“With me today is Marilyn Edling. Say hello to our viewers, Marilyn.”
Marilyn pursed her lips and gave a half-hearted queen’s wave to the camera, peering as if she thought Susan’s viewers were inside.
“Marilyn has lived across the street since 1974, years before Andrew Heenan moved in. She’s the only person alive who remembers the missing magician. Marilyn, have the police interviewed you about Andrew?”
“I talked to that detective, but I could tell he wasn’t interested in what I had to say.”
Susan crinkled her brow in reporterly concern. “Why do you say he wasn’t interested?”
“He scribbled some words in a little book and that was it. I’ve heard none of it on the news. They’re hiding the truth about that man.”
Wide eyes from Susan. “What are the police hiding? What does the public need to know about Andrew Heenan?”
Marilyn stared into the camera, her face trembling in outrage. “The man was a pervert.”
Susan’s eyes widened in fake shock. “No!”
“He had that young girl coming around all the time, staying for hours. I know they weren’t related because he had no family. She was barely old enough to drive!”
“It was an improper relationship?”
Marilyn huffed, “A man that age, pulling coins out of the ears of children. If you ask me, that was just an excuse to put his hands on them. That’s what John Gacy did, dressed up as a clown to lure young boys to their doom. They should be checking the back yard for buried bodies.”
“Mrs. Edling—”
A door slammed, loud and sharp as a gunshot. A woman stormed across the yard, fury emanating from her broad face. Susan turned to the woman with a welcoming smile. “Mrs. Johnson! This is a treat. I’d hoped to talk to you today.”
“I will thank you not to record your seedy videos on my lawn.”
Susan took a step back, her voice prim. “As you can see, we are standing on the sidewalk, which is a public thoroughfare. I know my rights, Mrs. Johnson. But if you have something you’d like to say to my viewers—” Susan paused and smiled. “—we’re dying to hear it.”
“What I have to say about this invasion of privacy is not fit for public consumption.” She retreated. Lia thought she could see steam coming from Bobbi’s ears, but that might have been a trick of the light.
Susan returned to the camera with wide eyes and a simpering laugh. “We’ve touched a nerve with that one. Wonder what she’ll think when—”
Behind her, Bobbi Johnson opened her front door. A pair of barking maniacs charged into the yard, twin blurs of multi-colored fur, the lead dog all wild blue eyes and snarling teeth.
“Lily, Danny, down!”
The larger dog dropped with a happy grin. The other stood, snapping and growling an arm’s reach from Susan.
Susan squealed, “Get away, get away.”
Bobbi Johnson called again, “Lily, down!”
Lily gave Bobbi a resentful look and eased herself, grumbling, onto the grass. She turned her crazed blue eyes back to Susan, accompanied by a thuggish canine sneer. Bobbi joined the dogs, leashes dangling from one hand.
“If you don’t mind, my dogs and I are availing ourselves of the public thoroughfare. As I understand it, your rights do not include blocking my way.” She jerked her chin at the street. “Is that your Cadillac? Danny needs a place to—”
The screen went black.
Susan reappeared in closeup. “The Johnsons clearly have something to hide. Don’t worry, I’ll be back. Next time I’ll bring pepper spray.”
___________
Bailey tapped the screen, sending Susan into the mysterious reaches of the internet, or maybe perdition.
Lia stroked the head of the pup currently snoozing in her Moby wrap, thankful she had yet to show signs of aggression. “Handsome aussies, even if the little girl has a temper.”
“She’s reacting to Bobbi Johnson’s feelings,” Bailey said.
“Protecting her territory, and I can’t blame her,” Jim said.
“I won’t worry about Susan anymore. Bobbi Johnson will take care of her for me. Lily will dine on long pork for months.”
“Shades of John Wayne Gacy,” Steve said.
“Not Gacy,” Terry said. “Dahmer. If Ms. Johnson invites you over for barbecue, I suggest you decline.”
Lia stretched out with Peter on his enormous sofa, her head against his shoulder. Gypsy sat on his stomach, snapping at the kernel of popcorn Lia waved in front of her nose. Viola curled on her dog bed, placed where Peter could drop a hand and give her a rub. Chewy sat, head cocked, eyes on the images running across the silent forty-eight inch flat screen TV hanging on the wall.
Peter’s phone dinged. Lia craned her head as he pulled up a text. “Who is it?”
“Cynth. She sent me a photo of her parkour date.”
“Oooh, let me see.”
“I don’t think I should. He’s a manly man.”
“If he was that manly, she’d be swooning in his arms instead of texting you.”
“Good point.”
Peter tilted the screen to show her a sweaty hunk vaulting over a rail, muscles bulging and rust-colored dreadlocks flying, his exposed limbs covered with an array of Celtic tattoos.
Lia took the phone, pinched out the photo so she could examine the ink. “Looks like he escaped from Asgard. I hope you don’t mind if I fantasize about him tonight.”
“Fantasize all you want in your cold, lonely bed.”
“Seriously, aren’t you going to text her back?”
“No. She’s hoping that photo will make its way to Brent. I refuse to participate in their sick, twisted mind games.”
Lia tapped a reply:
Stop pointing out my inadequacies to my girlfriend.
She showed the screen to Peter, her finger poised over the send arrow. “What do you think?”
Peter twisted as he grabbed for the phone. Gypsy yelped, tumbling from her perch on his stomach.
Lia caught Gypsy before she fell off the sofa and cuddled her, apologizing to the stricken puppy eyes. Gypsy looked over her shoulder and barked.
On the TV screen, a montage of shots followed Aubrey Morse and an entourage of Yacht Club members as they paddled down Mill Creek, ending in front of the crater with the exposed roots of the downed tree behind them.
Susan and Terry were nowhere in sight. The screen cut away to a commercial.
“I notice they didn’t show Aubrey getting out of the canoe.”
“You’re a cruel woman.”
“Just pointing out facts.”
“I thought the float trip was for Susan’s video blog,” Peter said.
Lia fed popcorn to Chewy and Gypsy. “That was the original plan. Terry said Commodore decided to maximize their exposure. He took over the whole thing and sent Terry’s romantic canoe trip off the rails.”
Peter laughed. “That wasn’t ever going to happen.”
“Worse, Susan made a date with Dick Brewer. Terry’s heart is broken.”
Aubrey returned, standing in front of the crater with a short, bearded man. Peter pointed the remote at the screen, unmuting it.
“We’re on the banks of Mill Creek with local crime historian Jay Overstreet, who has a shocking theory about the man whose bones were uncovered after a recent storm. Jay, Andrew Heenan was buried here more than thirty years ago, but you believe this story goes back much further than that.”
Peter groaned. “This can’t be good.”
“I do, Aubrey. Andrew Heenan has ties to Newport’s Sin City gambling days.”
Peter snorted, making his chest jerk under Lia’s cheek. “Public spirited of him to come forward.”
“Many Cincinnatians are not aware that before Las Vegas, Newport, Kentucky was the national hotspot for gambling and adult entertainment. Frank Sinatra, Marilyn Monroe, and Dean Martin are a few of the big stars who spent their weekends on and off the stages of Newport’s clubs.
“Before they died, old-timers fr
om Sin City told a story about a magician named Marvelous Malachi who stole millions of dollars in gold, gems, and priceless art from the Beverly Hills Country Club, then fell afoul of the mob.”
“Damn!” The sound exploded out of Peter’s chest, causing Gypsy to startle.
“Shhhh!” Lia said. “I want to hear.”
Aubrey continued, “Why do you believe Andrew Heenan was Marvelous Malachi?”
“One of the stories about Malachi claimed he Houdinied his way out of a leg manacle that had been riveted shut and no one knew how he did it.”
Aubry’s mouth dropped. “You think he cut off his own foot?”
“Simple explanations are often the best. Andrew Heenan was a magician. He was the right age, with no past and no known family. The amputated leg paints a compelling picture.”
“What do you believe happened to him?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it? Someone killed him to get the money.”
“Do you think they succeeded?”
“It’s been eighty years since the theft and the stolen art never reappeared. Marvelous Malachi’s haul is still out there.”
Peter zapped Aubrey’s faux-astonished face into oblivion. “Susan hates being upstaged. Somewhere there’s an Aubrey Morse doll with its head twisted off.”
“They make Aubrey Morse dolls?”
“If they don’t, Susan stitched one up. I may borrow it and feed it to the garbage disposal. We can forget that lazy Sunday.”
Day 16
Sunday, May 5, 2019
The sun had barely risen when Peter pulled up in front of the square, Price Hill fourplex where Overstreet lived. Glass block sidelights, brick patterns, and a concrete inset cast with chevrons decorated the facade—features Lia said marked the building as pre-World War II Art Deco. The apartments would be solid and spacious, the kind of construction that didn’t happen anymore, places renters hung onto for decades.
He detoured to the parking lot behind the building and found the twelve-year-old Toyota Camry listed as Overstreet’s on a recent speeding ticket, its condition hardly better than Lia’s thirty-year-old Volvo. Being a crime historian didn’t appear to be a big-money gig.
Having confirmed Overstreet’s presence, he returned to the front of the building. The door bumped open. In the foyer, a woman with a toddler in tow wrestled with a stroller and a diaper bag.
Peter took two long steps and grabbed the door. She smiled in gratitude as he held it for her. He sent a mental thank you heavenward and took this opportunity to enter the building without buzzing Overstreet first.
Peter’s knock went unanswered. He knocked again, this time eliciting a hollered, “Hold your horses.” A long minute later, Overstreet’s door cracked open, leaking stale tobacco smoke.
Overstreet, barefoot in striped boxers and a stained v-neck T-shirt, looked a decade older than he had on the screen. This put him firmly in the sweet spot for Heenan’s killer. Blood-shot eyes suggested he’d either been drinking or smoking dope. No hint of sickly-sweet ganja under the tobacco. Alcohol, then.
He blinked owlishly. “Whaddya want?”
Peter flipped open his badge case, displaying his shield. “Detective Dourson. Do you have time for a few questions?”
Overstreet shut his eyes and mouthed, “Shit.” The man’s head bobbed a few times, computing. He opened his eyes and stepped aside.
“Come on in. Place is a wreck.”
The living room opened into a dining area, the table stacked with books and periodicals, forming a wall around a laptop and an industrial-sized scanner. Crumpled paper littered the floor around full wastebaskets. Overflowing ashtrays sat on various surfaces. A coffee table held a three-quarters empty bottle of cheap scotch and a pair of glass tumblers sticky from the previous night’s excesses.
Overstreet scooped a pile of clothes off the couch and dumped it on top of a cardboard box. “Have a seat. Do you mind if I make coffee and get dressed?”
“No problem.”
Peter had chosen to catch Overstreet off guard. Now he’d gain more cooperation if he gave the guy a chance to settle himself. Often pure sincerity was the best route to getting information. And if that didn’t work, it was better to play subjects like fish, letting them think they had some measure of control while he set the hook.
Overstreet crossed the dining area and out of sight. Smoke from Overstreet’s morning cigarette drifted in the air, followed by kitchen sounds: a freezer door opened, then shut; a faucet running; a coffee grinder; the hiss and gurgle of a coffee maker. Overstreet returned, passing through the living room to a tiny hall, muttering to himself as the cigarette dangled precariously from his lip.
As soon as Peter heard the shower, he moved to the dining table and scanned the piles. A paper-clipped stack of pages torn from a legal pad tugged at him. He ignored it. People who looked disorganized often knew exactly where everything was and noticed if anything was a hair out of place. And anyone with half a hungover brain wouldn’t leave him alone with anything of value.
Instead, he studied the seven-foot bookcases lining one wall. History and reference books, with a shelf dedicated to multiple copies of Overstreet’s own titles, Sin City Crime and Cincinnati Cold Cases. He’d downloaded digital versions of both books the night before and ran searches for “Malachi.” He’d gotten zip.
Overstreet, in fresh jeans and T-shirt, feet still bare, passed through the living room on the way to the kitchen.
“Want some coffee?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
He returned to the living room, steaming mug in hand, and dropped into an armchair.
“Sorry, Dick Brewer brought a bottle of scotch over and we had a late night. You know him?”
“Sure. Mill Creek Yacht Club.”
“I saw you on the news. I should have recognized you right away. You’re wondering why I didn’t come to you first.”
“Among other things.”
Overstreet took a sip of coffee. “I knew I could get more bang from Aubrey Morse if I gave her something you didn’t have.”
“And bang outranks civic duty?”
Overstreet sent Peter a rueful smile. “Bang is everything. I knew you’d get to me sooner or later. Wish it wasn’t at the crack of dawn.”
“Payback is hell.”
“Yeah, yeah. What would you like to know?”
“Where were you in the summer of 1987?”
“You don’t mess around, do you?”
“Just getting it out of the way.”
“That’s one way to do it. I was at OSU. Didn’t move back until I got my degree.”
“Good enough. Tell me about Marvelous Malachi.”
Overstreet lit a cigarette, waved it in the air. “Channel 7 ran the sound bite version. I guess you want the full story?”
“Background first. I’m not from here.”
“Okay. Be patient with me if I repeat myself. How much do you know about Newport?”
“Conventioneers go there to see strippers and get unlicensed massages.”
“The shady reputation goes back more than a century. Newport was the center of bootlegging on a national scale during prohibition.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No interstates back then. The river connected Newport with the rest of the country. The locals hated authority and were desperate for jobs. It was great for everyone until Prohibition ended. The players needed a new enterprise. They leveraged existing channels for local graft and moved on to adult entertainment. They opened places they called carpet joints, gambling palaces dressed up with classy decor and high-end entertainment.
“These were the first casinos. The very first was the Beverly Hills Country Club, but gambling was everywhere. You could find slot machines in the corner grocery. Now hundreds of them are on the bottom of the Ohio River, courtesy of Robert F. Kennedy.”
Peter snapped his fingers. “The Beverly Hills Supper Club, didn’t it burn down in the seventies?”
“Yeah, th
ey changed the name. Third-deadliest nightclub fire in US History. One hundred and sixty-five people died. That was a mob deal. It has nothing to do with your bones, though our story centers on the club.”
Overstreet took a drag and another slug of coffee. “You have to understand, the men who turned Newport into a national hotspot weren’t traditional mobsters. They were businessmen who exploited prohibition and engaged goons on the side for security. Then business exploded. Truckloads of money rolled out of those places every night.”
“It’s hard to imagine Newport as the center of anything.”
“When I was a kid, Newport was a scruffy biker town across the river. It’s coming back with the development of the riverfront. During its heyday, there were Hollywood A-listers on stage and walking the streets every weekend. Marilyn Monroe, Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, they were all regulars.”
“I remember that part from your interview. What happened?”
“The short version is, Nevada legalized prostitution and gambling and the mob figured taxes were cheaper than graft. They opened the big casinos out west. Then Robert Kennedy became Attorney General. He rolled through and busted everyone who remained.
“Without the mob to ensure the streets were safe for tourists, the adult entertainment industry fell to the bikers, and Newport devolved to the seedy scene it became by the eighties.”
“How does this relate to Heenan?”
“Everything. Repeal of the Volstead Act crippled organized crime across the country. They were called the Syndicate back then. Newport’s successful transition to adult entertainment drew their attention.
“Big players from Chicago and Cleveland wanted a piece. A group of players called the Cleveland Four came to town and didn’t see the sense in building competing casinos when they could take over established clubs.”
Overstreet lit a new cigarette from the butt of his dying one, taking quick puffs to get it going.
“The Beverly Hills Country Club was the most successful of the carpet joints. A guy named Pete Schmidt owned it, and he wasn’t selling—not that Cleveland’s offer was in any way attractive.
Swamp Monster Page 17
