The Ketchum cop—a man of fifty; buzz cut and a big gut—said, “You were seen in the bar at the lodge sharing drinks with this woman twice. Now she’s dead in your bathtub. Looks like there was a struggle. Someone shot her up. Gave her a fatal overdose. LSD, maybe heroin. Maybe both.”
Now Hector was seething: leave it to a hack like Creedy to throw a hackneyed twist like this one at Hector. And leave it to Creedy to concoct a murder frame along these charged lines. Jesus.
Several years before, Hector’s fourth wife, Maria, had died of a fatal heroin overdose a few days after their toddler daughter, Dolores, succumbed to congenital defects resulting from her mother’s hidden addiction.
For years, conspiracy theorists had mounted a whispering campaign against Hector, accusing him of having fatally shot up his own wife in an ice-filled bathtub to fox time of death estimates to sinecure his own alibi.
Clearly, Creedy, or rather his minions, believed those stories and had decided to play to the dark rumors.
The cop confirmed Hector’s suspicions:
“Seems this last wife of yours—”
“Stop there, boyo.” Jimmy shook a thick finger at the Idaho flatfoot: “My friend was never even charged in that death, let alone arrested. Now, it’s like he says, we’ve been bunked at the Hemingway house a time, now. There’s a little colleen there, too, nine-months pregnant, whose husband is a literary scholar and an alcoholic. He went missing in Boise. Hec drove over there yesterday afternoon to find and bring the man, a fella name of Richard Paulson, back. He left him there at the lodge this morning to dry out. I expect you can find some people who saw the sot carried in by my friend, here. He’s been playing good Samaritan. Hec’s no killer.”
“And who the hell are you?”
“Retired detective. James Butler Hanrahan. You can check me out through the Cleveland Police Department.”
The Ketchum cop stuck out his chin. “Well, we’ve got a dead woman on our hands. We don’t get many apparent murders in these parts.”
Not since July 1961, anyway, Hector thought.
Jimmy leaned in close to Hector’s ear, whispered, “Did you know this dead woman, Hec? I mean, know her, and know her in the Biblical sense?”
Hector gave Jimmy this look. Jimmy said, “This is me, Hector. I know you. You and the skirts…?”
“She was alive when I left her in bed,” Hector whispered. “And Patricia was no junkie.”
“Jaysus,” Jimmy said softly. “If you’d just once keep it in your goddamn pants…. Well, I’ll do what I can with these boyos. Try to point them in the right directions and not let ’em fuck up interpreting the evidence, such as it is.”
Jimmy slapped the chief on the back and said, “Let’s go look at that poor colleen again. See if maybe something might not have been missed.”
Alone again, Hector seethed and fretted: He’d dodged false murder charges in the past. Usually it was for getting arrested for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Perhaps from poking around the edges of something nasty and accidentally making himself a convenient, but fleeting, suspect.
In the past, there had more than once been some pretty young thing to step forward and lie for him—to claim Hector had been in her bed at some crucial hour. But Hannah was pregnant and married. And Hector told himself he’d rather face incarceration than lie and say he’d slept with Mary Hemingway.
He ground his teeth: This time, he might really be in a fix.
And luckless Patricia? She would be another one of them now—another one of those dogging Hector’s conscience in the years left him.
Two hours passed. Then the top cop swung by the holding cell’s door:
“You’ll be released shortly, Lassiter.”
Hector nodded. “Surely won’t argue, but what’s changed?”
“Seems the dead woman ordered room service a good bit after you say you left,” the cop said. “She had an apricot fizz, whatever that is. Bellhop remembers her because she answered the door wrapped in a sheet. That bartender you chewed out in Picabo remembered you, too. Well, he remembered the bawling out you gave him for serving you a cut drink. Factoring those times against the Doc’s estimate of the girls’ death, even with all those ice cubes, well, barring you having a twin, you surely couldn’t have done the deed. Sorry to have put you through this trouble.”
***
He looked around the small, dank cell; just a few more minutes and they should be kicking him loose. Across the hallway, a couple of drunks were bunked out in their cells, snoring and cursing in their sleep. Jesus, what a pit….
Hector stood and rubbed the back of his neck. God bless Patricia for being a drinker. And bless his own short temper and that near-row with that miserly barkeep in Picabo. Frustrated by events, Hector had just kept driving in his Bel Air until he saw that particular bar….
They were twists Creedy couldn’t anticipate when plotting his hasty frame against Hector. It was always the little things that bit you in the ass….
The cop jerked his head at the door. “Your Irish friend’s out front, waiting for you, Lassiter. Oh, and some FBI fella asked after you, too.”
Hector hesitated at the door. “The Fed—he a son of a bitch named Creedy?”
“Nah, Andrew Langley.”
Well, that was inevitable after that attack in the Ram. Hector just hoped he wasn’t now going to pass from Idaho police custody to some federal lockup for decking a G-Man.
Hector stepped into the dusk; heard crickets. Jimmy had his broadening ass planted on the hood of Hector’s car. A black sedan was parked behind the Bel Air. Andy Langley, arms crossed, glaring, sat on the hood of that sled. He had a hell of a shiner. Hector nodded at Jimmy, flashed the Irishman an index finger, then ambled over to Langley.
“Kid,” he said, “I’m so sorry. But one of your bent confreres arranged to have a hit-team waiting out front of the Ram for me and that little gal. Now, me being without a gun….”
Langley said, “You might have said something. I might have—”
“For all I knew, or even know now, you’re in cahoots with this son-of-a-bitching fellow agent of yours,” Hector said. “It was a tense thing. I acted on impulse.” He hesitated, then said, “You report me up the chain?”
Langley rolled his eyes. “What, report that and the loss of my service weapon to the Director? Are you mad? I want my fucking gun back, Lassiter.”
“Sure, Andy,” Hector said. He strode over to his Chevy; popped the passenger-side door. He slipped his display handkerchief from the pocket of his sports jacket and reached under the seat. “Here you go, son. Again, sorry for that.” Turning his back to Jimmy and Hector, Langley holstered his gun.
Hector said, “You haven’t asked me who this FBI agent who tried to have me killed is.”
Langley half-turned. “I figure it’s Donovan Creedy. I was reporting to him about your movements until a couple of days ago. Then I saw Creedy at the lodge and figured out why I was instructed to stop reporting.”
Jimmy said, “You say that like you two—you and Creedy—maybe aren’t so tight, lad.”
“He’s no friend of mine; maybe not of anyone,” Langley said. Looking Hector in the eye, Andy added, “Some around the Bureau say he’s gone rogue…maybe fishing two ponds.”
Hector’s pale blue eyes narrowed. “And Hoover tolerates that?”
The FBI agent shrugged. “The Director keeps his own counsel. And like I said, he may have connections that trump even Mr. Hoover.” Andy showed them his back.
Jimmy passed Hector the keys to the Bel Air. “Next moves, Hector?”
“Well—” He frowned. There was a phone booth next to the police HQ. The pay phone inside the booth was ringing.
Hector and Jimmy exchanged curious looks. Hector had this feeling. He sighed and walked to the pay phone—folded back the door. He lifted the receiver, said, “Hello?”
The voice on the other end of the line was snarling, unhinged sounding. It was Creedy— that didn’t s
urprise Hector at all. But the undertone of mania in Creedy’s voice was something new.
“I’m going to kill her, Lassiter,” Donovan Creedy said. “I’m going to kill your darling Hannah and there’s nothing you can do to stop it now. How’s that feel?” Creedy broke the connection before Hector could respond.
Hector racked the receiver and ran back to the Bel Air. He called to Jimmy, “Where the hell is Hannah, right now, Jim? It’s more than urgent.”
Jimmy said, “The colleen, she hotfooted for parts unknown, Hector. Seemed distraught, Mary said. Something about things you said…things her husband, Richard the sot, said to her. Oh, and that cocksucker professor cuffed her.” Jimmy spat and said, “I mean to harm that son of a bitch, next time I see him.”
Hector cursed. “Where the hell did Hannah go?”
Jimmy looked grave. “I’ve tried to get at that, but Mary’s not talking, Hector.”
“Love sees sharply, hatred sees even more sharp, but jealousy sees the sharpest, for it is love and hate at the same time.”
— Arab proverb
38
WIDOW’S WALK
Hector refused the offer of a nightcap, just as he had refused the offer of a seat. He said, “Where in God’s name is she?”
Mary Hemingway sipped her gimlet and scowled. She pulled the throw closer around her; a brisk wind whipped across the exterior deck. “You’re not here on behalf of Dickie, are you, Lasso?”
“That asshole? Nah, that cocksucker least of all. I’m here because someone’s been following Hannah. And following me. I’ve learned some things about all of that, Mary. But you really don’t want me to elaborate on some of that, right? Now someone else has threatened to kill Hannah. So where the hell is she?”
Glaring at him, Mary held up her hands. “Why in hell would I know?”
“Because Ketchum-slash-Sun Valley isn’t lousy with cab companies,” Hector said, “A Hamilton bought me the morsel that a cab delivered Hannah to your doorstep about forty-five minutes after she fled the lodge. It wasn’t deep detective work, learning any of that.”
Mary put a cigarette to her lips and waited for Hector to light her up. She said, “A ‘Hamilton’? What the fuck are you blathering about, Lasso?” She leaned into the flame of his old Zippo.
His Zippo clicked shut. “A ‘Hamilton’ is a goddamn ten-dollar bill. Now where is Hannah? Did she go back home to Ann Arbor, Mary?”
“Why do you care? If she’s being followed here—and I have to say Hector, and please forgive me for this, but you’re sounding a little like Papa did there at his fucking end. I mean, well, you know, you’re sounding très fucking paranoid—well, as of now, Hannah’s not fucking here. So, problem solved, oui?”
“Non. There’s more at stake here than what you’ve set in motion, Mary.”
“What are you fucking talking about?” Mary glared at Hector.
He said, “I’m talking about this bargain-basement private eye you’ve hired to follow the Paulsons and me. I got the sense this guy chasing the Paulsons was a private investigator. He had the look. So I let my fingers do the walking. There’s only one licensed shamus in this cow town. I swung by his office earlier today…saw him leaving the joint. Harry Jordan—the Paulsons’ shadow. No question. You engaged Jordan because you were aiming to keep us ‘honest,’ I reckon. Figure you were aiming to make sure everyone is who they say they are. You had your sorry paladin snooping around after hidden motives. That plan that you’ve set in motion is the one I’m talking about. This flat-foot with the receding hairline you’ve had dogging mine and Hannah’s footsteps. Seems to me you are the one sorting for bones in animal crackers these days, Mary. You’re the one acting like a textbook paranoid.”
The widow drew her hand back, preparing to slap him. Hector raised a finger: “Don’t, honey. You don’t hit hard enough to make it hurt, but it will close a door between us if you take that shot. You’ve been caught…let it go. We move forward from here.”
Mary’s chin trembled. She took a deep breath, then sneered: “Look at you, Lasso, mooning after that girl. And her, married and with a child on the way. Papa always said you were a fool for younger women, and I can see now he was right. Of course, when he first said it to me you were twenty years younger. Now the girls just get younger and younger. And deader, too. Like that scholar at the lodge.”
Hector flinched. He said, “Hem was right about me and the right women. And by right, I mean the ones I’m attracted to.”
“Girls, you mean,” Mary said, curling her lip. “Younger women, always. It’s almost as if you think youth is something you can catch or steal from them.”
Hector shook his head. “Hannah is in real danger. Now, I can make the road-trip to Ann Arbor and be wrong, Mary. And I sense—my presumed sorry passions aside—that you really like Hannah. So I’m telling you, straight and true, Hannah’s in dire danger. There is more stalking the Paulsons than your hired private dick. The same thing threatens you and me. It’s my instinct that’s so and my instincts aren’t often to be quarreled with. So please save me some time and maybe save Hannah: Where do I find her?”
“Home,” Mary said. “She fucking went home to Michigan, just like you said. But we have an agreement still, don’t we, Lasso? About manuscripts, I mean. And we have a deadline.”
“I have no deadline,” Hector said. “And think again: You’re talking about Hem’s posthuma. So long as Hem remains dead, there’s all the time in the world for that.”
“But this FBI Man—”
Hector shook his head. “This gambit with Paulson and the key, it’s stayed Creedy’s hand for now.”
Mary said, “He’s FBI—there’s nothing they can’t do.”
“There’s a limit even to Hoover’s powers,” Hector said. “And I mean to find those limits. First thing for you to do when I leave is have Jimmy change the locks on the document room. Hide the new keys better. And Mary, start mixing all your own drinks, just in case they get to that maid of yours.” He was quiet for a time, then said, “What we really need is a wild card. Something to stay their hand forever. They clearly felt threatened by Hem. If we only knew why. Whatever it was, it could be something we could use to force a more permanent stalemate.”
Mary said softly, “Ernest was always shooting his mouth off…dropping bombshells in letters. I suppose it’s possible Hoover heard about Papa’s long-threatened project….”
Hector looked up sharply. “What do you mean? What project?”
“It’s something Ernest talked about several times since the early 1940s. It’s like that book about you he kept talking up but never wrote. He had this idea for a novel about Hoover.”
“Are you serious?”
“Papa yammered on about over a period of years. Claimed to have all kinds of research and ‘dark true gen’ he said would make it a blockbuster if he could get anyone to publish it. Publish it? Hell, he needed to write it, first.”
Hector wet his lips. “Hem even contemplating a novel about Hoover would be more than enough to scare the hell out of J. Edgar if he got wind.”
Mary nodded. “Particularly given its main thesis: that John Hoover is partly Negro.”
Holy Jesus. No wonder Hoover was going berserk. “You’re sure Hem never started it?”
“Just more talk,” Mary said. “Got to a point where all his work was talk.”
Hector let that one pass. He smiled and pulled out his notepad and pen. He began scribbling furiously across the pages.
It was too perfect: Hem’s shooting his mouth off about some prospective Hoover novel had bought Hem a lifetime’s persecution from J. Edgar. Now, that same mythical work could pay dividends long past Hem’s death….
This idea Hector had would bring a whole new dimension to the concept of Hem’s long game.
Mary said, “What are you doing? You’re writing, now?”
“You ever act, Mary? I hope so, because I’m writing you a script.”
“What do you mean?”
<
br /> “You’re going to tell me about this Hoover novel again, but hewing to what I write here. We’re going to have this conversation again, but this time, in this scenario I’m scripting, Hem wrote the book and I have Hem’s manuscript and have had it for some time. And, we’re going to have this conversation in my Bel Air.”
“What end does that serve, Lasso?”
“Draws focus to me and off of you, and, more specifically, away from Hem’s papers until we can secure those better.” Hector finished and passed Mary her “script.” He said, “Can you read my writing okay?”
“Just fine.”
“Now we’re going to go to my Chevy and do this.”
“Why inside your car?”
Hector winked. “Because while I was dealing with the local cops, Creedy bugged my car. Goddamn thing is riddled with microphones.”
***
An hour later, Hector found a ratty bar in downtown Ketchum and hit the phone booth in back. He opened up his address book and found Agent Tilly’s number there — one of J. Edgar Hoover’s boys Hector had useful dealings with back in the old days when Hector would occasionally do the Bureau a favor — before he got on Hoover’s bad side, as the 1950s wound down.
Edmond Tilly said, “It’s been a long time, Hector.”
“Too long, pal. I need some information, and fast. Anything you might be able to rustle up on a guy still in the Bureau…probably about my age. Guy named Donovan Creedy—he’s everything you hate. The darkest dirt you can turn would best serve the cause, buddy.”
“Where do I reach you, Hec?”
“I’ll call you,” Hector said. “I’ve got a lot of ground to cover now, muy pronto.”
Hector racked the receiver; jogged to his Bel Air. He flipped on the headlights, then burned down the darkened roads toward Michigan.
“There is an air of last things, a brooding sense of impending annihilation about so much deconstructive activity in so many of its guises; it is not merely postmodernist but preapocalyptic.”
Print the Legend: A Hector Lassiter novel Page 27
