“Pretty dumb slip-up for an old pro, though, wasn’t it?” He grimaced. “But you want to hear what was even dumber? When you didn’t mention anything, I figured you hadn’t picked up on it. Hey, by the next day I actually decided I was home free.”
“Not that I’ve got the swiftest brain in the world, Lou, but I think there’s at least a chance that if it had come from anyone but you, a goof like that would have registered before this. But let’s return to my hit-and-run.”
At this, Lou went back to staring down at his hands. And when he looked up, I was stunned to discover that his eyes were moist. “I want you to believe something, Dez. We haven’t known each other very long, but we’ve spent a lot of time together these—what is it, two weeks? Three? Anyway, while initially things weren’t too great between us, I really got to like you. Under other circumstances, I think we could have been very good friends. I—”
“Those warm feelings of yours didn’t discourage you from trying to murder me, though,” I observed acidly.
“I felt that I had no choice, that I had to get you to leave it alone. And I’d already tried everything I could think of.” He put his head in his hands, and the next word was so muffled I could barely make it out. “Everything.”
It was a couple of seconds before I caught on to his meaning. “Mickey.” I gasped in horror.
“Yes,” Lou murmured, regarding me somberly. “I didn’t seem to be having any success with the mob angle, but I figured if I could offer you some kind of proof that the organization was involved . . .” He hunched his shoulders.
“And Mickey’s death was the proof.” The calm with which I said this contradicted the revulsion I was feeling. “He never called you at all, did he?”
“No. I called him.”
“To kill him.”
“To kill him,” Lou echoed. “It seemed to me this was the one way to convince you that Frank’s death had nothing to do with Sheila.”
“But you were so fond of Mickey.”
“That’s what I wanted you to think. The fact is, Michael Polansky was a slimy little weasel who’d have sold his soul for a quarter—if there’d been any takers. Still, my actually resorting to . . . to—” He broke off. I had rarely seen anyone look quite as wretched as Lou did just then.
“So you just ran the man down,” I stated icily, refusing to make things any easier for him.
Lou nodded. “But anyhow, right after I . . . only a couple of days after the Mickey thing, Eric Raphael turns up. And you were hell-bent on investigating Sheila again. And then when you threatened her with all that, well, venom about obtaining the evidence that she’d been seeing someone, I realized I’d whacked Mickey for nothing. That you’d just sniff away until you found out the truth. Even then, though I took another stab at things, trying to convince you to ease up on her, to keep an open mind.”
“You’re talking about on Thursday, at dinner?”
“That’s right. I had to make one last attempt. It didn’t do any good, of course. Just as I knew it wouldn’t.” He looked at me almost pleadingly. “So then I decided there was only one way to stop you, Dez.” His voice dropped to a near whisper. “Forgive me.”
I stared at Lou as though he were a stranger, this man who only yesterday was so dear to me. “Forgive you? You tried to murder me!”
“I didn’t actually do it, though, did I?” he pointed out quietly.
“But not because of a lack of desire.”
“Look, right before I hit you, I yanked the wheel around. It was too late to avoid you entirely—and you’ll never know how much I regret the leg—but at least you’re alive.” And now he muttered thickly, “Thank God for that.”
“Amen,” I said sarcastically. “But how could you even consider killing three people in cold blood like that? Does Sheila Vincent mean that much to you, for Christ’s sake?”
“She means everything to me. I know you’ll never understand this and that I’m going to sound ridiculous—like a lovesick teenager—but I care for this woman in a way I myself can’t quite believe. I’ve never been a romantic guy. Or, for that matter, an emotional one. I was very fond of Lois—my wife—but it wasn’t a grand, all-consuming passion or anything. I never even thought I was the type for something like that. Then one day a couple of months ago I walked into a supermarket for some Cheerios. And, well, after that nothing was the same.”
“You first met Sheila Vincent at the supermarket.”
“Yeah, we started talking about breakfast cereals, and a couple of minutes later I asked her if she wanted to get some coffee—it just kind of popped out. I was surprised when she said okay.”
“So you and Sheila got cozy,” I summarized in a tremulous voice, “and then, to cement the relationship, you knocked off her husband.”
“Christ, Dez. It wasn’t like that.”
“Fine. You tell me. What was it like?”
“Vincent was a pig. A real low-life bastard. He used to beat the hell out of Sheila. At the drop of a hat he’d blacken her eye or punch her in the stomach or split open her lip—God, you should have seen some of the bruises she had. And the thing is, she was afraid to divorce him. You’re not aware of this, but Vito da Silva threatened her with dire consequences if she left Frank before his next run for office. And Sheila was sure that da Silva meant it. That was the real reason she didn’t get out of that house. Not because of da Silva’s promise to fund her company.”
“But, of course she couldn’t admit that. So being the extremely clever lady that she is, she twisted the facts a little to make me think it was important to her financially for Frank to stay alive. Which, apparently, it wasn’t.”
“Listen, can you blame her? Who wants to be suspected of murder? At any rate, it was obvious to me that it would have been crazy for Sheila to remain with Vincent for two more years. Two years! Forget da Silva’s assurances about Vincent’s behaving himself. The bastard regresses just once, and she could end up dead.”
“Ahh. So you two acted in self-defense. Is that it?”
“ ‘You two’? Now, wait a second. Sheila didn’t have anything to do with this. She had no idea what I planned to do.”
“We both know that’s a God-damn lie.”
“You’ve got this . . . this thing about Sheila that won’t let you see the truth. Look, I admit I killed Vincent. But it was just me. All by myself.”
“You realize I have to turn you in, don’t you? Unless you intend to take another crack at me here.”
Lou shook his head. “I couldn’t do it. Any more than I could pull it off the first time. Besides, I’ve done a lot of thinking these past few days. The problem was that once you got involved in this case, I began to worry that everything would start closing in on me.” The corners of Lou’s mouth turned up for an instant. “I suppose that’s what happens with a guilty conscience. You were just so . . . so determined, though. And then on Wednesday—I don’t know—it all started to come to a head, and, well, I panicked.” Another fleeting smile. “Hey, I even broke out in a rash.
“But anyhow, as I said, I did some thinking. And I finally got it through my thick skull that you didn’t actually have a thing to tie me to either of those homicides. And that even if you should find proof that Sheila and I were seeing each other—which apparently you managed to do this morning—so what? It wouldn’t necessarily follow that I was the one who shot her husband. And it would hardly implicate Sheila, especially since she wasn’t even in the country when Frank bought it. Actually, the worst that could happen is that it would come out I’d been concealing my relationship with a suspect—a so-called suspect—and I’d be brought up on charges. Maybe get kicked off the force. But while losing my job isn’t something I’m looking forward to, it’s a possibility I was able to come to grips with. You see, as much as I love my work, it’s not the biggest part of my life. Not anymore.
“As far as your turning me in for murder, though?” And here a slightly mischievous, almost boyish expression crossed Lou’s fac
e. “It goes without saying, of course, that I’ll deny we ever had this conversation.”
My head was spinning. And for a few moments I couldn’t seem to locate my voice. Then at last I made a promise. “But now that I know, Lou, I’ll get the evidence I need to nail you for murder.” And locking his eyes with my own: “I swear I will.”
Three or four minutes after this I was ushering Lou out. He paused on the threshold, attempting a grin. “Hey,” he said, “just for the record, I won’t hold it against you if you break that promise of yours.”
And he closed the door behind him.
Chapter 52
Life, I decided, was shit.
Imagine. Here I’d been entertaining all these hopeful, romantic thoughts about the man, only to come face-to-face with what my dream guy really was. A besotted, love-struck jerk who, three weeks ago, had morphed into a deadly killer.
You sure can pick ’em, lady.
I hobbled back to the sofa and sat down heavily. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t seem to muster the strength. Unconsciously, I bit my lip. Hard. I stopped when I tasted the blood. And then I slid my hand under the seat cushion and withdrew my .32. Thank God Lou hadn’t given me cause to reach for it!
A few minutes later I picked up the phone.
Chief Hicks wasn’t any too eager to pay a call on me that evening. “My wife’s expecting me home for dinner.”
“This is urgent.”
Obviously he didn’t give me credit for knowing the meaning of that word. “Suppose I drive out to see you in the morning?”
“Suit yourself, but I thought you might be anxious to find out who killed Frank Vincent.”
“All right, Miss Shapiro. I’ll see you in a little while.”
Miss Shapiro. I slammed down the phone. And I’m coming along just fine. Thank you so much for asking.
The chief made it to my place in a remarkable forty-five minutes. He took the chair that Lou had so recently occupied and looked at me expectantly.
Thinking of all the attitude I’d endured from this character these past few weeks, I wondered if I was letting myself in for more of the same. Or could it be that I would finally meet up with the fair-minded human being Lou had insisted was hiding in there someplace? Well, I’d already decided to take my chances with the man, so keeping my fingers crossed, I laid it on him.
“Lou shot Frank Vincent,” I said straight out. I really didn’t know how else to say it.
“Lou?”
“Lou Hoffman.”
“Is this a joke?” he demanded, glowering at me.
“I never joke about murder.”
“Then, Miss Shapiro, you’re just plain out of your fuckin’ mind.”
“Don’t you think you should at least hear me out?” I retorted, my voice quivering.
“All right,” Hicks conceded with obvious reluctance. “I’m listening.”
He sat there in stony silence as I went into the whole story about Lou and the Vincent/Maltese photograph. When I was through, he regarded me as though I were missing the majority of my marbles. “You’re talking about one of the finest, most honest cops I know. There is, I’m certain, a ridiculously simple explanation for what you just told me. Do you want my opinion? Lou happened to make a lucky guess.”
“I wish that were the case, but the fact is, this afternoon, right here in this room, Lou admitted to me that he was the shooter.”
It was obvious that Hicks was taken aback. But, recovering almost at once, he eyed me skeptically. There was a touch of sarcasm in his voice when he asked, “And did he also tell you the reason he wanted Vincent dead?”
“The widow. Lou’s in love—no, obsessed—with Sheila Vincent.”
“I am now absolutely sure that you’re totally off base. Lou was pulling your leg. He had to be. I’ve known him for more than twenty years, and he’s never let his zipper rule his head. Believe me, Lou Hoffman isn’t the type to go off the deep end over a woman.”
“Don’t you understand? That’s exactly why the thing with Sheila hit him so hard. He was never really in love with anyone before, not even his wife. And it wouldn’t surprise me if all his life he’d been waiting to feel that passionately about a woman—probably without even realizing it. The trouble was, though, that his beloved had a husband who smacked her around and—worse yet—she was terrified of leaving him.” Very briefly now, I disclosed Vito da Silva’s threat. “So anyway,” I concluded wryly, “Lou saw only one way to deal with the problem: Shoot it.”
“Lou volunteered to you how he felt about Mrs. Vincent?” Hicks snapped his fingers. “Just like that?”
“No, of course not. It wasn’t until after I confronted him with what I’d discovered.”
“This being—?”
“I returned to the Breeze Inn this morning. I showed the manager Lou’s photograph, and he recalled his being at the motel on a number of occasions.”
“Nobody there was able to identify Mrs. Vincent, however,” I was reminded.
“Not that first time. But that’s because when she went to the motel she was wearing her hair the way she does now—which is different than in the photo I’ve been carrying around. Today, though, the manager talked about Lou’s being with a woman who fit Sheila Vincent’s description to a ‘T.’ He even mentioned her chignon. Uh, that’s a—”
“I have a wife and four daughters,” Hicks informed me testily. “I know what a chignon is. But tell me, was the man finally able to make a positive identification?”
“Well, it wasn’t what you could call positive, but I had that same picture with me, and, naturally, the hair still threw him off a little. Even so, he’s pretty sure at this point that she was the woman with Lou. And I promised to bring him a better photograph to confirm it.”
“Look, you haven’t convinced me that those two have been having an affair—you couldn’t even get a positive ID on Mrs. Vincent, for Christ’s sake. But if they are messing around, then Lou’s in trouble. Only it’s for investigating this homicide without bothering to mention his relationship with the widow of the deceased. Now, I consider that a serious matter, but it certainly doesn’t make Lou Hoffman a killer. Just a damn fool.
“But let me get this straight. Are you claiming that Lou was acting on his own, or is the widow also supposed to have been involved in her husband’s murder?”
“Oh, she was in on it, all right. Up to her armpits. Notwithstanding the fact that Lou denies she had any knowledge of what he was going to do.”
“Listen,” Hicks said, “I understand that this Mrs. Vincent is a very striking lady. And classy. And as fond as I am of him, Lou’s never been the type of man that women toss their panties at. So I’m having a slight problem accepting that Sheila Vincent would have gone for him in the first place.”
“I’m not convinced that she did. From what I know of Sheila, I’d say she had no intention of living on a cop’s salary for the rest of her life. Her long-term goal, I’m certain, was to latch onto a man who’d be in a position to finance her business interests. Or, at the very least, would be able to keep caviar on the table and a couple of Porsches in the garage. The way I see it is that in the meantime, though, she had this pressing need for someone to rid her of her husband. And who had a better chance of getting away with it than a smart cop—a lieutenant, yet—with a nice, clean record?” I didn’t feel it germane, so I didn’t throw in that Lou also wasn’t a screamingly inappropriate bedmate, which couldn’t be said about the majority of men with whom Sheila came in contact.
Hicks was shaking his head as if to clear it. “I feel like I’m fucking losing my mind,” he growled. “This can’t be happening.” And then after scratching his almost-bald pate and rubbing his chin for a couple of seconds, he offered hopefully, “I still say Lou was putting you on.”
I dug in my heels. “You’re wrong.”
“You’re that sure, are you, Miss Shapiro? Well, why don’t I find out what Lou has to say to all of this? I’ll stop by his place on my way home toni
ght.” He began to get to his feet.
“Wait. There are other things, too.”
The chief settled back in his chair, scowling deeply. “What other things?”
“For starters, Lou was always coming up with a different theory in an effort to get me to abandon my premise that the motive for the murder had to do with Sheila’s love life. First he had the victim dealing drugs, and when I wouldn’t buy into that, he switched to the mob’s being responsible for Vincent’s death.”
“I know all of that,” Hicks snapped. “Lou believed in checking into every possibility—like any good cop.”
From his tone of voice and the way he narrowed his eyes when he looked at me, I knew what the man was implying. Nevertheless, I forbade myself from taking the remark personally. “He also killed Mickey Mouth,” I declared a bit indistinctly (because I was speaking through clenched teeth). “It was a frantic bid to draw my attention away from the widow and make it appear as if Vito da Silva or one of his cronies had done the deed.”
“Do you have any proof of that?”
“Lou told me so himself.”
“He admitted this too, huh? He’s certainly one talkative murderer, isn’t he?”
“All right. Forget Mickey for now. In retrospect, I can recall a number of suspicious incidents that—never even dreaming Lou could be the perpetrator—I completely ignored at the time.”
“Such as?”
“There’s the fact that when we drove out to the Breeze Inn together that day, Lou didn’t come with me to talk to the employees. Instead, he went across the road to Burger King to pick up some lunch for us.”
“Maybe he was hungry.”
“Oh, please. That wasn’t like Lou—as you must know. Based on just the couple of weeks I partnered with him, I have no doubt that under normal circumstances he would have been right there with me, asking questions. I mean, until that afternoon he was in on every interrogation. And remember, the Breeze Inn was a major lead—our first one, too. But, of course, Lou couldn’t take a chance on showing his face there.”
Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite Page 26
