Nice Girl Does Noir -- Vol. 2 (Intro by J.A.Konrath)

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  Derek cocked his head.

  “I was into cars myself,” Woolston smiled. “I was runnin’ a 327 in a ‘Fifty-Four Bel Air. Nothing like the feel of a Hurst shift in your hands, you know? ‘Course that was a while back.”

  Derek felt his lips curve up in a smile.

  “So,” Woolston went on, “Lindsey might have seen this person in the act of—shall we say—liberating—Brady’s car. And the person panicked. He knew he’d be sent back inside. So he did the only thing he could think of. He stabbed Lindsey with a knife.” Woolston wandered back to his own chair. His eyes gave away nothing. “What do you think of that theory, Derek?”

  Derek’s foot started tapping the floor under the table. He tried to stop; he knew it didn’t look good. He couldn’t.

  “You come down to station with me, son. You can tell me all about it.”

  “Brady and Lindsey had a fight,” Derek blurted out.

  Woolston raised an eyebrow.

  “Two nights ago. I was loading the dishwasher. Lindsey’s office is right next to the kitchen. I see Brady comin’ out of the office. All sneaky like. Then, when I’m on the early shift yesterday morning, he shows up looking for Lindsey.”

  Woolston sat down and nodded, as if he’d heard it all before. “What about the car, Derek? You take it for a ride?”

  Derek shrugged.

  The detective’s cell phone rang again. He listened, disconnected, then inclined his head toward Derek. “You sure there’s nothing else you want to tell me?”

  Derek shook his head. His foot was still tapping.

  “Like how did your prints end up on the steering wheel and the trunk of the Mercedes?”

  Derek flinched. That’s what he’d forgotten to do at Brady’s house. It was all over.

  Woolston ignored him. “Where’s the knife, son?”

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  “Did you have help?”

  “I didn’t do it. I was set up.”

  “It’s your word against Brady’s.” He dropped his chin, but kept his eyes on Derek.

  “I found the keys in the bar.”

  “So you did steal the car?”

  Derek said nothing. It was quiet except for his shoe tapping.

  “Son, if you confess, it’ll go easier on you. I’ll tell the States Attorney you cooperated.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone. You can’t prove it.”

  Woolston stood up. “You may be right. But I can put you away for theft of a motor vehicle. And with a dead body in the trunk, I can also charge you with concealing a homicide. That’s a Class Three felony. With your priors, son, you’re looking at some serious time.”

  ***

  The ceiling of the cell was dimpled with tiny white pebbles that seemed to be glued onto the tiles. Derek tried counting them as he lay on his bunk but then gave up. Some of them were so tiny he wasn’t sure whether they were part of the design or just mistakes. They’d transferred him downtown after the arraignment and assigned a public defender, but his lawyer, a woman who looked too young to know what she was doing, wanted him to cop a plea. She told him it was only a matter of time until they charged him with homicide. The only reason they hadn’t was the absence of a weapon. When he told her he didn’t do Lindsey, she shook her head and said it didn’t much matter.

  He wondered whether to tell her about the knife. It wouldn’t have his prints on it, but the fact that he knew where it was might work against him. He should try to be smart about this. But he wasn’t feeling very smart. Or hopeful. He should never have taken the job at Lindsey’s. He’d always wanted to be a lifeguard. He should have tried for that. His parents were right. He was stupid.

  He was still lying on his bed thinking how you couldn’t tell day from night inside when they came to get him. Woolston was waiting for him in the interview room.

  “We’re letting you go,” the detective said wearily.

  Derek whipped his head up. “Did Brady confess?”

  “No.”

  “Someone else did it?”

  Woolston shook his head.

  Derek was confused. “What happened, then?”

  Woolston stared at Derek, then shrugged his shoulders. “I shouldn’t be telling you this—but Brady’s wife found a bloody shirt of Brady’s stuffed in a bag in his closet.”

  Derek’s chin jutted forward. “A bloody shirt?”

  “Yeah. It seems that Brady and Lindsey were lovers. The wife’s known about it for a while. When Lindsey showed up dead, she claims she wrestled with her conscience, hoping they could put their marriage back on track. You know, forget about the past. But when she found the shirt, she realized she couldn’t.”

  Derek thought about it for a minute. “What does Brady say?”

  “He admits that he and Lindsey were lovers. And that they had a fight the other night. But he says they made up a few minutes later. In Lindsey’s office.” Woolston cleared his throat.

  So, that was the silence Derek heard the night he saw Brady coming out of Lindsey’s office. Embarrassed, he made circles on the floor with his foot.

  “Of course, Brady denies killing Lindsey, but we’ve got this shirt…” Woolston’s voice trailed off. “And now his wife doesn’t want to press charges about the car.” Derek got the feeling Woolston didn’t believe a thing he’d just said but didn’t care enough to go on with the case. “So we’re letting you go. You got lucky.”

  Derek smiled.

  “Do me a favor, though. Get out of Chicago. It’s not your kind of town.”

  ***

  Derek took Woolston’s advice and packed his things. He’d catch a bus south. Or west. But he had one thing to do before he left. He wanted to thank Mrs. Brady for not pressing charges. Apologize for the trouble he’d caused. Tell her he hoped there were no hard feelings.

  She answered the door in a halter-top and skimpy shorts. Her blond hair was swept up on top of her head.

  “I’ve been wondering when you’d show up.”

  She stood close enough that he could smell her perfume. Then she turned to a small table and picked up an envelope. “I’ll bet you’re interested in this.” She smiled mysteriously and dangled it in front of him.

  “What’s that?”

  “You know.”

  “No, ma’am, I don’t.” He was bewildered

  “Don’t play dumb with me. Where is it?”

  “Where’s what, ma’am?” He’d been hoping to impress her with his good manners, but she didn’t seem to be noticing.

  “Look Derek, or whatever your name is, you almost screwed this up for me. Big time. But I managed to make it work anyway.”

  He shifted his feet.

  “Why do you think I dropped the theft charges?”

  At last, she was saying something he understood. He replied eagerly. “That’s why I’m here, Mrs. Brady. I wanted to—”

  She cut him off. “You’re damn right that’s why you’re here.” Derek felt like he was in one of those movies where he couldn’t follow the plot. “I did you a favor. Now it’s your turn. Where’s the knife?”

  The knife?” Derek involuntarily took a step backwards. How could she know about the missing knife? Unless—he concentrated hard—unless she knew who put it there. Which would mean she knew who killed Lindsey. Or maybe—He met her eyes and saw the answer to his question. “You killed Lindsey.”

  “A real genius aren’t you?” She sneered, checking her nails as if she’d just had a manicure.

  “Why?”

  “You think I’m just gonna sit by while my husband makes a fool of me? With another man?”

  Derek thought fast now. “The keys. Brady didn’t lose them. You planted them. To frame him.”

  She flashed him a cold smile. “After he went to sleep the other night, I took the car to the restaurant and killed Lindsey.”

  Derek frowned.

  “Oh, I had some help.” She twisted around. Derek could just make out the shape of a shirtless man sprawled on a couch in the living
room. “Then we planted the keys, sopped up the shirt with Lindsey’s blood and threw it in the bag with the knife. I knew Brady’d be back at Lindsey’s the next morning. He was so crazy about that man he called him first thing every morning. God forbid Lindsey wasn’t there, he’d run over like a damn puppy dog to find him.”

  “But then—”

  “But then you stole the car. You really had me going for a while.” She tossed her head. “I had to improvise.”

  Derek stuck his hands in his pockets.

  “Thank God it all turned out. Now there’s only one loose end left.”

  She opened the envelope and peeled off a few bills. “Consider this a down payment.” She handed them to Derek. “You bring back the knife, the rest of it is yours, too.”

  He took the cash. Ten grand. And ten more later. He held the bills in the palm of his hand. She waited, an expectant smile on her face, while he thought it through. He stared at the floor, tiled in black and white. Then he lifted his eyes. She folded her arms across her chest. “Well?”

  He chose his words with care. “You know something, Mrs. Brady? I’m right sorry, but the truth is, I just don’t remember where it is. It could be anywhere.” He smiled innocently.

  Her smile faded.

  “And if anything happens to me, the police might find a note telling them where the knife is and who used it…” His voice trailed off. He flipped up his hands.

  She eyed him with suspicion, her hands on her hips. Derek bit his tongue. Finally, she sighed and handed over the rest of the cash. “You leave me no choice.” Derek slid the bills into his pocket. “How do I know you’ll be back?” she asked uncertainly.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, ma’am,” he said slyly. “I reckon you’ll be seeing a lot more of me from now on.”

  She slammed the door in his face, but Derek didn’t mind. He whistled as he skipped down the street. He patted the twenty grand in his pocket. So what if he was dumber than dirt? Who cared if he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the dishwasher? His parents were right. He had more luck than brains.

  THE END

  This story was written and published in the SISTERS ON THE CASE anthology edited by Sara Paretsky (Signet, 2007). I originally wrote this as an exercise in preparation for a thriller that takes place—in part—during the 1960’s. I hope that, like a delicious hors d’oeuvre, it whets readers’ appetites by capturing the passion, the hope, and the fury of that era.

  THE WHOLE WORLD IS WATCHING

  “‘The whole world is watching.’” Bernie Pollak snorted as he slammed his locker door. “You wanna know what they’re watching? They’re watching these long-hair commie pinkos tear our country apart. That’s what they’re watching!”

  Officer Kevin Dougherty strapped on his gun belt, grabbed his hat, and followed his partner into the squad room. Bernie was a former Marine who’d seen action in Korea. When he moved to Beverly, he’d bought a flagpole for his front lawn and raised Old Glory every morning.

  Captain Greer stood behind the lectern, scanning the front page of the Chicago Daily News. Tall, with a fringe of gray hair around his head, Greer was usually a man of few words and fewer expressions. He reminded Kevin of his late father, who’d been a cop too. Now, though, Greer made a show of folding the paper and looked up. “Okay, men. You all know what happened last night, right?”

  A few of the twenty-odd officers shook their heads. It was Monday, August 26, 1968.

  “Where you been? On Mars? Well, about five thousand of them—agitators—showed up in Lincoln Park yesterday afternoon. Festival of Life, they called it.” Kevin noted the slight curl of Greer’s lip. “When we wouldn’t allow ‘em to bring in a flatbed truck, it got ugly. By curfew, half of ‘em were still in the park, so we moved in again. They swarmed into Old Town. We went after them and arrested a bunch. But there were injuries all around. Civilians too.”

  “Who was arrested?” an officer asked.

  Greer frowned. “Don’t know ‘em all. But another wing of ‘em was trying to surround us down at headquarters. We cut them off and headed them back up to Grant Park. We got—what’s his name—Hayden.”

  “Tom Hayden?” Kevin said.

  Greer gazed at Kevin. “That’s him.”

  “He’s the leader of SDS,” Kevin whispered to Bernie.

  “Let’s get one thing straight,” Greer’s eyes locked on Kevin, as if he’d heard his telltale whisper. “No matter what they call themselves—Students for a Democratic Society, Yippies, MOBE—they are the enemy. They want to paralyze our city. Hizzoner made it clear that isn’t going to happen.”

  Kevin kept his mouth shut.

  “All days off and furloughs have been suspended,” Greer went on. “You’ll be working overtime, too. Maybe a double shift.” He picked up a sheet of paper. “I’m gonna read your assignments. Some of you will be deployed to Grant Park, some to Lincoln Park. And some of you to the Amphitheater and the convention.”

  Bernie and Kevin pulled the evening shift at the Amphitheater, and were shown their gas masks, helmets, riot sticks, and tear gas canisters. Kevin hadn’t done riot control since the Academy, but Bernie had worked the riots after Martin Luther King’s death.

  “I’m gonna get some shut-eye,” Bernie said, shuffling out of the room after inspecting his gear. “I have a feeling this is gonna be a long night.”

  “Mom wanted to talk to me. I guess I’ll head home.”

  Bernie harrumphed. “Just remember, kid, there’s more to life than the Sears catalogue.”

  Kevin smiled weakly. Bernie’d been saying that for years, and Kevin still didn’t know what it meant. But Bernie was the patrolman who broke in the rookies, and the rumor was he’d make sergeant soon. No need to tick him off.

  “Kev…” Bernie laid a hand on his shoulder. “You’re still a young kid, and I know you got—what—mixed feelings about this thing. But these, these agitators—they’re all liars. Wilkerson was there last night.” He yanked a thumb toward another officer. “He says they got this fake blood, you know? They holler over loudspeakers, rile up the crowd, then pour the stuff all over themselves and tell everyone they were hit on the head. Now they’re threatening to pour LSD into the water supply.” He faced Kevin straight on. “They’re bad news, Kev.”

  Kevin hoisted his gear over his shoulder. “I thought they were here just to demonstrate against the war.”

  “These people want to destroy what we have. What do you think all that flag burning is about?” Bernie shook his head. “Our boys are over there saving a country, and all these brats do is whine and complain and get high. They don’t know what war is. Not like us.”

  ***

  Kevin drove down to 31st and Halstead, part of a lace-curtain Irish neighborhood with a tavern on one corner and a church on the other. When he was little, Kevin thought the church’s bell-tower was a castle, and he fought imaginary battles on the sidewalk in front with his friends. One day the priest came out and explained how it was God’s tower and should never be confused with a place of war. Kevin still felt a twinge when he passed by.

  His parents’ home, a two-story frame house with a covered porch, was showing its age. He opened the door. Inside the air was heavy with a mouth-watering aroma.

  “That you, sweetheart?” A woman’s voice called.

  “Is that pot roast?”

  “It’s not ready yet.” He went down the hall, wondering if his mother would ever get rid of the faded wallpaper with little blue flowers. He walked into the kitchen. Between the sultry air outside and the heat from the oven, he felt like he was entering the mouth of hell. “It’s frigging hot in here.”

  “The A/C’s on.” She turned from the stove and pointed to a window unit that was coughing and straining and failing to cool. Kevin loosened his collar. His mother was tall, almost six feet. Her thick auburn hair, still long and free of gray, was swept back into a pony tail. Her eyes, as blue as an Irish summer sky, his father used to say in one of his rare good moods, looked
him over. “Are you all right?”

  “Great.” He gave her a kiss. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I’ve been listening to the radio. It’s crazy what’s happening downtown.”

  “Don’t you worry, Ma.” He flashed her a cheerful smile. “We got it under control.”

  Her face was grave. “I love you, son, but don’t try to con me. I was a cop’s wife.” She waved him into a chair. “I’m worried about Maggie,” she said softly.

  Kevin straddled the chair backwards. “What’s going on?”

  “She hasn’t come out of her room for three days. Just keeps listening to all that whiney music. And the smell—haven’t you noticed that heavy sweet scent seeping under her door?”

  Kevin shook his head.

  His mother exhaled noisily. “I think she’s using marijuana.”

  Kevin nodded. “Okay. Don’t worry, Ma. I’ll talk to her.”

  ***

  As he climbed the stairs, strains of Surrealistic Pillow by the Airplane drifted into the hall. He knocked on his sister’s door, which was firmly shut.

  “It’s me, Mags. Kev.”

  “Hey. Come on in.”

  He opened the door. The window air conditioner rumbled, providing a noisy underbeat to the music, but it was still August hot inside the room. Kevin wiped a hand across his brow. Her shades were drawn, and the only light streamed out from a tiny desk lamp. Long shadows played across posters taped on the wall: the Beatles in Sgt. Pepper uniforms, Jim Morrison and the Doors, and a yellow and black sunflower with “War is Not Healthy for Children and Other Living Things.”

  Maggie sprawled on her bed reading the Chicago Seed. What was she doing with that underground garbage, Kevin thought? The dicks read it down at the station. Said they got good intelligence from it. But his sister? He wanted to snatch it away but managed to control himself.

  “What’s happening?”

  Maggie looked up. She had the same blue eyes and features as her mother, but her hair was brown, not auburn, and it reached half way down her back. Today it was held back by a red paisley bandana. She was wearing jeans and a puffy white peasant blouse. She held up the newspaper. “You want to know, read this.”