Chicago Boogie Woogie

by Gregory C. Randall

  “It’s Monday. You want the top of the pile?”

  “What else is there?” Alfano said, looking at the short stack of papers on McDunnah’s desk.

  “Last night, Palmer House. The chief wants you there. A body was discovered about four this morning. Patrolmen on scene; detectives on their way—they are waiting for you.”

  “Coffee first.”

  McDunnah swiveled his chair around and grabbed a mug off the credenza behind him. He held it up for Alfano.

  “Still hot?”

  “Just poured. And, the next one is a note from the mayor’s office. He wants to see you at nine thirty, something about a priority assignment.”

  “Shit. We know all about these priority assignments.”

  Alfano and the mayor had a relationship like a mongoose and a snake. Plain and simple, Alfano did not like Mayor Edward Kelly. The “snake” had been handed the mayor’s job after his predecessor, Anton Cermak, was shot trying to defend the newly elected Franklin D. Roosevelt during an assassination attempt in Miami seven months earlier. The thwarted assassination attempt stunk to high heaven and led to a rigged mayoral selection. Thanks to whoever was pulling the strings of the Illinois state assembly, the former sanitary chief of Chicago now headed the second largest city in America.

  On the other hand, the new mayor liked Alfano, mostly because during the last six months Alfano had, more than once, pulled his nuts out of a political fire. Alfano wanted nothing to do with the man and his political fixer, Patrick Nash, but short of quitting, he had no alternative.

  “Nine thirty? Did he say why?” Alfano said, grimacing at the coffee.

  “He didn’t say,” McDunnah said. “Just be there.”

  “Great.” Alfano looked through the rest of the messages, then threw them in the can next to McDunnah’s desk. “The Palmer isn’t in our jurisdiction.”

  “All I know is you are wanted at the scene. Be careful about the toes of the other detectives.”

  “From where? Downtown?”

  “Somewhere around the police chief and city hall.”

  “Damn.”

  Alfano had become Mayor Kelly’s go-to guy. A role that did not please Alfano. Often, it led to his stepping on the toes of other detectives, departments, and chiefs. And his being Italian, in the largest Irish police force outside of Dublin, Ireland, didn’t help either.

  ✥✥✥

  The Palmer House was the swankiest and most pricey hotel in the city. Alfano parked his Packard at the curb in front of the Monroe Street entry.

  “Checking in, Detective?” the doorman said with a smile. He opened the car door.

  “No, Henry. But I believe you have a dead woman inside?”

  “Such is the rumor, Detective,” Henry said as he turned his head away.

  “Where?”

  The doorman stepped back. “Top floor . . . sir, top floor.”

  “Leave the car here. I’ll be back shortly.”

  “Yes, Detective.”

  Alfano quickly walked through the spacious lobby. Its ornate ceiling, gold trim, and painted doodads dominated the impressive room. Guests sat in comfortable chairs, eating breakfast and having their coffee. Alfano’s stomach growled; a dowager overheard the rumble and tsk-tsked at the sound. Tony smiled at her and continued to the bank of elevators. A patrolman stood at the open door of one—next to him, an elevator operator.

  Alfano flashed his star to the patrolman. “Which floor?”

  “Twenty-fourth, northwest corner, top floor,” the patrolman answered.

  “Shall we?” Alfano asked and pointed to the open elevator and the attendant. As the door closed, he turned to the operator. “What time did you come on?”

  “I work the six-to-six shift. So, I’ve been here two hours and twenty-five minutes,” the operator answered, looking at his watch.

  “When did the police arrive?”

  “Don’t know. They were here when I came on.”

  “The other operator, where’s he?”

  “I assume at home. Al’s been on this car almost as long as me; he likes the all-night. Me, I want to be home with my wife and kids. Al’s a loner.”

  When the door opened, the operator pointed to the left. “That way, Detective. Can’t miss it, maybe a dozen cops still there. I’ve heard it’s quite a mess.”

  “And how did you hear that?”

  “People—people talk. I stand here in the corner and just listen. More entertaining than the radio.” He pulled the doors closed.

  When Alfano approached the room in the corner of the northwest wing, people milled about in the hallway; half were in uniform. Hotel guests wrapped in robes cluttered the doorways of several nearby rooms. A black woman in a maid’s uniform stood flat against the hallway wall, a patrolman next to her. Explosions of light and the pops of flashbulbs burst from the open door at the end of the hallway. Another patrolman stood just outside the doorway. Alfano held up his star.

  “Don’t know you,” the patrolman said. “Stay here.”

  “Not my problem. I’m going in.” Alfano pushed his way past the objecting uniform. Inside was chaos. He looked around the room and was blinded by another flashbulb.

  “Out!” Alfano yelled. “Everybody out! Everybody except you, Flynn. I want everybody else out, now.”

  The crowd of four policemen, two photographers, two men in suits, and a man in a formal suit jacket filled the one, surprisingly large room. Alfano stood to the side of the door as the assembly filed its way out.

  “You, in the monkey suit, wait,” Alfano said to the formally dressed gentleman. He turned to the man he called Flynn. “What’s going on here, Detective? You know better than this.”

  “What the hell are you doing here, Alfano?” Flynn said. “This ain’t your party. You stay to your side of the river.”

  “I can assure you, Flynn, I would like to. The chief told me to be here. I do what I’m told. So, if you have a beef, talk to the chief.” He looked around the room, his eyes quickly passing over the bed to the floor. He looked at the guy in the tuxedo. “You the hotel manager?”

  “Yes, sir, Claude Dubonnet.”

  “Well, Mr. Dubonnet, who’s room is this?” Alfano asked.

  Flynn started to say something. Alfano put his hand up. “Quiet.”

  “It is one of four rooms that were booked by the Sierra Films Production Company,” Dubonnet told Alfano. “One is next door, with the pass-through door, and the other two are down the hallway.”

  “Who is Sierra Films?” Alfano asked, looking back to the floor.

  “I believe they make moving pictures. May I ask who you are?” Dubonnet asked. He was trying not to look at the floor.

  “Detective Tony Alfano. I’m working with Detective Flynn on this case.”

  Again, Flynn started to say something. Alfano shut him off with a look.

  “You can go stand in the hallway like a good little boy, Mr. Dubonnet; I’ll get back to you,” Alfano said.

  As Alfano turned away from Flynn and the manager, he took in the full scene. Four windows, curtains drawn, lined two walls of the corner room. A large leather couch, two matching chairs, a coffee table, a mahogany desk, filled half the room. Two bedside tables with ornate lamps flanked the outsized and unmade bed. All the wooden edges of the furniture were painted beige with gold trim; the only unnatural light in the room came from a lamp on the desk and the two bedside lamps. The lamps cast a harsh light on the body that lay on the floor. The overhead chandelier was not on.

  “Turn that light on, Flynn,” Alfano said, pointing to the ceiling.

  The woman was beautiful and nude. Which was probably why the police, and God only knew how many others, had been in and out of the room since its discovery. The corpse was white, not just Caucasian white, but almost as white as the area rug she was sprawled on. Her hair was white as well.

  “When was she found?” Alfano asked Flynn.

  “The maid found her at four thirty this morning,” Flynn said.

/>   “That’s strange. Maids don’t do rooms till later in the morning or when asked. So, why was she here?”

  “She’s down the hall. You can ask her.”

  “I’m asking you, Detective. What did she say?”

  “She said she was sent up here by the housekeeping manager. There was a request for towels. She was told to put them in the bathroom.”

  “By who?” Alfano said, looking at the woman.

  “The assumption was by whoever was in the room. They used the phone,” Flynn said.

  “Your assumption or the maid’s?”

  Flynn paused. “My assumption.”

  “Find out for sure. First, ask her to come in here.”

  Flynn walked out and returned with the maid.

  “Yes, sir?” she said.

  “Can you please bring me a clean sheet?”

  “Yes, sir.” The maid left.

  Flynn watched her leave. “She said the door was locked when she knocked. She used her passkey when no one answered. She immediately saw the body, quickly left the room, and called the manager.”

  “Him?” Alfano said, looking toward the hallway where Dubonnet waited in his formal coat.

  “No, the night manager. Mr. Dubonnet came on at seven.”

  “Did you interview the night manager?”

  “No, Bob and I arrived at seven fifteen. We will later,” Flynn said.

  “And where’s Detective Bobby Gloan?”

  “He went to get coffee.”

  “So, for the last two hours and forty-five minutes, people have been coming and going from this room. Good God, Flynn, did you charge fucking admission?”

  Flynn ignored the question. “I still don’t know why you are here, Alfano. This is my crime scene.”

  The maid came to the door, a folded white sheet in her hands. Alfano took the sheet from her and stepped back to where the body lay. “Grab the corners, Flynn.”

  Flynn obeyed, and they covered the naked body.

  “What you need to know is irrelevant, and this so-called crime scene is more like a train wreck,” Alfano told Flynn, not bothering to hide his intense irritation. “Stand over there and make sure no one else comes into the room. I want a list of everyone who’s been in here since the body was discovered—and I mean everyone—and I’ll check it with the elevator operator. When the coroner arrives, he is the only person I want you to let in—and you and your partner can cool your heels out in the hall. Until then, say nothing to anyone.” Flynn looked pissed but tramped out.

  Alfano walked slowly around the room, looking at the desk, the wastebasket, the chairs, and the two bedside tables. An ashtray with a crushed cigarette sat on the left-side table, no jewelry or other personal effects. An electric clock sat on the right-side table; it was stopped at 3:33 am. Alfano looked behind the side table and saw that the clock was unplugged. On the carpet, next to the plug, lay a watch. Using a pen to poke through the metal and leather clasp, Alfano picked up the watch and placed it on the table.

  He crossed the room. On the coffee table, a bottle of champagne sat in a bucket. The ice was melted. There were two glasses. Alfano knelt and looked closely. One glass had visible fingerprints; the other was empty and clean. Why was obvious: either not used or wiped clean—he was going with wiped clean; even room service would leave fingerprints. He did a cursory check of the bottle, not expecting any fingerprints; he was right.

  He went back to the sheet on the floor and carefully raised one corner. The woman’s face was turned toward the left bedside table. Besides being ghostly white, the body was a bizarre display of death. Knotted around the neck was a brilliant red scarf. Oriental images of dragons and flowers decorated the cloth. From two holes between her breasts, blood had run down her chest and soaked the white rug. The stain was about two feet round. The bullet holes were clean, crisp, a splatter of grey and black surrounding the wounds. Her left arm draped forward; bruises, like a dark bracelet, wrapped her wrist. No jewelry on the fingers. No shadow that would have hinted at a ring was visible on the white skin. A richly colored kaftan-like robe wrapped her left arm and shoulder; however, most of it was bunched up under her body. Further up the left arm, in the fold, the fossa, between the upper and lower arm, were a series of red dots, pin pricks—needle punctures based on Alfano’s experience. The right arm was twisted and hidden under the body. A small tattoo decorated the left buttock. It was a simple heart shape.

  Alfano replaced the sheet, walked around to the opposite side of the body, raised the sheet on the other side.

  “Detective,” Flynn began.

  “I told you to keep quiet. Stay that way,” Alfano answered without looking.

  Her eyes were open; they were green, emerald green, once bright, now a bit hazed, fully dilated. Dried tear tracks left their course on her right cheek. Other than red lipstick, he saw no makeup. From the corner of her mouth, a line of spittle had dribbled down her right jaw and dried. She was exceptionally pretty and hauntingly familiar.

  Alfano looked under her right side at portions of her body not hidden by the kaftan. An obscene dark grey shadowed the areas of her body that lay against the white rug. Alfano assumed she had died in this position; the coroner would confirm this. He touched her left arm; it was cold. With one finger, he tried to raise her arm. It was somewhat stiff and wouldn’t move.

  “Rigor, I assume?” a voice said over Alfano’s shoulder. It wasn’t Flynn’s.

  “Yes, Doc. Almost full rigor—dead at least four, maybe five hours,” Alfano said.

  “Or more,” Doc Abrahamson, the coroner, answered. “Pretty,” he added as he peeked over Alfano’s shoulder.

  “Yeah. She doesn’t seem to have been moved after being shot. Her fall was violent—see the bruises on the left wrist?” Alfano turned to Flynn. “Did anyone touch or move the body?”

  “Not since I got here,” Flynn said. “I asked the maid the same question. She said she knew better than to touch the dead, ‘evil thing.’ Besides, this wasn’t the first body she found. This floor has a history.”

  “The hotel’s only been reopened for eight years,” Alfano said.

  “Seems the rich like the high floors and suicide,” Flynn said. “I’ve been here twice during the last five years.”

  “Damn fools. Why do they have to get the police involved?” Alfano stepped back and let the coroner take his place. “Bizarre?”

  “Very. I’ll know the cause of death after the autopsy.”

  “The two slugs to the chest might be contributing causes, but you are the coroner, Dr. Abrahamson.” Alfano walked around the body to face Flynn. “I found this watch on the floor behind the table. I’m taking it with me.”

  “You think I’d steal it?” Flynn said.

  “Of course not. You and your partner are like fresh winter snow, virginal.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “That snow covers up all the shit underneath,” Alfano said.

  “You are one serious Guinea asshole, Alfano.”

  “That’s Detective Alfano to you, you Mick bastard.”

  “Stop it, you two. Keep it in the house,” Dr. Abrahamson said. “I’ll let both of you know what I find.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Alfano paced back and forth across the tile and carpet of the outer office of the mayor of Chicago. He had been five minutes early and, while waiting, smoked two cigarettes. The young woman behind the receptionist’s desk was new.

  “What’s your name?” Alfano asked, coming to an abrupt stop in his travels.

  “I know all about your reputation, Detective Alfano. I’ve been well informed.”

  “And I know so little about you, Miss . . .”

  “Alcott, Sarah Jean.”

  “Well, Miss Alcott, where do you come from?”

  “Duluth.”

  “Minnesota? Gets cold there.”

  “No, Nebraska. And it gets even colder there.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “No one has. When I left o
n the train for Chicago, only two people remained—my ma and pa.”

  “Small-town girl.”

  “No, actually a no-town girl.”

  The box, covered with switches and dials, on Sarah Alcott’s desk buzzed.

  “He will see you now, Detective.”

  “Will I see you later?” Alfano answered as he crushed his third cigarette and set his hat.

  “I really hope so.”

  “Even with my reputation?”

  “Every soul can be saved,” Sarah Alcott replied. “I’ll pray for you.”

  “Many have tried,” Alfano said.

  The mayor’s door was pulled open from the inside as Alfano reached for the handle. A lanky Irishman with a thick mustache walked briskly out, looked at Alfano, nodded, and went out the office door. Alfano’s brain began working on where he had seen the man’s face.

  The aromas of lavender, cheap cologne, and cigars slammed into Alfano’s nose as he closed the door behind him. Mayor Edward Kelly stood leaning his butt against the front of his desk, a cigar in his hand. A narrow-faced older Irishman sat in a chair near the window: Patrick Nash.

  Nash was thirteen years Kelly’s senior and had, over the last five years, built and then maneuvered his political machine into one of the toughest, well-run, and successfully corrupt city halls in the United States. Through a series of bizarre incidents, Detective Alfano had become Kelly’s go-to guy—Alfano wished that Kelly and Nash would just go to hell. A man and woman sat on the sofa and another man sat on one of the other chairs.

  “Detective Alfano, thanks for coming,” the mayor said. “Big things going on, big things. I want to introduce you to some special people. You may know two of them from the movies. They are big stars. And I’m their biggest fan.”

  Alfano knew exactly who two of the three were the moment he walked into the room; he, too, was a big fan.

  The mayor gestured toward the man in the chair. “This gentleman is Hines Melnik. He is the famous director of westerns and cop movies.”

  The man stood and walked to Alfano. He was about five feet five inches tall; round was the first word that came to mind: round face, round body, round eyes, round glasses, just everyday round. Alfano shook his round hand.