Ice Blues ds-3

by Richard Stevenson

  “Hang on, I’m putting you on hold.”

  “Don’t play any music.”

  He did-a mononucleotic string arrangement of “Good Golly, Miss Molly.”

  Stevenson, Richard

  Stevenson, Richard ��� [Donald Strachey Mystery 03] ��� Ice Blues

  It went on for minutes.

  “Donald?”

  “Yo.”

  “A John Lenihan flew to LAX, changing at O’Hare, last Friday, January eleven, departing Albany five-eighteen P.M., arriving Los Angeles eight thirty-one. Mr. Lenihan returned on Tuesday, January fifteen, departing LAX at ten-fifteen A.M., changing at O’Hare, arriving Albany at seven-forty P.M. Lenihan-isn’t that the name of the guy who was murdered, John Lenihan?”

  I wrote the dates and times in my notebook. “No, that was John Hanrahan.

  This one’s a friend of mine.”

  “I thought I heard it was Lenihan. They found his body in a car somewhere-at a garage, frozen solid.”

  “Say, how’s Joe doing?”

  “Fantastic. He finishes his residency in June, and then we might get to spend half a day together.”

  “What will you do to celebrate?”

  “He’ll probably sleep. I’ll watch some TV.”

  “Well, cheers.”

  “Thanks.”

  I removed the five small keys from Lenihan s letter. Each had a number painted on it, one through five, with what looked like fuchsia-colored nail polish. The numbering was sloppy, as if done with a nail-polishing brush, and small bits had begun to flake off. I inserted the keys onto my own key ring, pocketed the letter, and headed out into the winter playland.

  FIVE

  I pushed the button under J. Lenihan three times and got no response. It looked as if he had lived alone since his split with Warren Slonski. My Sears card popped the front-door lock on the old Victorian town house, now broken up into six small apartments. Sooty dun-colored paint was flaking off the stairwell walls, and the winding staircase itself hung ten degrees into the abyss and groaned as I moved up it. I stayed close to the wall.

  My lobster pick got me into Lenihan’s apartment, where lobster had not been served recently, just eggs, peanut butter and Wonder Bread. The kitchenette and one small drafty room were strewn with clothing, books, papers; the place had been turned inside out recently by someone, or someones, no doubt including the Albany cops. Whoever had done it had possessed keys, or at least a lobster pick.

  Among the debris beside the rumpled daybed were a phone book, on the back of which were the word “Ma” and a Los Angeles area number, which I wrote down. I found no checkbook, phone bills, or other useful financial records-I figured Bowman must have waltzed off with them-but I did come up with a single stub off a week-old payroll check with Lenihan’s name on it from Annie’s Quiche Quorner on Lark Street. I knew the place.

  The only other objects that seemed remarkable in Lenihan’s gloomy quarters were a complete four-volume set of Morris Gerber’s Old Albany, uninscribed and otherwise unmarked, and a battered RCA LP called “Opera for People Who Hate Opera.” The other books were paperback best-sellers-Ludlum, Higgins, MacLean. Stacked up next to the discount-store stereo setup were thirty or forty 1960s rock

  LPs-the Dead, Van Morrison, Janis Joplin, the Stones. I found no narcotics, no “fortune,” and no clue suggesting that the occupant of this sorry little hole-in-the-wall had had recent possession of either.

  I drove west on back streets, found an unoccupied snowbank on Jay, pulled up along it, and walked around to Annie’s Quiche Quorner. With the state offices shut down the place wasn’t busy during the lunch hour, so I was able to question Annie and her two waiters.

  Once it was established that I was neither a health inspector nor a cop Bowman had called on Annie earlier and left a poor impression-they talked a little, but only to say they knew little of Jack Lenihan’s personal life, were horrified by his dying, and couldn’t imagine what kind of mess he might have gotten into that ended in his being killed. I asked if Lenihan might have been dealing drugs, and Annie, an immense sloe-eyed woman in black pants, said, “I wouldn’t know about that.”

  The two waiters-who, like nearly everybody else on jazzy Lark Street, appeared to be twenty-five and not wasting a minute of it-looked at each other.

  “He got me some hash once,” one of them said.

  “Was it any good?”

  “The best.”

  “Did he say where he got it?”

  “Shit, no. And I didn’t ask.”

  “Mister,” Annie said, “within a hundred yards of where you’re sitting you could probably find two hundred people who could get you any type of controlled substance your heart desires. Stand out on the sidewalk and hold up a sign that you want drugs and they’ll crawl right up out of the manholes. Jack probably just walked around the corner and asked anybody on the street. That doesn’t make him a criminal.”

  “Did Jack have visitors here?” I asked.

  “There were a couple people who came in who knew him,” Annie said. “Neighborhood people, people he knew, I dunno. He didn’t seem to have any real friends, not that came in here. Jack was nice, but he was a loner, I’d say.”

  “What about that guy last Friday,” one of the waiters said, “who kept looking for Jack?”

  “Oh, yeah, that spiffy one,” Annie said, remembering. “He came in a couple of times asking for Jack when he wasn’t here-Jack was mostly working nights. This guy looked more like lower State Street than Lark-La Serre or the Fort Orange Club. Good-looking older fella with an alpaca topcoat and a fifty-dollar haircut. I thought I’d seen his face before, but I couldn’t place it.

  In the movies or somewhere.”

  “Did he mention why he was looking for Jack?”

  “He didn’t say. He sure was anxious to track him down, though-came by later the same day and said Jack wasn’t home, he’d tried his apartment. I told him Jack had the weekend off and didn’t say where he’d be. The guy seemed real itchy to get in touch.”

  “Did he leave his name or any other message?”

  “Unh-unh.”

  “Has he come back at all?”

  “Nope. Hey, you said you’re a private detective. Who are you working for anyway, Jack’s family?”.

  “No, did he talk about them?”

  “Not a word. I was amazed when I saw in the paper Jack was Pug Lenihan’s grandson. A historical family, he came from, and Jack never let on.”

  “Did Jack mention any sort of project he was working on?”

  “Project? What kind?”

  “Any kind.”

  “If Jack had a project I think it went on inside his head. I always had the feeling there was an awful lot going on in there the rest of us were never gonna hear about. Jack came to work for me last October, and he looked like he had a lot on his mind when he got here and he looked like he had a lot on his mind the last time he left. Three months is a long time to be wrapped up in your thoughts like that. I’d’ve had a headache myself. Maybe it was some kind of family thing or project, is that what you mean? I know Jack was close to his mom. He was just back from seeing her in California when he started here last fall. Maybe she knows more about his private life.

  Maybe you should talk to her.”

  “You’re right. Maybe I should.”

  I had four eggs with sausage and home fries, and then Annie let me use the phone to call my service, which had four messages, all “urgent.” Three were from Creighton Prell, Larry Dooley, and Sim Kempelman, each of whom had left a number and asked that I call back as soon as possible regarding a matter of the utmost importance. The fourth was from an unnamed caller who said the “delivery” should take place that night at midnight at the corner of Clinton and South Pearl, and that there would be

  “no hassle.”

  “If the mysterious one calls back,” I told the service’s operator, “tell him to leave a number where he can be reached, that I’m willing to talk about it.”
/>   Next I phoned Alex at American Airlines.

  “I’m awfully busy, Don. We had to cancel two flights last night on account of the storm, and I’m up to here with people who’ll die if they don’t get to Chicago, though God knows why.”

  ‘“When you’ve got a free minute, I need dates and times on an October trip that John C. Lenihan took to LA and back.”

  “When in October?”

  “Right, when in October?”

  “I mean, early, late, what?”

  “I’m not sure. Early to mid, I think.”

  “Do you realize that could take me two hours? It’s one thing to violate FAA regulations, something else to stay late doing it. Like I say, we’ve got problems out here.”

  “So you’ll miss ‘One Hundred Thousand Dollar Name

  That Tune’ this evening. Listen, I’ll buy you a Molson next time I run into you on the avenue.”

  He fumed amiably for another minute before we struck a deal: two Molsons and a plate of the peppered beef with black mushrooms at the Peking in return for the flight information. Airlines never give you anything without a lot of conditions attached.

  The thermometer in Annie’s doorway read eleven degrees Fahrenheit, but the wind speed had dropped, so I donned my shades against the glare and pretended I was at St. Kitts on an off day.

  “You lied to me, Strachey, you bald-faced lied. You acted like you didn’t even know who Lenihan was, which made me suspicious right away, because it wasn’t like whoever killed Jack Lenihan dumped him in just any citizen’s car. No, it had to be yours, and you put on your ‘What? Who, me?’ innocent bullshit performance like you’re goddamn Mother McRae.”

  “Carmen?”

  “You’re up to your pouf eyeballs in this thing, Strachey. You know it and I know it, and now I am going to hear all about it-how, and why, and what for, and no more bullshit-horseshit-crap out of you, or believe me, you are not going to walk out of this building today. I’ll see to that.”

  Bowman still had his hideous nose disease. This might have affected his outlook, which never had been sunny, though I had seen him less fatuously airheaded on one or two previous occasions. As he spoke, Bowman’s hand kept coming up toward his nose, but apparently he had been instructed to avoid scratching the gruesome appendage, because the hand always made a quick frightened detour of his face, then went restlessly back to his lap or over to his desktop, where it fingered what looked like a glass of iced prune juice.

  I said, “Are you finished venting? May Harrisburg residents return to their homes now?”

  “Of course not, no. Now then, Strachey. Last night I thoroughly examined Jack Lenihan’s apartment. The place had already been tossed real good by somebody who got there first. It was you, wasn’t it?”

  “No.”

  “I thought probably it wasn’t. You know why? Because in amongst Lenihan’s effects I found this.”

  “That’s my business card.”

  “Yeah, isn’t it, though. Your business card ��� ‘Donald Strachey, Private Investigations’-in amongst the papers of the man who died by murder in your car. Now then. You are about to assist with this homicide investigation instead of obstructing it. You are going to explain to me what was your connection with John C. Lenihan. I’m all ears. Go.”

  I said, “When I met Lenihan last summer I must have given him my card and he kept it-for whatever reasons. And lately he’s been throwing my name around without my knowledge or consent-also for reasons unknown. Lenihan apparently told somebody that I have something of his.

  Or theirs. But I don’t.”

  He shifted irritably, the hand leaving the prune-juice glass and making a quick pass at the nose. “Something of whose? Who told you that?”

  “I received an anonymous telephone call last night from a man with a tablecloth in his mouth who said I had something that didn’t belong to me and he wanted it.”

  “Dope?”

  “I don’t know. The caller offered no specifics. He said I could see how serious he and his people were, and I took this to mean that they had killed Jack and left him in my car.”

  “Keep talking.”

  “That’s it. I’m trying to figure it all out myself. Lenihan must have gotten me confused with someone else. There’s been a misunderstanding apparently.”

  “A pack of stinking lies from beginning to end. Anonymous caller my ass.”

  “Not at all. Ned, do us both a favor and search my house. And my office too. Here are my keys, you wont need a warrant. Maybe I do have something of Lenihan’s-some stuff that was left in my house when we bought it last year, or whatever. Send some of your guys out there and turn the place inside out-not too crudely, please-and see what you can turn up. If you can find a connection between me and Jack Lenihan, I’m the one who’d most like to hear about it. Will you do it?”

  As I spoke, Bowman scratched energetically away on a legal pad, his nose substitute. He said, “You’re setting me up, aren’t you?”

  “For what? What would the point be?”

  “Maybe waste my time, buy time for yourself.”

  “I’ve got all the time in the world. I’m thirty-six years old and have most of my life ahead of me.”

  “You’re no friggin’ thirty-six. You’re older.”

  “I meant forty-six, whatever. The point is, I want this craziness cleared up as badly as you do. If I have become inadvertently involved with criminals, I want to extricate myself. I have to, I have a license to keep. I know I’ve behaved pretty shittily with you on a couple of occasions, Ned, and you don’t owe me a damn thing. But I also know that in spite of everything you still believe that people are basically good at heart, and I’m a person.”

  “Huh?”

  “Help me out. Help me get out of this.”

  “And search your house?”

  “If there’s something there, I want to know what it is.”

  “Why don’t you search it yourself?”

  “Because I’m not going home for a while. I don’t want to risk being spotted by the anonymous caller. Timmy and I are staying at the Americana.”

  “You want me to go over to your place and put on a big show, is that it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re scared, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  He tried to suppress a sneer. “When push comes to shove, you people just haven’t got what it takes, have you? It looks to me like you’re finally going to have to admit that, Strachey.”

  “If by ‘you people’ you mean Presbyterians, Ned, I have to warn you that it might not be a good idea to generalize from my particular situation.

  Eisenhower was a Presbyterian, and I think MacArthur too. I don’t know about Patton. Or McGeorge Bundy.”

  He scratched at the pad, sniffed with his nose. “Sure, I’ll search your house. Maybe I’ll find more than you think I’m going to find.”

  “Could be. And while you’re over there, would you mind picking up a few things? I’ll leave you a list.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “What did the ME have to report on Lenihan?”

  “That is confidential police information.”

  I flipped a dime onto his desk. “Here-your first bribe.”

  He actually laughed. And pocketed the dime. “It’ll be released to the media today anyway, so what the hell. Lenihan was hit hard at least five times most of the blows from behind-with a blunt object, probably hard metal.

  Whatever it was left no residue. He died soon after, in your car, between ten o’clock Tuesday night and one A.M. Wednesday. The forensic indications were that he had not put up much of a struggle, so the second or third hit probably knocked him out. He might’ve been snuck up on, or maybe the killer was a person he knew and trusted. Since he’d made some attempt to defend himself, it’s hard to tell.”

  “So he was actually dumped in my car while it was still on Crow street.”

  “Your car wasn’t towed until after three. I talk
ed to the crew who hauled it out to Faxon’s and they didn’t notice anything, but then they wouldn’t have, because your windows were all frosted up from what are presumed to have been Lenihan’s last breaths. Or maybe when you parked your car that night you let one rip. We didn’t analyze the window moisture.”

  “When had Lenihan last eaten?”

  “Dinner that night, it looked like. Some kind of creamed-chicken shit.”

  “Creamed chickenshit?”

  “Creamed chicken.”

  “What about Lenihan’s car? Has it turned up?”

  “He didn’t own one. His friends say he rode the bus.”

  “What about my car? Was there anything helpful in it?”

  “No prints, if that’s what you mean. Just yours, which the state of New York wisely keeps on file. Whoever touched anything wore gloves. These are pros we’re dealing with here, Strachey, it is plainly evident.”

  “Everybody’s wearing gloves this month. It’s cold out. When can I get my car back?”

  “Tomorrow maybe. We’ll see.”

  “Lenihan wore glasses. Have they been found?”

  “Nah. They must have been knocked off wherever he got conked.”

  “Lenihan was away from his apartment over the weekend. Have you been able to track where he went?”

  “Not yet. We’re talking to his family and the people he knew, but nobody’s been very goddamn helpful. There are a couple of them I might have to go back and lean on a little.” He wrinkleld his nose as if to try to make it scratch itself.

  I said, “This looks like a dopers’ execution, doesn’t it? Is that the angle you’re pursuing?”

  “You know what Lenihan’s record was. Of course that’s what it is. I think you know that, Strachey. I think you know a whole lot more about this than you’re letting on, that’s what I think.”

  “Well, you’re going to think what you’re going to think.” I passed him my spare set of house and office keys. “It’s 218 Crow Street, and you know where the office is. If you want to use searchlights and bullhorns that’s okay, but once you’re inside try not to get any fingerprints on the Millie Jackson records. That’s all I ask.”