New Hope for the Dead

by Charles Willeford

“If you want me to, I can take a couple home with me tonight to read,” Ellita said. “I haven’t got anything else planned.”

  “No. I want to think about how best to work things out. You guys go home.”

  Henderson broadened his smile slightly. “I think I’d better take Teddy out and buy him a drink before I give him the news. Did you notice Gonzalez through the window when we were in Willie’s office? The poor bastard went to the can three times. He probably thought the meeting was all about him. But you can’t blame him. If I’d been left out there, I’d’ve thought the same thing.”

  After Henderson and Ellita left, Hoke locked the office, got his Pontiac from the lot, and drove out to Green Lakes to pay another visit to Mrs. Hickey’s house.

  5

  The rush-hour traffic on Flagler Street was heavier than usual because of the rain. In July, during the rainy season, showers and thunderstorms begin at four or four-thirty every day and continue into the early evening hours. Hoke didn’t mind the rain or the traffic, or the fact that he was working overtime without compensation. He appreciated doing anything that would delay his getting home to the Hotel Eldorado in Miami Beach—any delay, that is, that didn’t cost money. The long nights at the Eldorado were dull, so he was always glad when he had an excuse to postpone going home.

  The pile of old cases on his desk troubled him a little, but not very much. Brownley had had a good idea there, despite his selfish motivation, and Hoke looked forward to the two-month assignment. He didn’t think they would be able to solve ten cases, but even if they could solve three or four, it would be better than none. He just wished that he had been the one to select the fifty cases to work on, instead of Willie Brownley. If he and Henderson had gone through all the cold cases, and there must be several hundred, they could have done a much better job of winnowing them than Brownley. On the other hand, the fact that Brownley had selected these particular files out of all the other unsolved cases gave Hoke at least a weak excuse for failure if they didn’t resolve any of them at all.

  The best way to work it, he decided, was to have each of them read all of the cases first. Each reader could then select the ten most likely cases to work on. If they all came up with the same three or four homicides on their lists, these would be the cases to work on first. If they all had the same half-dozen, it would be even better.

  Hoke didn’t know why Brownley had assigned Sanchez instead of Gonzalez to his team, but it was probably because he didn’t think Slater could work well with a woman. Slater had a very short fuse, and Brownley undoubtedly felt that Slater would feel more comfortable chewing on Gonzalez’s ass every day than he would Sanchez’s. Regardless of the reason, Hoke was happy to have Sanchez instead of Gonzalez. She could spell, as well as type, so he would have her keep the daily notes and write the weekly progress reports that Major Brownley wanted. Sanchez didn’t have much of a sense of humor, but he would be working with Henderson again, who did, and that was a big plus.

  Loretta Hickey was no longer the distraught youthful mother Hoke had last seen sobbing on the lawn that morning. When she opened the door, she was rested, clean and sweet-smelling, and wearing a black-and-white silk djellabah. Sober, Mrs. Hickey was a handsome woman. Her long hair, freshly shampooed, still had damp ends, and she had brushed it straight back. Her high white forehead was shiny and without makeup, but there was a pink trace of lipstick on her full lips.

  She asked Hoke for identification. He had to tell her his name and show her his shield before she would unlock the screen door. She stared at Hoke with bold blue eyes and without apparent recognition.

  “Are you always this cautious?” Hoke said, stepping into the living room.

  “No, not always.” Her face relaxed a little. “But I thought it might be those two men coming back.”

  “What men?”

  “They said they were friends of Jerry’s, but I’d never seen them before. Neighbors have been coming by all afternoon, bringing food, but these two came at about three-thirty, when no one else was here. They got upset when I told them that Jerry was dead. Then they started looking in his room.”

  “That room is sealed.”

  “I told them that, but they broke the strip of paper and looked around in there anyway. They asked me if Jerry had left a package for them, and I told them no. Then one of them asked if the police had found twenty-five thousand dollars in the room! I told them that Jerry had a thousand, but no twenty-five thousand. But the thousand wasn’t there either. That’s when they started dumping the drawers out on the floor.”

  “What did they look like, these men? Did you ask them for ID?”

  Mrs. Hickey shook her head. “No. I’d thought at first they might just be more neighbors. I didn’t know half the people who brought food over this afternoon. And they didn’t look like friends of Jerry’s, either. They looked more like Yuppies, well-dressed with blow-dry hair—like Brick-ell Avenue or Kendall types. One of them was wearing a silk suit, and the other had on a linen jacket. They were in their mid-twenties, I’d say. The one in the suit had black loafers, the other man wore brown-and-white shoes.”

  Hoke grinned. “The man with the black shoes did all the talking, right?”

  Loretta Hickey nodded. “How’d you know that?”

  “I didn’t. But guys who wear two-tone shoes have an ambivalent personality, and are indecisive.” Hoke studied the drape of the silk djellabah and wondered if she was wearing a bra. “What else did they say about the twenty-five thousand?”

  “Jerry was supposed to deliver the money to them yesterday, but he didn’t show up, and they’d been looking for him. I told them that Jerry had a thousand dollars, and I knew that, because he showed it to me when I came home from work yesterday evening. If he had more, he didn’t tell me anything about it. The thousand was on the dresser when I found him this morning. I had assumed it was still there, because I didn’t go back into the room again. But it was gone when we went into the room, so—”

  “I have it in my pocket,” Hoke said. “Tell me, did you let Jerry in yesterday?”

  “No, I wasn’t here. I’d already gone to work, but he came to the house in the morning, he told me.”

  “How’d he get in? There was no key with his effects.”

  “He used the key I keep hidden in a fake rock. If you live all alone and happen to lock yourself out—and I’ve done it—you’ve got a problem. I’ll show you.”

  She opened the screen door and led Hoke outside. She picked up a gray stone about four inches long and handed it to Hoke. It weighed four or five ounces and had a flat bottom. Hoke opened the flat part by sliding it to one side and found the key concealed in the recess. He hefted the stone in his hand. “This is the phoniest fake stone I’ve ever seen. Where’d you get it?”

  “I ordered it from a catalog. It’s supposed to be granite. It looks real to me.”

  “Yeah, but we don’t have any granite in south Florida. We’ve got gravel, and we’ve got oolite, but not any granite. A burglar who spotted this in your yard next to the house would know that it was a fake. What you should do is leave the key with a neighbor instead.”

  “I’ve done that. Mrs. Koontz, next door, has a key, and I’ve got a key to her house.”

  “In that case, I’d advise you to keep this phony stone inside the house. What else did these men say?” Hoke opened the screen door, and they went back into the living room.

  “Nothing else. Mrs. Ames, from across the street, came over with a Key lime pie, and while I was around the back letting her in, they slipped out the front door and left.”

  “Did you see their car?”

  “It was a convertible. The top was down. It was light green, an apple green.”

  “You didn’t take down the license number?”

  “No, I was talking to Mrs. Ames, telling her what had happened. It wouldn’t have occurred to me anyway.” She looked away. “Would you like a drink, Sergeant?”

  “A beer would be okay.”

&nb
sp; “I’ve got vodka, and a six-pack of Cokes, but no beer.”

  “Make it a Coke, then. I usually drink beer or bourbon, but I can drink almost anything, except for Mr. Pibb.”

  Hoke followed Mrs. Hickey into the dining area and sat at the Eames table while she went into the kitchen. The table was loaded with food. There was a baked ham, studded with cloves; two cheesecakes; two Key lime pies; and a large brown ceramic casserole dish filled with Boston baked beans, topped with parboiled strips of fatty bacon.

  “You ever see so much food?” Mrs. Hickey said, coming back from the kitchen. She handed Hoke a tall glass of Coca-Cola over ice cubes. “On top of all this”—she made a sweeping gesture over the table—”there’s a big tuna salad in the fridge and a half a watermelon.” She blushed. “I’ve had two ham sandwiches already, and both with mayonnaise.”

  “That’s natural. Death makes a person hungry. Those beans look good to me.”

  “Would you like some? I’ll never be able to eat all this food by myself.”

  “I’m on a kind of diet. I’d rather have the beans, but I’ll settle for some tuna salad.”

  “I’ll fix you a plate.”

  Hoke didn’t want the tuna salad either, but he thought it might help if he gave Mrs. Hickey something to do with her hands. She had to be embarrassed about her morning’s performance, but she was covering it well. He needed to know more about Jerry Hickey. If Jerry had ripped off twenty-five thousand dollars, where was it? Of course, he might not have ripped off anything. The two guys could have been looking for him for something else, and told Mrs. Hickey that as a cover story. On the other hand, it was plausible. Drug people stiffed each other all the time, and a junkie like Hickey might not have considered the consequences of taking down a dealer. If these two dealers, or whoever they were, had been dumb enough to trust that kind of money to a junkie, they deserved to be ripped off. The kid, if he took the money, had hidden it somewhere, stashed it away, figuring that he would hide out here for a few days, then pick it up and take off. He had kept out a thousand, probably, as an emergency fund …

  The tuna salad was attractively presented: a heaping portion on a lettuce bed, garnished with two deviled egg halves, green and black olives, and celery sticks. To keep Hoke company, Mrs. Hickey had a slice of Key lime pie. She took two bites, then got up and started the percolator in the kitchen.

  “This is good tuna salad,” Hoke said, “but I never put hard-boiled eggs in mine. I prefer the classic recipe. One pound of tuna, one pound of chopped onions, and one pound of mayonnaise.”

  Loretta Hickey laughed. “Oh! All that mayonnaise! I’m sorry. I guess I shouldn’t laugh, but I couldn’t help it.”

  “Don’t ever apologize for laughing, Mrs. Hickey. Life goes on, you know, no matter what. That’s what your neighbors were trying to tell you when they brought this food over.”

  “I know. And I don’t want to seem callous. I should feel sorry about Jerry’s death, but I always knew that something would happen to him sooner or later. So in a way, I’m just as glad it’s over. I don’t mean I’m happy about his death—don’t get me wrong—but his father and I gave up on Jerry a long time ago.”

  “I understand, I think. What I’d like from you now is a little background information on your son—”

  “Jerry isn’t my son. That is, I wasn’t responsible for him the way I would’ve been if he’d been my own son. Or even my legal stepson.”

  “That isn’t quite clear. Gerald Hickey isn’t your son?”

  “No. I’m divorced. Jerry’s my ex-husband’s son. Only Jerry wasn’t his natural son either. He was my ex-husband’s adopted son. That is, Jerry was my ex-husband’s ex-wife’s son by her first husband. Harold, my ex-husband, adopted Jerry when he married Marcella, his first wife, because she had custody of Jerry from her first marriage. You see, when he married Marcella, she talked Harold into adopting Jerry. Then, after they were divorced, Marcella left town, and he had to keep Jerry because Jerry was now his legal responsibility. Harold didn’t know where Marcella went, and he’s never heard from her again. Jerry was fifteen when they were divorced, and then Harold married me about a year later, when Jerry turned sixteen. But I never adopted Jerry, so I wasn’t his legal stepmother or anything like that. He just came with Harold and the house. This house.”

  “You may not believe me,” Hoke said, pushing his plate to one side, “but I can follow you. I run into a lot more complicated families than yours in Miami. Then you divorced Harold, right?”

  “That’s right. I never got along too well with Harold, but I always got along with Jerry because I didn’t try to play the mother act with him. Jerry was too old for me to try that anyway, when Harold and I got married, and I’m not the maternal type. I got along with Jerry much better than Harold ever did, but then Harold was responsible for him legally.

  “At any rate, when I got my divorce I also got the house—this one—as part of the settlement. Harold wanted a bachelor pad, so he asked me to keep Jerry, too. He gave me an extra two hundred a month in the agreement, so I let Jerry stay on. By that time Jerry and I were pretty good friends. He did pretty much as he wanted to do, and I didn’t care. After he got his car, I didn’t see him much. He got into a little trouble with the police, but his father always got him out of it. After he dropped out of school, he was sometimes away from the house for two or three weeks at a time. He ran around with a bunch in Coconut Grove, but he never brought any of them here. So to tell you the truth, Sergeant, I don’t know all that much about what he was doing, or where he spent his time. But I wasn’t legally responsible for him. I do know, or feel, that this place was a kind of a sanctuary for him. I never bugged him, and there was always food to eat here if he wanted to come home and eat it. Harold still sent me the two hundred every month, whether Jerry was here or not, even after Jerry turned eighteen.”

  “Did you know that Jerry was on drugs?”

  “I suspected it, but I wasn’t positive. As I said, I wasn’t legally responsible for—”

  “Yes, you did mention that. Where did Jerry get his money to live on? Did he have a job?”

  “Not lately. He used to get odd jobs now and then, at the Green Lakes Car Wash, and as a bag boy. He offered to help me once in the flower shop, but I turned him down. He wasn’t a dependable boy, so I knew he wouldn’t stay for more than a few days, and I didn’t want to add another failure to his list. Harold mailed him a check once in a while, but that was after he quit school. While he was in school I gave him an allowance, but when he dropped out of school I stopped it. After his driver’s license was suspended, he sold his car. He made about two thousand on the sale. But that was several months ago.” She ate the last bite of her pie. “Anyway, it’s all over with now, isn’t it? Including my extra two hundred a month from Harold. That’s what I wanted to ask you about.”

  “What?”

  “A favor. Somebody has to tell Harold about Jerry. And I just can’t make myself do it. Would you call and tell him for me? I think he ought to be told soon, because it wouldn’t be very pleasant for him to read about it in the papers or hear it on the radio.”

  “Jerry’s name won’t be released to the papers until they’ve checked with us that his next-of-kin’s been notified. The press is pretty decent about things like that. But I’ll call him if you want me to.” Hoke got to his feet. “Where does he live?”

  “At the Mercury Club, in Hallandale. I’ll get his number for you.”

  Harold Hickey, Hoke thought, must have a bundle. The Mercury Club was right on the ocean, with tight security, and had its own small marina. The Mercury Club was still restricted, too: no Jews, blacks, or Latins. When all of the civil rights legislation was considered, it cost a great deal of money to keep a private club restricted nowadays.

  Hoke dialed the number Mrs. Hickey gave him. After two rings, a voice came on the line. The voice was deep and husky; each word was enunciated self-consciously.

  “This is a recording. I am Harold
Hickey, attorney at law. I am temporarily unable to answer the phone in person. In a moment or so, when I finish speaking, you will hear a tone. At that time, if you are so inclined, you may leave your name, phone number, and message. I will return your call at my earliest convenience.”

  Hoke waited for the tone, and said: “This is Detective-Sergeant Hoke Moseley, Homicide, Miami Police Department. Your son Gerald died this morning under peculiar circumstances. For additional information, call me after ten P.M. at my residence, the Eldorado Hotel, Miami Beach. Don’t give up too quickly.” Hoke gave the number, then added, “If you don’t call me at the hotel, you can reach me at Homicide, Miami police station, tomorrow after seven-thirty A.M.”

  Hoke racked the phone and turned away. Loretta had an expression of dismay. “What was that all about? Were you talking to a recording?”

  “He wasn’t there, so I gave the machine the information.”

  “Jesus! You told the recording Jerry was dead? I could’ve done that myself. Except that I’d never tell a recording anyone was dead. That’ll be a shock to Harold when he plays it back. The reason I asked you to call him in the first place was I thought you could do it gently.”

  “There isn’t any gentle way to tell someone that a member of his family’s dead. The direct method’s as good as any. Besides, if Mr. Hickey was sensitive, he wouldn’t have a recording answer his telephone for him. By the time he calls me back, he’ll have had time to digest the news.”

  “You don’t know Harold.” She looked away, toward the bedrooms. “But at least he didn’t have to discover the body, the way I did.”

  “I think the coffee may be ready.”

  “Just a sec. I’ll see.”

  When Loretta returned with the coffee and cups on a tray, Hoke handed her the envelope containing $1,070 and asked her to count it. He then asked her to sign a receipt.

  “This money’s yours, or your ex-husband’s. Or you two can split it. But you’d better tell him about it.”