Anthony Carrick Hardboiled Murder Mysteries: Box Set (Books 1 - 3)

by Jason Blacker

  "I see, and did you do that?"

  Blaney nodded.

  "I did. But I thought it odd that he would mention his death. Seemed a little macabre to me."

  "Did you mention that to him?" I asked, getting back into the dialogue.

  "I did, Mr. Carrick. I asked him if he was concerned for his safety. He didn't exactly say he was, he just wanted to be sure that things would be taken care of in the event of his, well you know, death."

  "But he didn't give any indication of who or why he felt threatened?" I asked.

  "That's right he didn't. I did tell him that if he feared for his safety that he should telephone the police. He shrugged it off. Said it was nothing and that he was probably being a little paranoid. Still, I fear I should have been a little more pointed with him in that regard all things now considered."

  "Nothing you could have done," I said. "Unless you knew something about why he was feeling threatened."

  Blaney shook his head.

  "Absolutely not, I would have said something then. I mean come on, he's a big enough fellow, surely his wife wasn't about to kill him?"

  Blaney looked at me incredulously. I didn't say anything for a moment.

  "You know about that story in the bible about Goliath?" I asked.

  He nodded.

  "Of course."

  "There you go. Even a mouse can kill an elephant with a gun, Mr. Blaney," I said.

  He shrugged and look down at the table where my blue coffee mug stood empty on the dark wooden surface. Perfect and polished. Much like the facade of these lives.

  "I suppose so. I just can't accept that. Celia might be a bit uncouth, but a killer I doubt she is."

  "You'd be surprised who could kill given the right circumstances and the right motive," I said.

  He looked at me.

  "You really think she killed him?"

  "I didn't say that," I said. "But she hasn't been excluded yet. You must know that with his death she stands to inherit everything? This north of one hundred million you spoke of earlier."

  "Yes I do know that, Mr. Carrick. Except in the event of divorce..."

  Blaney trailed off and looked back down. This time further down at the expensive rug that was under the coffee table. It was the only splash of color in the office save for a Kandinsky that I figured was original and worth an easy few million itself. Blaney shook his head slowly.

  "Terrible thing to have to think about," he said. "That she would have killed him for money."

  "It's often the only motive that's needed," I said.

  Blaney sat deep in thought. None of us said anything for a while. I looked up at the painting by Kandinsky. It was a brightly colored blocky painted cityscape with two figures in the foreground. I liked it, but then again I understood art.

  "Do you know who she was having an affair with?" I asked.

  Blaney took his eyes away from the floor and put them back on my face.

  "No, I didn't get into that much detail with James."

  "Was it one or several men?"

  "I don't know. I assumed just one. Do you think it could have been more than one?"

  "We're just looking to pursue leads," I said. "One we know of for sure, but you never know where the rabbit hole leads."

  Dykes closed his notebook. He looked over at Jackson. Jackson did the same.

  "Well, I think that's all we need," Dykes said, standing up.

  Jackson stood up and I stayed seated. Jackson reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the warrant. He handed the warrant to Blaney.

  "What's this?" Blaney asked.

  "It's a warrant for records," said Jackson. "You've been very helpful but you'll probably want this for your records, as we do require copies of Mr. Ensor's account transactions for the last year."

  Blaney nodded.

  "Of course," he said. Then he opened up the warrant and read it. He headed over to his computer and tapped away for a few moments. On the side of his desk was a printer. It started up not long after and spat out a couple of pages. I walked over to the window and looked outside. It was sunny and looked warm. It wasn't that warm though. The Windy City earned its name honestly. The streets were rather barren, only the odd pedestrian walking along the sidewalks, dragging their secrets behind them like petulant shadows.

  Blaney picked up the pages from the printer and handed them over to Jackson.

  "Not much activity over the past year, Detective," he said. "We encourage our clients not to invest with money they might need for five or more years. Their returns will be hurt if they keep cashing in."

  Jackson nodded and we moved towards the door. I stopped by the Kandinsky. It was not large. Most people don't realize how small many of the great paintings are. Take the Mona Lisa for example, it's but a sketch in size. Thirty inches by twenty inches. This Kandinsky was smaller than that, almost half the size. I put it as eighteen by twelve. Blaney stopped next to me and admired his own painting.

  "You like it, Mr. Carrick?" he asked, turning to me and smiling.

  I nodded.

  "Do you know who it's by?"

  There seemed to be a small overtone of gloat in his voice. He was about to school me again. I wasn't about to let that happen. I turned to him and smiled.

  "Vasily Kandinsky," I said. "This was painted in nineteen oh eight during his Impressionism period. If memory serves it's called 'Businessmen in Antwerp'."

  I grinned at him. He smiled back at me. A slightly hollow and perhaps sad smile.

  "You know your art," he said.

  "Some of it," I said. "Must be worth a small fortune."

  "It is," he said. "I had it evaluated earlier this year for insurance purposes. Its current value is six million."

  I nodded.

  "And yet you keep it out in the open like this," I said, nodding at the painting.

  "What is art for if not to be enjoyed? And what is insurance for if not to allow art to be enjoyed?"

  He had a point.

  "What's your interest in art?" he asked, turning and looking at me.

  "I'm a painter," I said, looking back at him. "A really lovely specimen."

  "Do you sell?"

  "Sometimes," I said. "You can view some of my current work at Triangle Gallery in Beverly Hills. Online as well. It won't cost you six million either."

  "This Kandinsky didn't cost me that much. I got it some years ago for one point five."

  I nodded and moved towards Dykes and Jackson.

  "Thank you for your time, Mr. Blaney," said Dykes.

  Blaney had joined us and we all shook hands.

  "I'll look you up," Blaney said to me as we shook hands. "Perhaps there'll be a sale in it for you."

  "That would be terrific. It might be to your taste."

  We left and found our own way back to the main reception area and to the lobby where Jackson pushed the button for the elevator.

  "Off to see Skeef?" I asked.

  "Not yet," said Dykes. "While you were discussing paintings I got a call from Lane. He wants us to head back to the headquarters and fill him in."

  FIFTEEN

  The Fast Lane

  IT wasn't even lunch time but I was getting hungry. We were back at headquarters by about eleven thirty. Up on the same floor I'd been a few times along the exterior wall were offices and boardrooms. You know all that. What you don't know is that one of those offices was Lane's and I was led straight to it like a stray dog.

  The office wasn't very big, maybe the size of a regular bedroom. But unlike a bedroom it was filled with expensive furniture, not the bureaucratic offcuts that you'll often find in homicide offices. This was nice stuff. I felt like I was in a smaller version of Blue Ocean's offices.

  Lane got off the phone as we came in and he walked round his desk to greet us. He shook my hand and patted me on the shoulder. His smile was easy and large, much like his stature, and his eyes were still sleepy. It gave the impression that he might be a dull bulb, but that was hardly the case. He wore
a charcoal gray suit with red socks, red pocket square and red tie. He looked like a model, but for a magazine like Big and Tall or Humble Man's Riches.

  He was also wearing the Saint Jude medallion pinned to his suit. This one was gold though. And his watch was gold too. Another Rolex. Between his two watches I knew about he almost wore my entire salary on his wrist. He led us to the sofa stuffed in the corner of his office. Dykes and Jackson sat down, I remained standing. There was a chair if I wanted it. I didn't. Lane sat on the corner of his desk, he turned towards his desk and reached for something. It was a toothpick. He stuck it in is mouth. Dykes popped a Lifesaver in his, not offering anyone.

  "I hear you looked into my old man's plumbing company," Lane said to me. I nodded.

  "Seems I misjudged you," I said.

  He grinned at me and nodded. His hands were comfortably together in his lap.

  "No offense," he said. "There're bad cops around, but my team is clean."

  "I know that now," I said. "Who told you?"

  Lane nodded over at Jackson. I looked over at him. Jackson shrugged.

  "I didn't just take his word for it," I said. "I called Lane's Heating and Plumbing to verify."

  Lane nodded.

  "Good, that's good. I like it. That's why we've got you onboard," he said.

  "So," I said. "You invest with Blue Ocean?"

  Lane laughed loudly and tossed his head up.

  "No, I take care of my own investments. Besides, I don't have that much. Way less than twenty-five mill."

  "How come you still work on the job?" I asked.

  He looked at me with those sleepy eyes that looked sharper than knives.

  "I'm trying to clean up this city. I like what I do, and I'm personally invested in bringing bad guys to justice."

  "You should tell him," said Dykes.

  Lane looked over at Dykes, shrugged and then looked back at me.

  "When I was thirteen my younger brother was killed in a hit and run. Never found the guy who did it. That's what got me into policing."

  I nodded, that was a bum break.

  "You know," he said, still looking at me, "I've got another nickname for you. Irish is fine and all, but I think your initials work even better. AC."

  "And how's that?" I asked.

  "'Cos you're cold as ice, you're a cool operator. I can tell that now."

  Jackson nodded.

  "Yeah, that's a good one," he said.

  I turned to look over at him.

  "And seeing as how we're just spitballing, what're their nicknames."

  Lane looked over at Dykes and nodded in his direction.

  "Dykes over there is Red, and Jackson is Goldie. When they're together it's Red and Gold or RG."

  I nodded, they were okay.

  "I had him as Silent Red."

  Lane looked back at Dykes and nodded.

  "I like it," he said.

  "Was Silent Red the Viking," said Jackson. He then looked at me. "You never gave me one."

  "Baller," I said.

  "How's that?" asked Lane.

  "He keeps telling me how he's not really a fan, yet he knows more about the game than anyone I know."

  Jackson grinned and shrugged.

  "What can I say?" he said.

  "You know baller's usually used in the context of basketball," said Lane.

  I shrugged.

  "I like it better for baseball," I said. "Besides, Jackson here tells me it was used for baseball at one time."

  "That so?" asked Lane. Jackson nodded.

  "Why are we here, Captain?" asked Dykes getting to the brass tacks.

  Lane looked up at him and smiled. The toothpick a sharp point in his direction.

  "It's been what, almost five days," he said, "since the murder."

  "Not even three days," I added helpfully. "Three days tonight around eight."

  Lane looked back at me, and his smile wasn't so friendly this time.

  "Feels like five days," Lane said, "with the heat I'm taking. I just got off the phone with the Mayor's office. Earlier today the Chief was breathing down my neck. They want this wrapped up."

  "They want it wrapped up or they want it swept under the rug?" I asked.

  Lane didn't say anything to that.

  "Look," I said. "Three days is not long. This homicide is a dog's breakfast. The more we pull at the corner the more it unravels. We've got suspects up to our eyeballs."

  "That so?" asked Lane. "And how long does it usually take to wrap up a murder where you're from?"

  "I reckon up to a week is not a bad time frame."

  "And the longest?"

  "Well, the longest that I've been involved with was a cold case. Probably twenty-five years give or take."

  "We don't have twenty-five years," said Lane.

  "Neither do I."

  "The World Series is starting tomorrow," said Lane, reminding us of the obvious. "It would be nice to have something to give them by then."

  Lane looked at Dykes and Jackson.

  "Where you at?"

  "Following leads," said Dykes. "Just got back from Salisbury's, the vic's lawyer and now his wife's. Also just got back from Blue Ocean where the vic had his money."

  "Fill me in," said lane, pinching the toothpick between thumb and forefinger and transferring it to the other side of his mouth.

  "Lawyer was a bit of a dick like they can be, until we served him with a warrant..."

  "A warrant, seriously?" asked Lane.

  Dykes nodded.

  "Ms. Skinner was kind enough to get one through for us," offered Jackson hopefully.

  "And you're both hoping to get fired?" asked Lane.

  "Aw, come on, Captain, it's a legit warrant," said Jackson.

  "That might come under review," said Lane.

  "Anyway," said Dykes continuing, "it helped us get some info on the vic and his wife."

  "Like what?"

  "Like the fact that the vic was looking to get divorced. That makes her a prime suspect. She was screwing around on the vic with at least one other person. Carrick here found out it was Gibb, the left fielder. Anyway, might be others. Point being, the prenup was buttoned down tight. She only gets one mill if the vic divorced her for infidelity which he was going to do."

  "And how was he going to prove it?" asked Lane.

  "That's the thing. He hired a PI. We're gonna speak to him next."

  "One million is not chump change. What's she missing out on?" asked Lane.

  "North of one hundred million," said Jackson.

  Lane whistled.

  "Now we're talking real money. Have you got a warrant for the vic's home yet, see if she left the gun there?" asked Lane.

  "That's coming next," said Dykes.

  "Should've come first," said Lane, showing no signs of real frustration.

  "Well, we haven't heard back from the Coroner yet on the type of weapon used."

  "Was a Ruger SR9 according to ballistics," said Lane. "Heard from them this morning too. Been a long day for me already."

  "Captain," said Dykes, "FSD swabbed her hands the same night the vic was murdered for GSR. Nothing found, that's why we've been reticent to head on over too quick. Besides, Carrick here figures that we don't want to push her too hard or she might clam up. If we reel her in slowly she might let something slip."

  I said no such thing to him. In any event I was leaning on her pretty hard in the boardroom the other day. Lane looked over at me.

  "That true?" he asked.

  "Something like that," I said, giving Dykes a hairy eyeball. He just grinned at me.

  "You guys are making slow progress. Like fat Santa trying to get down the chimney. I need something by tomorrow, something more concrete," said Lane.

  "We've got lots of leads," I said. "We're pulling at strings, but soon enough they'll come apart and we'll see which one is tied to the murder."

  "Help me with that," said Lane.

  "Well," I said, "there's the wife, Celia. She looks good for
it. No GSR apparently, which I've just found out. Still, she could have been wearing gloves, changed clothes, showered. Any number of reasons there was no GSR on her and she still could have pulled the trigger. We'll figure that out. Or maybe she's an accessory. There's also Gibb, owns a couple of guns."

  I looked at Jackson and Dykes. I'd hoped they'd looked into these sorts of things while I was out at the field talking with the team. Jackson nodded.

  "He told us the same. We verified his handguns. He has two registered like he told us. A Glock 31 which shoots 357s and a Ruger SR 1911 which is a 45 auto."

  "So those couldn't have been used," I offered.

  "And did you swab him?" asked Lane.

  Jackson nodded.

  "Clean."

  Lane looked over at me.

  "Seems we're getting somewhere," he said.

  I shook my head.

  "Any criminal worth his gunpowder is gonna wash well after using a firearm or he's gonna use gloves of some sort."

  "And were gloves found in the search of Wrigley Field?" asked Lane, turning to his detectives.

  Dykes shook his head.

  "Nope," he said, "but then again, we didn't find the murder weapon either."

  "Alright," said Lane, "so maybe no gloves were used."

  "In any event," I said, "not sure if you guys are up to snuff on your GSR but I wouldn't hinge my case on it. It's easily defeatable, easily washed off, easy to cross contaminate. Just hanging around the three of you and headquarters here I probably have GSR on me."

  "It would still give you clowns something to go on," said Lane, chomping on his toothpick. I wondered if it was spearmint flavored.

  "I've got plenty to go on," I said.

  "Help me understand," said Lane.

  "There are a lot of people who might have had a reason to kill Ensor," I said. "We've got the ex-wife. We've got the guy she was screwing around with."

  "Who's that?" interjected Lane.

  "Gibb, the left fielder," I said. "They got into it too a while back on the field. It was at the Diamondbacks game. Gibb flubbed a catch on purpose so the thinking goes. Ensor was enraged. Ran over to him and they duked it out. Gibb tells me they were both ejected with Ensor getting a big fine. Then there's Stark, the next best pitcher. He doesn't think he's getting enough action. He had issues with Ensor too. Works out well for him that Ensor's out of it. He's gonna get the glory now."