Pretty City Murder

by Robert E. Dunn

  “Why the garage, Larry? I thought we would be going to the Security office.”

  “I just want to check it out and see what we can see.”

  A porky parking associate stuffed into a white military-style uniform with gold buttons said hello. Larry saw the Rolls, which let him know that O’Hara was still on the premises.

  It was quarter to four according to his watch when they slipped into the employee hall and passed an employee coming out of the breakroom. He kept his head down. On the tan carpet outside the darkened Security office, a shiny object flashed. Thinking it was trash, he picked it up and watched if anyone else besides Hieu was around. A sharp edge made him look again.

  “What is it?”

  “Looks like a broken fingernail, Hieu.” He looked around more carefully. “I wouldn’t have seen it except for the tan carpet. I’m not sure what it means, but I better turn it into evidence.”

  “Those are acrylic nails. My wife wears some like that.

  When a Filipina came walking down the hall, Larry turned and continued to walk out in front of her. Hieu followed him to the back entrance. They exited, walked down the alleyway, and slowly rounded the corner. After passing the doorman, Larry realized that there was no doorman on duty on the night of the murder.

  “Hieu, without a doorman on duty, it would be easy for anyone to enter and find Cornelius’ apartment.”

  “Do you think he knew the person and let him in?”

  “I do.”

  “Did you see Larissa Rey?”

  “Was that who we saw?” Larry asked.

  “It sure was.”

  “I wonder if it was her fingernail.”

  “Are we going to talk to O’Hara again?”

  “No. We won’t get much more out of him...for now.”

  •••

  Larry dropped Hieu off at home and returned to his office. He sent an e-mail informing Captain Dempsey, Inspector Varton, and the rest of the team of the gift from O’Hara. He passed Varton’s office, caught sight of Pepper sitting there, and stopped long enough to hear Varton ask if she knew about the missing $500.

  She’s been called back, and I wasn’t invited.

  “No. I didn’t count the money. I picked up the stacks of money and threw them into my purse.”

  Larry stuck his head in, cleared his throat, and was delighted to see the furrow between Varton’s eyebrows deepen.

  “May I come in?” Larry smiled at Pepper, walked through the door, and shut it firmly.

  “Well, you’re already in. Take a seat, Leahy.”

  Pepper’s shoulders relaxed. Her face was as flushed as a purple rose.

  “I repeat. What do you know about the missing $500?”

  “I just took everything there. I’ve been rehired, and I need to get to work. May I go?”

  Pepper lifted herself up, tugged on her white blouse, and smoothed the black skirt.

  “All right, Chase, you can go.”

  Pepper hurried out the door.

  “You have something on your mind, Larry?”

  “I sent you an e-mail about O’Hara. He gave me a gift.”

  “I read it. Keep the gift but don’t use it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t see a problem, for now, but he’s your personal friend, and you wouldn’t want a little gift to jeopardize your career.”

  Larry returned to his office and decided to call the elusive Gerald Smith.

  Varton and Dempsey are splashing about like trained seals.

  He sat back.

  Only I can get this case moving. I know people.

  “Mr. Gerald Smith, this is Inspector Leahy, SFPD. How are you?”

  “Fine.”

  “Mr. Smith, I’d like to ask you some questions in connection with the recent death of Cornelius MacKenzie. I understand you were a friend of his?”

  “Yeah. Am I in some sort of trouble?”

  “No. I’d like to see you and talk.”

  “I got home from Topaz Lake an hour ago, and I’m tired.”

  Larry looked at his cell phone: 4:32 p.m.

  Hieu and I just saw him and hour ago. Is he telling the truth?

  “Where do you live?”

  “220 Ellis Street, apartment 202.”

  “All right. I’ll be there...in thirty minutes. Don’t go anywhere.”

  •••

  At five minutes past five, Larry found himself in a dingy apartment building’s dingy, empty lobby. He listened at the door of Smith’s apartment and could hear the television and whistling. He knocked loudly, and the whistling stopped.

  Smith opened the door.

  Tall drink of water.

  Larry estimated that he was six feet tall, 190 lbs.

  “I’m Inspector Leahy. May I come in?”

  Smith sported a gray sweat shirt, gray sweat pants, and white socks. Larry had a peachy view of the studio when Smith turned and headed for an open box of Cheerios on a small, metal kitchen table. A cereal bowl sat on the floor in front of the television, and an open tackle box lay next to a fishing pole whose tip touched cracked molding.

  “Yeah, come on in.”

  Larry saw long dirty-blond hair pulled back.

  Probably played basketball.

  Smith turned around.

  He needs an operation for that kinked nose.

  Larry saw the scar above his upper lip.

  He’s a man who talks with his fists.

  “Where are you from, Mr. Smith?”

  “Waco. What’s this all about?”

  “May I sit down?”

  Smith pushed a kitchen chair toward Larry.

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-five.”

  “Do you have children?”

  Larry sat down in the chair, a few feet from Smith, and looked up at him.

  “What? Why are you asking me personal questions? I thought this was about Mr. MacKenzie,” he said from the sofa in a slow drawl.

  He reached down and lifted the cereal bowl. The fishing pole rested upright against the sofa.

  A single, neatly made bed lay against the wall with the only window, which was covered by a white sheet. Behind Larry was a partially open closet door. Larry got up and looked inside. The closet was sparse but in order. A mirror on the inside of the door made him jump.

  No, that’s just me – just a reflection.

  He walked to the window and slowly pulled the white sheet back. He could feel Smith staring, swung around, and said, “I have a son, about your age. I think he wishes he had brothers or sisters. Do you?”

  “Yeah. I have two brothers and two sisters. I’m the oldest.”

  Smith lifted a spoonful of Cheerios. “Oh, sorry, would you like something to eat?”

  “No thanks. May I call you Gerald?”

  Smith rubbed his chin and said. “Yeah, sure.”

  Larry watched him finish eating his cereal. Smith’s elbow left the dingy brown couch, and he put the bowl in the sink. The studio smelled moldy and needed paint.

  “Gerald. I’m told you were fired by the Greenwich. Can you explain why?”

  Gerald dropped into the sofa, leaned forward, and picked up a fly. At the end of the curved hook dangled a shiny face with blue and red fringe, a transparent tail, and wings springing out from a light brown body with evenly spaced gold threads.

  Larry sat down and was annoyed by television static. “Can you turn off the TV?”

  Gerald looked for a remote control to lower the sound.

  “Yeah, so what? O’Hara fired me a few days ago. I don’t have to tell you why.” He started tying the fly and said, “This is a crystal dip midge. You see the tail and wings. That’s aurora borealis.” His face seemed to brighten.

  The scar might be from a brawl.

  “Are you drinking again?”

  “Whatta ya mean?” Larry watched Smith’s eyes scan one side of the fly, which gave Larry a reason to stand by the fly tying box.

  “This is beautiful
work. How long have you been tying flies?”

  He could tie a fly with the D.T.’s.

  Gerald looked up and said, “I started when I was a kid. I used to fish at Lake Waco.”

  “Did your dad teach you?”

  He glanced up at Larry, then down at his fly. “No, he didn’t teach me nothing.”

  We have something in common, Gerald, maybe, the only thing.

  “I understand. Did you ever buy alcohol from the Greenwich bar?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I thought you were investigating Cornelius’ murder.”

  “Is it a murder?”

  Larry felt a sweat bead trickle from his arm pit.

  Gerald got up and grabbed a toothpick from the kitchen, then sat down and began picking his teeth. The remote dropped on the sofa after he turned off static as loud as Niagara Falls.

  “You know what I’m talking about, Mr. Smith.”

  He tucked the toothpick behind his ear, sucked in deeply, took up his fly, and said, “No, I don’t know what you mean. Cornelius let me use his vacation house, and he helped me once. He brought me to AA and the Gambler’s group. Look around. There ain’t a bottle in sight.”

  “Did Mr. MacKenzie ever loan you money?”

  After waiting for an answer that was late in coming, Larry repeated, “Did you get a loan?”

  “Yeah.”

  There it is.

  “When did you get a loan?”

  “A week ago.”

  Gerald looked to his right. A book stuffed in between the cushions of the brown couch fell onto the floor. Gerald dropped the fly, quickly grabbed the book, and shoved it back between the cushions.

  “What are you reading?”

  “Novel I picked up at the Main Library.” He pulled it out and said, “See.”

  Larry saw the pink jacket cover and picture of a muscular man and buxom woman seated on a rock. “I think you visited Mr. MacKenzie the night he died and came asking for money. I think he said no, you got angry, and killed him. Isn’t that right? Isn’t it?”

  Larry’s heartbeats shifted to his mouth.

  “Yes, no, I mean I went there to borrow a little extra to pay rent. Is that a crime? O’Hara fired me couple days before Cornelius was killed. O’Hara is a big, important man and a louse. You need to talk to him.” Gerald’s weight pressed the book out from between the cushions. He pushed it back in.

  “Why were you fired?”

  “Late to work.” Gerald kept working on the fly without looking up.

  “Were you fired for buying a bottle from the bar?”

  “Who said that?”

  “Not important. Do you own a car?”

  “No.”

  “How do you get to Mr. MacKenzie’s cabin?”

  “I rent a car.”

  He’s lying.

  “Did Mr. Mackenzie know you got fired?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you going to talk to him about that?”

  “I was plannin’ on it.”

  “I think he had something to do with your being fired. He was your supervisor. Did you see him that night and kill him?”

  Gerald’s brow line rose. “No.”

  “No to which question?”

  “Both. I didn’t see him. When I knocked on the door, he didn’t answer. I heard someone comin’, so I ducked into the stairwell.”

  There it is.

  “Why were you hiding?”

  “I didn’t want anybody besides Pepper or Pablo, that half-Mexican, to know I was in the building.”

  “How long did you stay there, in the stairwell?”

  “Until I heard his door shut. Then I left.”

  “What time was that?”

  “I don’t know. Twelve thirty.”

  “Did anyone see you leave the building?”

  “No, I went out the back door, which is the way I come in and out, Inspector. Got the picture?” He grabbed his fishing pole with his right hand and slammed the bottom end down once on the bare floor. The book sprung out of the cushion, and he back-kicked it under the couch.

  “Except that you were fired and didn’t belong in the hotel. Did you hear a shot fired?”

  “No.”

  “Where did you go after that?”

  “Home.”

  “Does anyone else live here?”

  “No.”

  “Did anyone see you arrive?”

  “No. Are you done?” Gerald started ripping bits of the fringe from the fly. Tiny bits of a blue and red hackle dotted the floor beneath his feet, and some littered the topside of his white socks. With one foot on top of the other, he tried removing the colored bits off the socks and said, “It was late.”

  “There’s a night attendant and people going in and out of your apartment building all night and hanging out in front of the building. Your window is closed to keep the noise out. Someone saw you coming and going. Answer the question.”

  “Okay, so I stopped off at the store to buy some milk and Cheerios. Then I came home and watched TV. Is this over?”

  “You were pretty cool that night, even after you knew Mr. MacKenzie was dead.”

  “I didn’t know he was dead.”

  “Do you own a gun?”

  “No.”

  “Do you possess a gun?”

  “No.”

  “You’re from Texas. Do you own a gun?”

  “I said no. What you got against Texans?”

  “Have you ever been arrested?”

  “No.”

  “I will run a background check on you.” Larry stood up. “All right, Mr. Smith. Stay around. I may have more questions for you later.”

  Gerald dropped the fly on the sofa, got up, and spoke in a low, steady tone. “Cornelius was a gentleman and one of my best friends. He did more for me than anyone I know. I would never do him harm. That’s the truth. Whether you want to believe that or not, I don’t care.”

  “You are part of an investigation, whether you like it or not. Have a good evening.”

  He’s afraid of something or just doesn’t like the law.

  Larry waited outside the building to see if Smith would leave. Dressed in a white wind breaker over gray sweat pants and holding a small satchel, he passed through the front door. Larry followed him on foot at a distance. Gerald walked on the sides of his feet with a definite purpose. Three blocks from the apartment, Gerald got into a day rental. Larry jotted down the license plate number, wrote some notes, and after the last period asked himself, “Quo Vadis? To a connection?”

  Chapter 9

  Friday, July 5

  At half past five in the afternoon, Maureen Daley put down one of her favorite Hay Publisher’s self-help books and answered a phone call.

  “Mrs. Daley, this is Inspector Leahy. I’m working on the case surrounding the unfortunate death of Cornelius MacKenzie. I’d like to ask you some questions. Can we meet at your home tonight? Shouldn’t take more than thirty minutes.”

  “Larry, how are you?”

  “I’m doing fine. How are you, Mrs. Daley?”

  “Oh, don’t be so formal, Larry. You can call me Maureen.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll cut to the chase. You have a close relationship with James O’Hara. The untimely death of Mr. MacKenzie requires that I follow up and find out what anyone might know about what happened.”

  Not wanting to talk with Larry and trying to be considerate of James and her own needs, she decided that informality was the best way to deal with Larry. “Larry, dear, I really don’t have anything to tell you. Of course, I knew Cornelius. He was James’ employee, but James hardly ever talked about him.”

  “I see. I’d like to meet with you personally and discuss these matters. Can I visit you tonight?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m busy, Larry. Can we make it another night? I don’t have anything to do with this.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Daley, but either I see you this evening or you can c
ome into the station. It’s your choice.”

  Maureen took another sip of her early white wine and felt it go tasteless against the roof of her mouth. She let her arm slip down to her side, the receiver in her hand, then raised the receiver back up to her ear and said, “Would you mind calling me tomorrow?”

  “I’ll see you at six, Mrs. Daley.”

  A click left her staring at the phone. When it began to beep an urgent reminder to return the receiver to its cradle, she banged it down.

  Maureen was dressing in her bedroom when outside her window she could see Larry parking in the driveway, blocking the Escalade. She stepped away from the white hurricane shutters and heard his footsteps on the front stairs. The last chime of the hall clock was off-key, sounding like a clang.

  She spotted a wine glass on the entry hall bench seat and left it there. One last look in the mirror restored her composure. A sterling silver hair clip with diamond solitaire, a twenty-fifth wedding anniversary gift, pulled her hair to one side. After securing the top button of her blouse, she turned her indigo-blue, indicolite tourmaline and diamond wedding ring around several times.

  She ever-so-slightly pushed aside one of the sheers covering the right-side window panel, quickly let go, and swung open the heavy, dark-stained oak door.

  “Hello, Mrs. Daley. Thank you so much for meeting with me.”

  “Come in, Larry.” She turned left and under the frame of the living room entry turned again and said, “Remember, Larry, you can call me Maureen, and I would prefer that.”

  “Oh, yes, Maureen.” She watched him take off his black jacket.

  “Here, let me take it.” Careful not to knock over the wine glass, she hung his jacket on a peg, picked up the glass, and led the way.

  “Please have a seat on the chesterfield.”

  He’s staring at me. What is he thinking?

  “Larry, what would you like to drink?” The liquor cabinet was at the other end of the living room.

  “Just a soft drink, Maureen.”

  “Certainly.” She pulled a lemon-lime drink out of the cabinet with her right hand and with her left hand grabbed one of the cut-glass crystal cocktail glasses sitting on a mirrored silver plate.

  “Is lemon-lime okay?” She held up the can of soda.

  “Sure.”

  She opened the ice bucket and pulled out two ice cubes with silver tongs, plopped them into the glass, and poured out the lemon-lime. It splashed on the mirror, and she wiped it off with her bare hand, turned with a flourish, and looked over her nose at Larry.