by Bill Granger
She couldn’t say another word. She stood for a few minutes more, staring at the freeze-frame. She could hear the buzzing of the projector, and she could hear Terry Flynn calling someone. But they were not real sounds.
She stared at the eyes of the killer.
16
Because it was Friday night Terry Flynn and Karen Kovac had a difficult time in proceeding to the next step of their investigation.
When they called Matt Schmidt at home, there was no answer and they did not reach him until nearly midnight. By that time, of course, his wife answered the telephone and told them not to bother Matt that night because he was tired and was sleeping; she removed the plug on the telephone. This time, though, Flynn sent a squad car to the South Side to get Matt Schmidt at home and bring him down to Area One Homicide. The case was too important for sleep now.
They also had a difficult time tracking down Sid Margolies, who had gone alone to a new Chinese restaurant on Clark Street. When they reached Margolies in his house in Rogers Park on the far North Side, he said the Peking duck had not been up to his expectations or to the rave reviews he had read in Chicago Magazine.
They had finally managed to assemble the team by one A.M. Of course, they had been busy with other business as well.
Karen Kovac had called on Maxwell Hampstead, Bonni Brighton’s agent, at the Continental Plaza Hotel, where he was spending the night before returning to New York.
He was not in his room but at the bar off the lobby, and he was very drunk when she found him. She agreed to sit with him for one drink while she asked him questions about Bonni Brighton’s family.
“She was born in Cleveland, you know,” said the agent. “Poor kid. What a way to end up. Did you see her in the theater? Dead?”
“Yes,” said Karen Kovac. She was drinking a glass of white wine. It was clear from the bar bill in front of Maxwell Hampstead’s glass that he had consumed at least ten martinis.
“You know, with the buildup she was getting, she would have been a big star. You know? A big star.”
Karen nodded. “Do you know anything about her father? Or brother? Did she have any brothers?”
“Yeah. There was one. A guy named Bruno or something. Some name like that. A real family of Krauts.” He took a large gulp of his drink. “You’d never know it, but even Bonni has a little accent. I think she spoke German at home until she went to school.”
“She was born in Germany?”
“No, she was born here. But you know what some of these immigrant families are like.”
Karen Kovac nodded. She knew.
“It was all going to be in the autobiography.”
“She was writing a book?”
“Who? Bonni? Are you kidding? She was a sweet kid but writer she wasn’t. A good actress but not a writer.” He circled his finger at the bartender who brought him another martini. “Silver bullet time,” he said and sipped the drink.
“Do you have the book?” asked Karen.
“No. N’York.”
“In New York?”
“Yes.”
“Does her family live in Cleveland?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know where they live.”
“What was her real name? Was it Brighton?”
“Hell, no. You ever meet anyone named Brighton?”
Karen Kovac waited. Maxwell turned in his chair and looked at her. “You’re a good-looking girl, you know that?”
She stared at him.
“Well, you are. Even if you’re a cop. Why would you want to be a cop anyway? Lady cops should have muscles and tattoos.”
“What was her real name?”
“Who?”
“Bonni Brighton.”
“Look, Bonni Brighton is a thing of the past. I hate to say it because I liked her but she is. A thing of the past. Listen, would you like some dinner?”
“No,” said Karen Kovac. “I’m here strictly for a murder investigation.”
“Okay, okay. You’re pulling the Joe Friday stuff, right? Listen, it’s okay. God, you’ve got nice legs.”
In fact, Karen Kovac did not care for the shape of her legs. She thought they were too thick. She didn’t know what to say now. This was the sort of thing that made her work difficult.
“What was Bonni Brighton’s name?”
“If I tell you, will you have a little dinner with me?”
“No, Mr. Hampstead.” She stood up. “Do you want to be interviewed here, now, or do you want to come with me to Area One Homicide and be interviewed?”
“What? Are you arresting me?” He started to laugh.
“It’s up to you.”
“What? Are you going to put me in handcuffs?” It was too funny.
Karen Kovac realized she was very angry. She said, “No. I’m going to call for assistance. And two uniformed men will be here in three minutes. They’ll put you in handcuffs and throw you into the back of the squad car and they’ll take you downtown. Since you are obviously very drunk, we shall have to wait until the morning to question you. There will be a small charge. Disorderly conduct, I think. And in the morning when you are sober, you will go before the judge and he will fine you twenty-five dollars and sentence you to time served in jail. All because you will not tell me Bonni Brighton’s name.”
Maxwell Hampstead said, “Sit down. Her name was Mathilde.”
She took out a pen and began to write the name down in a little notebook.
“Mathilde Bremenhoffer.” He spelled it slowly.
“Is her mother or father alive?”
“I don’t know. It’s in the book.”
“Haven’t you seen the book?”
“Look, I’m an agent. I don’t have to read what I peddle.”
“What is her father’s name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know what he does for a living?”
“No. Wait. Yes. He was a printer. That’s what Bonni told me. When we were talking about the book. She said her father might have to print the book and wouldn’t that be funny. You’re a very tough broad, you know that?”
She ignored him. “And what was her mother’s name?”
“I don’t remember. They were just names. I never met them. She called Bruno once or twice, I remember. Maybe he lives in LA. Yeah. It seems that she called area two-one-three, that’s LA. He must live out there.”
“How can we see the book? To get the names you can’t remember?”
“You have to get hold of Bonni’s editor.”
“But didn’t you have a copy of the manuscript?”
“Not really.”
“Who was the ghost writer?”
“Dolores Riddell.”
She wrote down the name as he spelled it. “Where does she live?”
“Where else?”
“In New York.”
“Of course.”
“Do you represent her, as well?”
“No,” said Maxwell Hampstead.
“How can we obtain the manuscript?”
“Well, maybe you can’t,” said Maxwell Hampstead. “What do I get out of it?”
She merely stared at him without expression. Her face was very pale and her eyes seemed a glowing sort of blue. He didn’t realize she was furious.
“Come on,” said Maxwell.
“Mr. Hampstead, this is a murder investigation. You have important information to contribute to the solution of the crime. If you withhold that information, you are obstructing the investigation of a crime. You are guilty, then, of a crime yourself. You’re under arrest.”
“Don’t come on tough with me, honey—”
She turned and left the book-lined bar. He watched her leave, waited, shrugged, and sat down again.
She telephone Terry Flynn at Area One and told him what had happened.
“Pinch him,” said Terry Flynn. “I’ll call East Chicago and get a couple of nonmorons over there. Just wait for them.”
“I should handle it myself,” she said.
“Fuck no,
” said Terry Flynn. “We just want to shake him up anyway. We’ll give him a ride in the nice blue-and-white car with the sirens and all and when he gets down to the area, he’ll be shitting in his pants.”
She smiled. “You put it so well.”
“I’ve got an ear for dialogue,” he said. “That’s literary talk.”
Four minutes later two beefy uniformed men from the East Chicago Avenue district station walked into the lobby of the Continental Plaza Hotel. Karen Kovac pointed out Maxwell Hampstead in the bar. They walked inside, and one man stood on each side of the barstool. The bartenders looked up and so did the customers. The place became very silent, as though the presence of the uniformed men were a rude intrusion on a polite world of alcohol and leather chairs and books along the wall. Which was the case.
“Hi,” said Maxwell Hampstead.
The first bartender came up. “Is there any trouble?”
“Not yet,” said one of the uniforms. “Mr. Hampstead? You want to come with us?”
“He’s a guest of the hotel,” said the bartender.
“And now he’s going to be a guest of the city,” said the uniform. He thought this was very funny.
“What do you men think you’re doing?” asked Maxwell Hampstead.
“Mr. Hampstead, you don’t want any trouble in here, do you? You want to come with us out in the lobby and maybe we can straighten this out?”
“Of course,” said Hampstead. “I’m from New York, you know.”
“We didn’t know,” said one of the uniforms.
They waited while he got up unsteadily and they let him lead them into the lobby. He turned in the lobby and saw Karen Kovac. “So that’s it, huh? That little cunt thinks she’s going to fuck me around? Is that it? You fucking little slut.”
“Oh, shit,” said one of the uniformed men. In a moment he grabbed Maxwell’s arm and snapped one cuff on it and then twisted the arm behind his back, forcing Maxwell to bend over. The agent made a spasmodic move of protest in that moment, but he was handcuffed in a second. Then one of the uniformed men shoved him against the lobby wall and leaned very close to his face. “You really don’t want to do that, do you, Maxwell?”
“You—”
“No, don’t speak. Not yet. Really. Believe me. Don’t say anything, all right?”
Maxwell felt the pressure of the policeman’s large hand on his chest. To those passing by, it appeared as if the policeman was merely restraining a drunk with a gentle hand; but Maxwell knew that the policeman was making it very painful for him to breathe.
Karen Kovac came up to him and said quietly. “We really don’t want to arrest you. Just call Dolores Riddell in New York, now, and tell her to give us the names of Bonni Brighton’s family.”
“This pig is hurting my chest,” he gasped.
“Yes,” she said. “I know.”
“You people are really fascist goons; ever since—”
“No,” whispered the uniformed man. “We really aren’t. And you don’t want to talk now.”
“I’ll tell you. But when I get out of here, out of this fascist town, I’m going—”
“Do you want to call from your room?”
“No, I don’t. You’ll probably use rubber hoses on me up there.”
Karen nodded to the uniformed man and they led Maxwell to the telephone alcove off the lobby. A small crowd had gathered around the policemen. They watched Maxwell being led off.
“Nothing,” said Karen Kovac. “Just a drunk.” They nodded and some of them gaped at her. She went and joined Maxwell and the policemen at the telephone.
Dolores Riddell was asleep when Maxwell Hampstead finally got through to her, but she was not uncooperative when the agent handed the telephone to Karen Kovac.
“The name of the family is Bremenhoffer,” she said.
Karen said, “What about the mother and father? And brother?”
There was a pause for several minutes as Dolores Riddell found the appropriate place in the manuscript. “The name of the father is Frank. Frank Bremenhoffer. He was a refugee from Germany at the beginning of World War II. He had a brother who stayed in Germany and was in the underground but was caught. The brother was shot to death in 1943.”
“And Frank Bremenhoffer?”
“He worked for the Allies in England during the war. After the war he returned to his native town, Zehdenick, that’s in East Germany, just north of Berlin. He stayed there two years and then, in 1948, he left East Germany and immigrated to the United States. He arrived in Cleveland in 1949. That’s where Bonni was born.”
“And the mother’s name?”
“Ulla.”
“Brothers and sisters?”
“We didn’t put it in the book but there’s a brother, Bruno, who lives in Van Nuys in California. I think he’s a production engineer or something for a plastics firm. Very dull. She called him often. She liked him. It’s a shame. Just a shame. She was a porn actress and all and there wasn’t much she hadn’t done but she was okay. Really a sweet kid.”
“And what about lovers? Any lovers?”
Dolores Riddell laughed at the other end of the line. “Sure. Plenty. She was a good-looking girl and she really had an appetite. You understand?”
“Yes,” said Karen Kovac. “Was there someone now?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t seem to have steadies or whatever they call them now. God, that ages me.”
“Do you know where the family lives?”
“Her parents? I suppose they live in Cleveland. I don’t know, Bonni didn’t really say. She was reluctant to say anything about the family.”
“Her father was a printer?”
“Yes. She did say that.”
“Well,” said Karen Kovac. “Thank you, Miss Riddell. I appreciate your trouble, waking you up and all. I appreciate Maxwell calling you.”
“Any time, Mrs. Kovac. Any time. I want you to find out who did that to Bonni. What a sweet kid, it just kills me to think about it.”
“And now there won’t be a book,” said Karen Kovac.
“Oh? I don’t care. But I doubt if my publisher will let a little thing like a murder stand in the way.”
They broke the connection.
Karen Kovac looked at Maxwell. She was calm again. “Thank you, Mr. Hampstead.”
The two uniformed men understood and they suddenly let him go. Maxwell almost fell and then caught himself. He mumbled something, but they could not understand it.
“Thank you,” Karen said to the two uniformed men.
“Sure,” they said. “You working homicide?” one asked her. “I didn’t know they had any women in homicide.”
“Just on this case,” she said. “I came in as a decoy. On the park murders.”
“Oh. Then this is part of it?”
“Yes,” she said. “We think so.”
“Sarge says Terry Flynn called and asked us to help. We know Terry. How is that Irish bastard?”
“Fine,” she said.
“Terry and I were on the South Side together. And Johnny here went to school with him.”
The one named Johnny smiled.
Karen said, “What was he like then?”
“Just as crazy but not as fat,” said Johnny. “Sort of a little kid’s idea of Robin Hood.”
The other man chuckled. “Now he’s a fat man’s idea of Robin Hood.”
She smiled and left them.
It was nearly one A.M. when they all assembled again at Area One Homicide.
Matt Schmidt sat back in his chair. He looked tired, and his face was the color of ashes. He coughed twice, experimentally, into his handkerchief and examined the sputum.
Terry Flynn did not look tired and neither did Karen Kovac. Their faces seemed flushed with excitement.
Sid Margolies stood by the filing cabinet in the back of the room and rested his arm on it.
“Well, what do we have now?”
“We got a face that looks like Bonni Brighton.” It was Flynn. “
Thanks to Karen. I wouldn’t have seen it in a million years. We’ve got a name. A guy lives in Cleveland. I called Cleveland P.D. three hours ago and they’re looking into it. There were two Bremenhoffers in the Cleveland directory, neither of them Frank.”
“I don’t understand about Cleveland,” said Sid Margolies.
“That’s where she came from,” said Flynn.
“Yeah, but what about here?”
“What do you mean?”
“People move,” said Sid Margolies. “She was killed here.”
Flynn shrugged. “I checked out the name in the telephone book.”
“Telephone books aren’t any good,” said Margolies. “Call information.”
Flynn picked up the telephone and called. He asked for the name. He waited. “Thank you.” He replaced the receiver.
Margolies looked at him.
“No such name.”
Margolies shrugged. “Maybe he doesn’t have a phone,” he said at last.
“Everyone has a phone,” said Terry Flynn. “Besides, if he doesn’t have a phone, how can we find where he lives?”
“If he’s a printer, maybe he’s a member of the printer’s union. Here or in Cleveland,” said Matt Schmidt.
“We could call her brother,” said Karen Kovac.
“Sure,” said Flynn. “I’ll do it.”
“What are we going to tell her brother?” asked Sid.
“That she’s dead,” said Karen. “And we want to notify the rest of the family. And need their address.”
But though they found Bruno Bremenhoffer’s name in the Van Nuys area, there was no answer at his telephone.
“What time is it in California?” asked Flynn.
“A little after eleven,” said Sid Margolies. “That’s early. People in California never go to bed.”
“I was in bed,” said Matt Schmidt. “And then all of a sudden there’s two gorillas from tactical at my door, pounding away at it, and my wife was yelling—”
“I wanted to get your attention,” said Flynn. He felt very good, better than he had in a long time. He wondered if his good feeling was all related to the developments on the case.
“You got it then,” said Matt Schmidt. “Can we get coffee?”
“I’ll pop,” said Terry Flynn. “What have we got? Cream, cream, black, black?”
“Make mine black too. They’re using that nondairy crap now. I’m allergic to it.”
