The Last Night Out

by Catherine O'Connell

  Clothes aside, Anna was very much her father’s daughter, and he adored her. She had inherited his intelligence and his single-mindedness. From the earliest days of childhood, she had tackled everything head-on the way he did, whether it was learning to ride a bike or getting good grades. She was relentless when she wanted something and never wavered. She’d just finished her junior year at the University of Illinois, pulling straight As in architecture. The plan was next year when she graduated, Vince would bring her into the company as a partner. She’d already started learning the business from the ground up, working for him during all her school vacations.

  ‘Where have you been all day, Daddy?’ she asked. ‘We were supposed to go to brunch, remember?’

  He slapped his forehead. He’d been so focused on seeing Suzanne this morning that he’d completely forgotten brunch at the club with his wife and daughter. ‘I’m sorry, baby. Something came up on the Delaware site. I hope you understand. We’ll do it next Sunday for sure.’ He hated lying to his daughter, and fear momentarily gripped him as he realized how out of control his emotions had become. He was a man holding onto two ropes, his family pulling one way and Suzanne pulling the other. Lately, the pull of Suzanne’s rope had become so strong, he wasn’t sure how long he could hang on to both. After a childhood of being handed off from family to family, never sure whose table he would be sitting at next, he had sworn to himself his daughter would always have a stable home environment and nothing, much less a mistress, would ever break up his family. He’d used women and disposed of them as he wished, usually providing a healthy stipend to ease their pain. But that was before Suzanne. She was far too important to be dismissed. There was no good solution to his problem.

  ‘OK, Daddy. Next Sunday. No forgetting this time.’

  ‘I won’t forget, sweetheart. I promise.’ Regrettably, that meant no lazy Sunday morning in bed with Suzanne.

  His daughter perched herself on the arm of his chair and wrapped her arms around his neck. ‘You and Mom are more important to me than anything in the world. Nothing can ever change that, right?’

  For a moment Vince thought he read something knowing in her eyes, but that was impossible. There was no way she could know about Suzanne. He had been beyond careful. ‘And nothing will ever change how important you are to us. But some day you’ll find some man even more important than us, and you’ll raise a family of your own. Of course, he’ll have to get my approval, and I will accept nothing short of perfection for my daughter. So I guess you’re not going anywhere for a while,’ he joked. Then his tone turned serious, and he added, ‘Just be sure to be selective.’

  ‘Thanks, Daddy,’ she said, easing off the chair. ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you too, sweetie.’ He watched her walk out the door, the swing of her soft bottom making his father’s heart skip a concerned beat. God, he hoped she listened when he warned her about being selective. Lately, she’d been seeing some greaseball she met in a bar, a guy way too old for her. Giovanna told him that it was just a passing phase, like the different hair colors, and if he made a big thing out of it that would force her even closer to him. He hoped his wife was right. He couldn’t think of anything worse than having a goombah like that for a son-in-law.

  A half-hour later there was another knock on the door. ‘Come in,’ he called gruffly. The door opened and Steven Kaufman sauntered in wearing a blue T-shirt and torn jeans, his curls pulled into a ponytail.

  ‘So what’s so important you make me drive all the way out here on a Sunday?’

  ‘What’s so important?’ Vince seriously tried to control his temper, keeping his blood pressure in mind. But it was a losing battle. ‘What’s so important is that we got a serious problem. Remember that extra job you did for me last weekend?’

  Steven shrugged. ‘You mean spying on your girlfriend? Like I told you, you don’t have to worry about her. There sure weren’t any other guys on her radar.’

  ‘Yeah. Well, you did something I asked you not to.’

  ‘I don’t get you.’

  ‘You made contact with the girls. You danced with the bride. I told you to keep your distance.’

  A disingenuous smirk crossed Steven’s lips. ‘So? What’s the big deal about that?’

  ‘Don’t you read the fucking papers? The big deal is that one of her friends went and got herself murdered that night. And someone reported a truck with New Hampshire plates on the street in Kenilworth. And then, how do you think it looks when some guy from New Hampshire turns up in the same bar with them? It looks like you were stalking them. That’s the big deal.’

  The smirk withered and Steven lowered himself into the chair opposite Vince. ‘Which girl?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Which girl was murdered?’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t Suzanne and it wasn’t the bride, so it was the other one. Angie. I’ll never forget that name, I’ve heard Suzanne cry over it enough.’

  Steven put a hand behind his head and tugged at the ponytail. ‘I didn’t kill her.’

  ‘Jesus. I sure as fuck hope not. But that doesn’t change the fact that the police are asking about you. And if they find you, you damn better have an alibi for later that night.’

  ‘Well, in fact, I do have an alibi.’

  Vince’s black eyes were ice picks into Steven’s skull as he ran the logistics in his head. ‘Don’t tell me. Please don’t tell me. Not the bride?’ When the carpenter didn’t respond, Vince felt his blood pressure ascend to the hazard level. Forgetting his sore hand, he slammed the desk again. ‘I asked you to follow Suzanne, not fuck her girlfriend.’

  ‘She started it. She bought me a drink.’

  ‘Fuck,’ said Vince, leaning back in his chair. ‘What a fucking mess. The police are looking for a white truck with New Hampshire plates and since New Hampshire plates ain’t exactly in abundance here in the Land of Lincoln, they’re going to find you. And when they do, they’re going to ask you why you were in Kenilworth and later on in that fuckin’ bar. And what’s your answer? That you were following your married boss’s girlfriend at his request. And what were you doing when Angie Wozniak was killed? You were banging the bride. This is not a good situation for you or me, not to mention the bride.’

  Steven bristled at Vince’s last words. ‘Hey, I’m sorry. Like I’m supposed to know somebody was going to get killed that night? I’m no happier about this than you are. Believe me, I have reasons of my own for not wanting trouble with the police.’

  By this time, Vince was so deaf with anger, he could barely hear. He didn’t give a squat about Steven’s personal reasons for not wanting to talk to the police. And he didn’t care squat about the cheating bride either. What he cared about was Suzanne. He didn’t want to even entertain the notion of what might happen if she found out he had her tailed. Would she hate him? Never talk to him again? That would kill him.

  There was only one solution for this mess, and that was for Steven Kaufman to disappear until Charley Belchek found Angie’s murderer. After that no one would give a rat’s ass about some guy from New Hampshire. He had no doubt the former cop could do the job, but he didn’t know how long it might take. In the meantime, Vince didn’t want Kaufman driving that truck around and being pulled over and brought in for questioning. No, the carpenter was going to have to go into hiding, and what better place to hide him than under Vince’s nose.

  ‘So this is what we’re going to do. You’re going to put your truck in my garage and leave it there until this blows over. You can stay here and finish up your work on the bar. Maria will fix up a room in the help’s quarters. I’m sure it will beat the flea trap you’ve been staying at in the city.’ He unlocked his bottom desk drawer where he kept his strongbox. Inside were cash, several sets of keys, and a spare garage door opener. He used to keep his .45 in there, but since the market crash he was more comfortable keeping the gun taped beneath his top desk drawer. He counted off five hundred-dollar bills and placed the money and the garage d
oor opener in front of Steven. ‘Here’s something for your trouble. Now hide that truck right away, before someone notices the plates.’

  Steven stood wordlessly in front of him, thinking over his position. He didn’t like answering to Vince, but he was in a tough spot, and right now he didn’t have a better solution. He meant it when he said he couldn’t talk to the police. And Vince was right about another thing. Any place was more comfortable than the transient hotel where he’d been staying. He put the money in his wallet and picked up the garage door opener.

  ‘Where should I park?’

  ‘Take my wife’s spot. The middle bay. And Kaufman, by the way, stay away from my daughter.’

  ‘I didn’t even know you had a daughter,’ said Steven walking out the door.

  ‘Good, keep it that way,’ Vince called to his back thinking Steven Kaufman was just the kind of loser that Anna was always drawn to.

  Giovanna Columbo shook her head with frustration. There was no understanding her husband. Here she was pulling her car into the garage like he asked – no, demanded – and she opens the door to find the carpenter’s truck parked in her space. What was the man’s problem? Oh well, never mind. She liked leaving the car out front anyway. She pulled back around the circular drive, and parked it back in front of the entrance, just like in the glossy magazine ads.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Ron

  Monday morning was grey and rainy, and the barometric pressure was wreaking havoc with Ron O’Reilly’s head. Four aspirin and two cups of coffee hadn’t brought any relief. Sitting at his desk in agony, wishing he could stop all blood flow from the neck up, he tried to block out the noise of the other detectives working the phones. The desk next to his sat empty. Koz was at the dentist after spending a sleepless night with a toothache.

  Working on the Angela Lupino Wozniak case only made his headache worse. He pretty much thought that Niebaum did her, not only because Natasha Dietrich planted the seed, but because the good doctor had a boat moored in Belmont Harbor, not far from where Angie’s body was found. Even if Dr Niebaum wasn’t banging Angie, one thing was for sure: Michael Niebaum was not home at midnight Friday. He may have been a good liar, but his wife wasn’t.

  But complicating things was the mystery man from New Hampshire. His presence in Kenilworth and later on in The Overhang was troubling. After talking to Suzanne Lundgren, they’d put out an all points for a white GMC pickup with New Hampshire plates, and if the guy were still in the state, he’d turn up. In the meanwhile, it was time for O’Reilly to have another little talk with the bride-to-be.

  But that could wait. The first order of business today was to hunt down Albert Evans, Angie’s elusive assistant manager. They’d gotten his contact information from Human Resources at Bloomingdale’s, but a call to his apartment yielded a recorded message saying he was in New Buffalo for the weekend and wouldn’t be back until Monday. O’Reilly left had an ominous message alluding to the serious nature of withholding evidence, betting that would elicit a phone call from Evans sooner than later.

  The bet paid off a second later when his phone rang.

  ‘O’Reilly.’

  ‘This is Albert Evans,’ came a voice clearly constricted with fear. ‘I believe you are looking for me.’

  ‘That would be an understatement, Mr Evans. I need to speak with you regarding the death of Angela Wozniak. You available to come and see right now?’

  ‘Oh, that wouldn’t be possible. I’m just leaving for work.’

  ‘I could meet you there.’ When O’Reilly’s words were met with silence, he added, ‘Or we could meet for a cup of coffee. This shouldn’t take too long.’

  There was still a prominent quiver in Evans’ voice. ‘I guess we could meet for coffee. Do you know Peaches on Rush Street? If I catch the next bus I could be there in thirty minutes.’

  ‘Good enough,’ said O’Reilly. ‘What are you wearing, so I’ll know who you are?’

  ‘With all this rain, I’ll be in my olive drab trench, but actually, I know who you are. You were outside the funeral. Salt-and-pepper gray and, well, no offense here, but you dress like a cop.’

  ‘A half-hour then.’ O’Reilly hung up, thinking it was a good thing Albert Evans was such an observant bugger.

  O’Reilly picked out Angie’s assistant manager the moment he walked into Peaches. He was wearing the aforementioned olive drab trench coat and carrying a black umbrella with a duck’s head grip, his hair amazingly in place despite the downpour. His eyes jumped around the room until they found O’Reilly in the corner booth. He hung up the raincoat and deposited the umbrella in a brass holder at the door before making his way across the busy room.

  ‘I’m Albert Evans.’

  ‘Have a seat,’ O’Reilly half offered, half commanded. Evans slid obediently into the booth and sat there looking trapped. ‘I understand you saw Angie Wozniak right before she was murdered.’

  Albert’s eyes came to rest on his manicured hands. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, not daring to look up. ‘I know I should have contacted you. Especially since I cared so much about Angie. She was more than my boss, she was a true friend and an angel. And she had such wonderful taste. We miss her so much at the store.’ He picked up a spoon and started fidgeting with it. ‘I suppose that’s not what you want to hear about.’

  O’Reilly raised a crooked eyebrow and stared wordlessly.

  Albert put the spoon down and looked up uneasily. ‘The night she was killed, Angie came into The Zone late, about an hour before closing. It was obvious she was really messed up. I was with a group of friends, so I ignored her. I mean, I loved her like a sister, but she could be a nasty little bitch when she was drunk. I didn’t feel like dealing with her.

  ‘She had a drink at the bar. Then on her way out, she stopped to talk to someone, a big good-looking guy who was sitting alone. I remember him because I noticed him when he came in. He looked pretty agitated after she talked to him. He left a while later.’

  ‘Why didn’t you report this before?’

  Albert shrugged stupidly and picked up the spoon again. ‘Look,’ said O’Reilly in no uncertain terms, ‘if you’re worried about getting your buddy Lyle in trouble, get over it. I’ve already talked with him and if he lands in the shit it won’t be because of me.’

  ‘You know about Lyle?’ Evans was visibly shocked.

  ‘You think we sit around doing nothing? Damn straight we know about Lyle. Now tell me everything about the man you saw Angie talking to.’

  Relieved to have the onus of betrayal lifted, Albert opened up. ‘Well, I’d say he was late thirties, big, dark and really hunky. He had curly hair.’

  ‘Was he wearing glasses?’

  ‘Definitely not. My taste doesn’t run to men in glasses.’

  ‘Could you identify him if you saw a picture?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Albert gushed, eager to be helpful now that he had been exonerated.

  O’Reilly laid a picture of Harvey Wozniak on the table. ‘Is this the man you saw in The Zone?’

  Albert shook his head. ‘No way. That’s Harvey, Angie’s ex. Besides, I said he was hunky.’

  O’Reilly laid another photo beside Harvey’s. Albert’s pale eyes grew wide and his guilt grew deeper. ‘My God, this is incredible. That’s him. That’s the guy Angie was talking to. The picture doesn’t do him justice, though. Who is it?’

  ‘Never mind,’ said O’Reilly, picking up the photo of Michael Niebaum he had gotten from the DMV. ‘You would be willing to identify this man in a lineup, yes?’ he asked.

  ‘If it helps find who killed Angie, I sure would,’ said Albert.

  Kozlowski was sitting at his desk, trying to negotiate coffee from a Styrofoam cup into his mouth after five shots of Novocain. His toothache had kept him up all night, and he had no one to blame for it but himself. His wife had been nagging him forever to go the dentist and he’d ignored her. Luckily, she wasn’t the sort of wife to give him I told you sos, although after all the pain he’d su
ffered, he was going to listen to her from now on. He never thought he’d be so glad to see a big needle. After his dentist numbed him up, he had drilled for so long, Kozlowski was surprised he hadn’t struck oil.

  He took another stab at the coffee, but with his mouth so numb, the coffee spilled straight down the front of his shirt. He threw the cup into the trash and looked up to see O’Reilly entering the room, his face glowing the usual red. Koz wondered if he’d already stopped for a drink. Sometimes he reeked so badly of the previous night’s booze, the smell oozed from his pores. On those days, Kozlowski rode with the window down. He couldn’t understand how anyone could poison himself the way his partner did. Himself, he wasn’t much for the stuff; maybe an occasional beer, but that was about it.

  Thank God, the man didn’t smoke. That would have been intolerable.

  ‘We got a positive ID on Michael Niebaum talking to Angie in The Zone,’ O’Reilly said triumphantly, tossing the DMV photo onto his desk.

  ‘Thaths great, thoud we move on him?’

  ‘What the hell’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Novocain.’

  O’Reilly nodded in momentary sympathy. ‘No. I don’t see Michael Niebaum as a flight risk. Not yet anyway. And we still need to run out that New Hampshire ground ball.’

  ‘So what now?’

  ‘Let’s go visit the bride,’ said O’Reilly.

  THIRTY-TWO

  5 Days Until

  I was blissfully absorbed in last month’s sales figures and next month’s quotas, happy to be doing anything other than face my wretched life, when the buzz of the intercom jolted me back to reality. Sandi Lane’s voice did little to disguise her morbid curiosity. ‘There are two gentlemen in the lobby who would like to see you. A Detective O’Reilly and a Detective Kozlowski.’