Live Bait

by P. J. Tracy

  Langer nodded. ‘The sorry world we live in.’

  ‘McLaren!’ Gloria poked her head around the edge of her cubicle. ‘That Brit is on line two; and Langer, pick up line one right now. Your downstairs toilet is backing up.’

  Langer grimaced at his blinking phone. ‘I was supposed to fix that toilet last week. Forgot. Who’s the Brit?’

  ‘Dunno. Some guy with an attitude, Gloria says. Already called a couple times. Probably pissed I didn’t call him back yet.’

  ‘Not as pissed as my wife.’

  It took Langer the better part of ten minutes to calm down his wife and intimidate the plumber she’d called – one of those emergency yahoos who stood in the middle of your flooding house and demanded a thousand dollars to turn a valve. By the time he finished, McLaren had filled three paper napkins with scribbles, and was thanking his caller with uncharacteristic politeness.

  ‘Sounds like your call went a little better than mine,’ Langer said, settling his phone into its cradle.

  McLaren’s grin was a little foolish, close to giddy. ‘Man, you are not going to believe this. You know who that was? Interpol. The goddamned friggin’ Interpol, for chrissakes. We’ve got a little action on our.45.’

  Langer could almost feel his ears pricking. ‘The.45 that put a hole in Arlen Fischer’s arm?’

  McLaren nodded, beaming. ‘They picked up the ballistics we punched through the FBI, and it hit on six cylinders.’

  Langer frowned, confused, as always, by McLaren’s labryinth-like metaphors.

  ‘Six hits,’ McLaren explained excitedly. ‘That gun is the murder weapon in six unsolveds over the past fifteen years, and Langer, my man, they are all over the place.’

  15

  Magozzi pulled the unmarked into his driveway, thinking that talking to Rose Kleber’s family had been one of the most difficult interviews he could ever remember. It was disturbing to talk to high-voltage grievers who wailed so loudly you had to shout to be heard; troubling to question the ones whose eyes were still glazed with shock, whose voices were empty monotones; but it had been heart wrenching to interview this small family of gentle people who all cried endlessly, often soundlessly, even as they politely answered every question put to them.

  Understandably, the two college girls who had found their grandmother’s body seemed to be the most distraught, choking back sobs as they compulsively patted a bewildered cat that huddled between them on the sofa. But their mother, Rose Kleber’s daughter, wore an expression of devastation that was far deeper. Her husband fluttered around his little family, patting shoulders and heads, doling out hugs like magic potions, but he too was weeping, even as he struggled for dignity. Whoever Rose Kleber had been, she had been deeply loved.

  No, none of them had known Morey Gilbert personally, and as far as they knew, neither had Rose. The daughter had visited her mother every day, and couldn’t imagine being unaware of any friendship between the two elderly people. ‘We shopped at the nursery occasionally,’ she told them, ‘and he might have waited on us once or twice. I honestly can’t remember.’

  ‘Any reason for your mother to have his number in her address book?’ Gino had asked.

  ‘They stick plastic stakes with the nursery number on it in every plant. I suppose she might have copied it from one of those.’

  They’d asked a few more questions after that: what Rose Kleber did with her time, what organizations she belonged to, and the hardest one of all, about the tattoo on her arm. But the family knew nothing about her time in the camps half a century ago. She had always refused to talk about it.

  Gino popped his door and propped it open the minute Magozzi stopped the car. ‘That was a bummer,’ he grumbled, dispelling the gloomy silence that had ridden with them all the way from the house of Rose Kleber’s daughter. ‘But you know what? That was genuine grieving. That’s what Lily Gilbert and that drunken sleazebag son of hers should be doing, unless, of course, one of them killed the poor old guy.’

  Magozzi sighed and unfastened his seat belt. ‘People grieve in different ways, Gino.’

  ‘You know, that’s such a load of crap. It might look different on the outside, but you can tell when people are broken up because somebody died, and I’m telling you, I don’t see it with the Gilberts – except maybe a little with Marty. I’m beginning to think he was the only one of the bunch that really cared about the old man. Jesus, Leo, have I mentioned lately that this is the scabbiest, sorriest-looking scrap of yard I ever saw in my whole life?’

  And with that, Gino set aside the grief of Rose Kleber’s family, the murders, the investigation, and stepped into the here and now, dragging Magozzi along with him.

  Magozzi took a breath, felt lighter, and grinned at his partner. ‘Not lately.’

  They got out of the car and walked across spears of green with large patches of dirt between them. ‘You know what this looks like? It looks like Viegs’s head, with all that scalp showing between the hair plugs.’

  ‘It’s supposed to look like this,’ Magozzi said defensively. ‘It’s called xeri-scaping.’

  ‘Zero-scaping?’

  ‘No, xeri, with an x.’

  ‘Did you just make that up?’

  ‘No, I did not just make that up. It’s a design term, for when you use native plants that don’t require a lot of care.’

  ‘You mean like all those dandelions and quack grass?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Magozzi unlocked the door and gestured Gino inside. ‘Grab the brats while I fire up the grill.’

  By the time Magozzi had a nice bed of coals smoldering in the duct-taped Weber, Gino was finished with his kitchen prep and had wandered into the living room. He looked around at the bare walls, the leather recliner, and the single side table with one of those cheapo high-intensity lamps. ‘So what do you call this? Xeri-decorating?’

  ‘No, this is Minimalism.’

  Gino shook his head. ‘This is pathetic. Looks exactly the way it did the day your ex cleaned you out. You need to do something with this place.’

  ‘Hey, you didn’t have to come here for lunch, you know. If you don’t like the ambience, you can go home and eat.’

  ‘Oh no I can’t. First of all, I left my brats and twelve-year cheddar here yesterday, and second of all, the in-laws are only on photo album number three in a series of ten from their last cruise. God love ’em, they’re beautiful people, but they’ve been here for four days and sometimes you just gotta take a step back. Seriously, Leo, how long are you going to live in a place that looks like an abandoned warehouse? It’s like you put your whole life on hold the day Heather left, and that ain’t healthy.’

  ‘First of all, I put my life on hold the day I married Heather, I started to get healthy the day she walked out, and second of all, single guys do not spend their free time at feng shui seminars at Wally’s World of Furniture. It’s not macho.’

  Gino grunted. ‘Well this sure isn’t macho. Macho is a big-screen TV and a wet bar. This is just plain empty, like nobody lives here. You ever hear the expression a man’s home is a reflection of the man?’

  ‘From what I’ve seen, a man’s home is the reflection of the woman he lives with.’

  ‘Are you talking about my house?’

  ‘Actually, I was talking about this place when Heather lived here.’ But he was thinking about big bad Gino with a gun living in a house of soft upholstery, dried flowers, and herbal wreaths. A girlie house. Angela’s house. Not a big-screen TV or a wet bar in sight. It always smelled like the garlic and basil sauce that was forever simmering on the stove, and occasionally, baby powder. ‘And maybe yours, too, yeah.’

  Gino rocked back on his heels, grinning. ‘Which proves my point. My house is a perfect reflection of who I am. I’m the man who loves Angela.’

  Half an hour later, Magozzi was finishing his third brat. ‘These are unbelievable.’

  ‘Told you,’ Gino said around a mouthful. ‘The real secret is in the precook – you got to simmer brats in beer an
d onions before you grill. If you don’t, you might as well be eating tofu pups. Want the last one?’

  Magozzi put his hand to his heart. ‘I think I’ve done enough arterial damage for one day. I may be a risk taker, but I’m not suicidal.’

  Gino gave the remaining brat careful consideration for about two seconds before plucking it off the serving platter. ‘That’s why God invented Lipitor.’ He paused for a moment, frowning. ‘And speaking of being suicidal, how worried do you think we should be about Pullman? He didn’t look like he was doing so hot today.’

  Magozzi leaned back in his chair and thought about that. ‘It’s hard to say. There’s a big difference between thinking about it and actually doing it, but he could be going that way. If he’s really blacking out a lot, he’s got a good start on drinking himself to death, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Just like his brother-in-law. Christ, what a messed-up family. You know, I really wanted to like Gilbert for popping his dad, but to tell you the truth, I don’t think he’s got it in him. Doesn’t have the schtupa.’

  ‘Chutzpah, not schtupa, and you might want to forget trying out your Yiddish at the funeral tomorrow.’

  ‘Whatever. He ain’t got it.’ Gino chewed thoughtfully for a moment. ‘Besides, I got the case solved, and I’m sticking with my original doer.’

  ‘Lily Gilbert?’

  ‘Who else? Only now we got her for killing her husband and Rose Kleber.’

  Magozzi rolled his eyes. ‘Okay. I’ll bite. Why would Lily Gilbert kill an old woman she’s never met before?’

  ‘Hul-lo. Because her husband was nailing the cookie-baking grandma, that’s why. Geriatric crime of passion, clear as a bell.’

  ‘Seems to me we just spent half the morning establishing that Morey Gilbert and Rose Kleber didn’t even know each other.’

  ‘Just because the families didn’t know about it doesn’t mean it wasn’t happening. Think about it. You don’t run around committing adultery and then tell your family about it.’

  ‘Give me a break, Gino. These people are old.’

  ‘So? You think old people don’t have sex? You want to spend the night at my house? I gotta repaint behind the headboard where Angela’s folks are sleeping.’

  Magozzi gaped at him for a moment. ‘No way.’

  ‘I kid you not.’

  ‘What are they, seventies?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Huh.’ Magozzi smiled. ‘That’s kind of good news, isn’t it?’

  ‘I always thought so.’

  ‘It’s still the dumbest theory you’ve ever come up with.’

  ‘Okay, hotshot. You got a better one?’

  ‘Well, if you’re looking to connect Morey Gilbert and Rose Kleber, we’ve got two concentration camp survivors. Hate crime might fit.’

  ‘You mean like some neo-Nazi creeps?’

  Magozzi shrugged. ‘Maybe. They pop up now and then. We’ve had our share of synogogue vandalism, that sort of thing. Then there was that group over in St Paul pasting those anti-Semitic posters up all over downtown.’

  Gino snorted. ‘The bozos who drew the swastika backward? Jeez, Leo, there were only three of ’em, and from what I heard, they shared a brain.’

  ‘They’re probably not the only ones in town.’

  ‘More’s the pity. We can check hate crimes just to cover the bases, but those idiots leave a note when they piss on the sidewalk, otherwise, what’s the point? Besides, according to the families, neither Gilbert nor Kleber ever set foot in a temple, which puts them kind of below the moron radar of your average neo-Nazi. And these were really clean scenes, like a pro, you know? We’re not getting any trace, no prints, no witnesses… this is one savvy killer, like some sharp old lady in good shape who watches cop shows.’

  Magozzi grinned and shook his head. ‘Not buying it.’

  ‘Then give me something else.’

  ‘Hell, I don’t know. Psycho bag boy picking out victims on Senior Day at the supermarket, trying for his fifteen minutes.’

  Gino rolled his eyes. ‘Man, are you reaching. We’ve got two different weapons, victims of both sexes, and name one serial killer who ever preyed on the geriatric set. Hell, the FBI wouldn’t even touch that one, and they want a piece of everything. Besides, if we start thinking serial, then we have to consider Arlen Fischer as part of the series, and there’s no way that murder fits in with Gilbert’s and Kleber’s.’

  And that wasn’t the only problem. Imagining a killer who went around shooting the elderly for some sort of sick thrill was a horror Magozzi didn’t want to consider. It was like hurting kids, or puppies. But imagining two old-timers like Morey Gilbert and Rose Kleber involved in something that would make them targets was just as hard.

  Magozzi started clearing dishes off the table. ‘Maybe we’re on the wrong track, trying to tie them together. It’s a Jewish neighborhood, a lot of seniors, and so what if Rose Kleber had Gilbert’s number in her book? The gardening thing could explain that.’

  ‘So you’re saying it’s just a coincidence we’ve got two old Jews in the same neighborhood killed within a day of each other.’

  Magozzi blew out a frustrated sigh. ‘No. I haven’t believed that since we got the call on Rose Kleber. They’re connected, all right. I just can’t imagine how.’

  Gino got up from his chair and stretched, hands pressed to the small of his back, belly jutting forward. ‘You know, I had this all tied up nice and neat with Lily Gilbert killing them both, but you just don’t want to do it the easy way, do you? Leo, you gotta quit looking for the zebra.’

  Magozzi chuckled, started to rinse the plates and put them in the dishwasher. ‘If I remember correctly, you had Grace MacBride pretty firmly pegged as the Monkeewrench killer in one of your “nice and neat” scenarios.’

  ‘She was a perfectly logical suspect.’

  ‘But the zebra did it.’

  ‘So just that one time, I might have been a little misguided. Doesn’t mean I’m not dead-on with this one. You got a Tums or something? That last brat is talking back in a foreign language.’

  ‘In the cupboard with the glasses.’

  ‘You’ve got glasses? How come I was drinking soda out of a can?’

  ‘You wanted a glass?’

  ‘Jeez, Leo, I’m not totally uncivilized.’ He found the Tums and popped a few, leaned back against the counter and chewed thoughtfully. ‘You know, speaking of Monkeewrench, we could ask them to plug Gilbert and Kleber into the software they used on all the cold cases, see if anything pops. Man, that program rocked. Found connections in seconds we’d been looking for for years.’

  ‘Couldn’t hurt, I suppose. I’ll give Grace the names tonight, ask her to run them.’

  Gino gave him a sidelong glance of scrutiny, and Magozzi grimaced. He was going to get another lecture.

  ‘You know I love Grace McBride, right?’

  Magozzi rolled his eyes.

  ‘Hey, I don’t mean to bust your balls over this, but tell me honestly, what kind of a future do you see for yourself with her? You gotta face it, Leo, she’s walking wounded. Paranoid as hell. And her track record for normal relationships stinks. I mean, the last man she loved was a serial killer.’

  Magozzi glowered at him. ‘She’s getting better, Gino.’

  ‘Oh really? Then how come she took her piece to the movies last week?’

  ‘A lot of weirdos go to the movies these days.’

  ‘Leo, you went to a Sunday matinee to see a cartoon. Hey, don’t get me wrong, I’m all for working with Monkeewrench – they’re great folks, every one of them. But I think you need to be careful, maybe keep the relationship about work for now.’

  ‘Are you finished?’

  ‘Yes. End of lecture.’

  ‘Thank you. And don’t call them Monkeewrench.’

  Gino cringed. ‘Oh yeah, I forgot. Damn, I just can’t get that name out of my head.’

  And neither could the rest of the city, Magozzi thought.

  ‘T
hey come up with a new one yet?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  Gino’s chin jutted forward. ‘I’m going to give that some thought. Help them out.’

  16

  It was one-thirty and eighty-four degrees by the time Magozzi and Gino arrived at Biederman’s Funeral Home, and both of them were miserably hot, back in their jackets to conceal their guns.

  Sol Biederman was waiting for them at the front door. He looked a little better than he had yesterday when they’d met over the body of Morey Gilbert, but his eyes were still rimmed with red. Another downer about getting old, Magozzi thought. Tissues took a lot longer to recover from crying jags, and just about everything else.

  Sol led them into a vast sitting room filled with furniture that had been fashionable thirty years ago. The air smelled of fading flowers and scorched coffee, and the stale, cloying scent of the cheap cologne someone had worn to the last viewing.

  The air-conditioning, if there was any, was turned very low. Gino flopped into a maroon wing-back chair, grabbed a tissue from a nearby box, and mopped his forehead.

  ‘Who would have thought April could be so warm, eh? I have a man working on the air conditioner now, but in the meantime, please take your jackets off, Detectives. Be comfortable.’

  ‘Thanks, we’re fine,’ Gino said, his reddening face belying his words.

  ‘I’m not expecting anyone until five. We’re alone here. No one will see your guns except me, and I’m very good at keeping secrets.’

  Gino was out of his jacket before by-the-book Magozzi could give him so much as a dirty look for defying department policy. He’d just decided to shame Gino by sweltering in his jacket when Sol gestured to his own bare arms below the short sleeves of his shirt.

  ‘If you don’t remove your jacket, Detective Magozzi, I’ll be forced to put on mine. I’m an old man. I could die from the heat.’

  Magozzi grinned and slipped off his sports coat while Sol settled in a nearby chair.

  ‘I assume you have some follow-up questions for me. I’m afraid I wasn’t much help to you yesterday.’