed in a cloud around it. Her suits were as fine as they came, invariably enhanced by furs and a tasteful touch of expensive jewelry, which usually included garnet earrings.
Not this morning.
The woman who sprang to her feet at sight of me looked washed out. Her plain wool dress had a stain on one sleeve. Instead of stockings and high heels she wore anklets and lace-up shoes. Bereft of any hint of makeup, her skin looked pale and faded. She strolled toward me with her usual swagger, though.
“You need lipstick,” I said.
“What I need is a double martini.”
“How’d you get the bruise?”
It was small, at the edge of her eye, as if someone had taken a swing without much success. She gave her head a careless toss.
“One of my fellow denizens mistook me for a powder puff.”
“Bitch,” snarled a woman hunkered defensively on one of the bunks.
She was listening with interest, trying to size up my pink hat and wavy brown hair. So were several in the neighboring cell. Beckoning Rachel closer, I lowered my voice.
“Rachel, what happened? Make it fast. We’ve only got five minutes.”
I stood five-foot-two and Rachel was shorter. I’d seen her stroll into a roomful of men who had guns pointed at her and not bat an eye. Now, despite her squared shoulders, she looked small and vulnerable. Her hands gripped the bars between us so tightly her knuckles were white.
“Two things first, in case we run out of time. As soon as you leave here, go see my brother.”
“The lawyer?”
“Yes. His name is Joel. He’s in the Lindsey Building. Sixth floor. If he’s not in court, the receptionist there will say you need an appointment. Tell her his sister sent you with a message and you’re to wait for an answer. Have it written out so she can take it to him.”
“What exactly should I say?”
“‘Truffle’s in jail.’”
Truffle?
“And if he is in court?”
Her jaw jutted sideways.
“Then you’ll have to wait.” Tiny lines of tension fanned out from her eyes. She ran a hand through her hair. “I don’t suppose you thought to bring me cigarettes.”
“No. Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.” She managed a smile.
“What’s the other thing?”
“I need you to get rid of something so no one else finds it.” Her husky voice had dropped even lower. Her dark eyes stared at me defiantly. “It’s nothing to do with what happened last night. It’s personal.”
“What is it? Where do I find it?”
“An envelope. With papers inside it. It’s in my office. The upholstery on my chair has half a dozen tacks that are loose. On the seat, at the back. Pry them up and replace them after you’ve removed the envelope. Then find a fire somewhere and burn it.”
It went without saying I wasn’t to look at the contents.
“You going to fill me in on the murder part now?”
“The s.o.b. they found had it coming, but I didn’t do it. They found his body at one of my construction sites.”
“But you knew him?”
“Oh, yes. That’s how I know he was an s.o.b.”
“I take it he was killed last night?”
“I assume.”
The guard who’d led me to the cells began to walk toward us.
“Where were you?” I asked quickly.
“I keep a place downtown. I was there in bed.”
“Any way of confirming it?”
Her sudden grin made her look like the old Rachel.
“The man who was sharing my bed tried to. The cops didn’t seem to believe him. Tell Joel I want you in on this.”
“Time’s up,” said the guard.
* * *
There were things from my conversation with Rachel that I’d have preferred to clear up before meeting her brother. The business about the envelope I was supposed to burn bothered me. She said it had nothing to do with whatever the mess was she’d landed in. I wanted to believe her, but a gnat of doubt kept whining at the back of my brain.
Her comment that she kept a place downtown had startled me too. I’d always had the impression she lived with her parents. Now that I considered it, though, that was pure supposition on my part. From time to time she’d mentioned family matters in passing, so they weren’t alienated. Yet learning she kept a place of her own didn’t really surprise me. At core, there was an elusiveness to Rachel.
Considerably short of all the answers I wanted, I sailed into The Lindsey Building, a tall, skinny place on South Main. Her brother’s law firm had two names on the door and a reception area paneled in walnut with a dark green rug in front of couches where people could wait. When you stepped on that green rug, you were walking on money. A middle-aged couple sat on one of the couches, so deep in whispered conversation that they didn’t so much as look in my direction as I made my way to the receptionist’s desk.
“My name’s Maggie Sullivan,” I said leaning in and speaking quietly. “I need to see Mr. Minsky.”
She gave a courteous smile. “You’ll need to make an appointment.”
“I have a message from his sister. I’m to wait for an answer.”
I handed her a folded up sheet of lined paper from the legal pad I kept in my car. It had the message Rachel had dictated. After looking at it for a moment, the receptionist took it with reluctance. She rose and gestured toward the couch across from the whispering couple.
“Sit down, please. I’ll see if he can be disturbed.”
She disappeared through a doorway to the right of her desk. I’d scarcely had time to cross my legs before a man in a pinstripe suit that fit to the nth degree barreled through the same door.
Since Rachel was small, I hadn’t expected him to be large. Or strikingly attractive. Coal black hair. A generous nose. The only real resemblance to his sister was the bottomless darkness of his eyes, which at the moment were very, very angry. He flew toward me like an arrow, seizing my elbow as he reached my side.
“I don’t know what your game is,” he began in a low voice. “If you think for a minute you can shake me down–”
I flicked my business card up between two fingertips.
“I’m friends with... the woman who sent that message. She dictated the exact wording.”
Joel Minsky stroked his mouth as he read the card. He crushed the handwritten note he still held.
“Let’s talk in my office.”
The receptionist had returned to her desk.
“Tell my next appointment I’m running a few minutes late,” he said shortly.
He wasn’t inclined to small talk as we followed more green carpeting back to his office. Neither was I. Closing the door to his office, he waved me toward a chair.
“I’ve heard your name,” he said as he took his position behind as pretty a walnut desk as I’d ever seen. “I don’t recall if Rachel’s mentioned it. She keeps her personal life to herself. But I’ve heard it from business associates.” His hands spread outward across the note that lay on his desk. “I take it this means what it says? My sister’s in jail?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t she contact me?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s the charge?”
“I’m not sure she’s been officially charged yet.”
“What did they arrest her for then?”
“
Murder.”
He leaned back. His eyes closed. His well-manicured hands curled into fists.
“Who? When?”
“Last night. A man she knew. They found him at one of her work sites. That’s about all I have in the way of particulars. They only let us speak for a couple of minutes. She says the police woke her up in the middle of the night.”
“The little fool!” He shot to his feet.
I twisted to see him. He was donning his hat, preparing to leave. I rose to trot after him.
“Look, Rachel’s helped me more than once. Anything I can do—”
“Our firm employs its own investigator.”
“Mr. Minsky, I wasn’t implying I’d charge you.”
“Thank you for delivering her message, Miss Sullivan. That will be all.”
He took me by the elbow and hustled me out, just in case I’d missed the hint.
THREE
Minsky Construction, identified by a sign in front of the single-story wood building, was in an industrial area. Its neighbors across the street were a warehouse and a coal yard. One side of the building had a fenced-in area filled with construction equipment and tarp-covered stacks of lumber. There weren’t as many machines parked there as I remembered, and the stacks of lumber looked smaller. A waist-high redbud tree had sprouted to add a splash of pink next to one of the stacks.
“Maggie! How good to see you!” Cecilia, Rachel’s secretary, hopped up from her desk behind a long counter and came to greet me. Usually three male clerks sat at battered desks behind the counter, writing in ledgers, spindling paperwork, coming to help supervisors who arrived from a project needing something. Today there were only two clerks. The third desk had the cleaned off look of one that was vacant.
“Isn’t it a glorious day?” smiled Cecilia.
“Yeah, I have a touch of spring fever. How’s Donnie?”
“Doing fine, thanks.”
Cecilia had a boy who wasn’t right and needed constant supervision. A few years earlier, she’d been out of work, on the edge of trouble, and worrying how she’d provide for him. Rachel at the time had an officious male secretary whose loyalty went about as far as spit. Things had worked out.
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