Cold In The Grave_A Kilroy Mystery

by Stephen Mertz

  Lloyd Carlyle and Paul Richmond each looked profoundly surprised when Mrs. Carlyle opened up on me. They fell back, away from the gunfire.

  I had already started to drop at first sight of the weapon. I was up and proactive before she could squeeze the trigger any more, sailing into the little old lady at full tilt, yanking the pistol from her hand. It looked as out of place in her weathered fingers as a lizard on fresh linen. When I pushed back to my feet, the .32 was in my possession. It had all happened in the proverbial blink of an eye.

  Mrs. Carlyle slumped against the cushions of the couch. She appeared stunned and drained. And who could blame her? She lowered her face into her hands and began sobbing. Heavy, body-wrenching sobs that came from down deep.

  I swung the .32 on a midway point between Carlyle and Richmond, but such action proved unnecessary. Neither of them constituted an immediate threat.

  Richmond had leaped from the couch and now stood, staring blankly between me and the sobbing woman to the bullet holes in the wall to the gun I now held. His pugnacity had evaporated. That prominent jaw had dropped.

  “Geezus,” he kept mumbling, over and over.

  Lloyd Carlyle was stunned, too. But he was also a man used to taking charge. There was a moment of near silence after the shooting, except for Mrs. Carlyle's weeping and the ringing in our ears. Nothing moved in that living room except the lazy swirling haze of blue-gray smoke.

  Then Carlyle spoke in a tone of implicit command.

  “I believe it would be most prudent for you to leave now, Mr. Kilroy. The gunfire shall not go unreported by Paul's neighbors, of that I am sure.”

  “But, Lloyd,” blurted Richmond, “this man is a wanted fugitive!”

  “Which is an excellent reason not to have him apprehended here,” said Carlyle. “Not if half of what he said about you and this dead woman is true.” Those steely, commanding eyes turned to me. “I suggest, my good sir, that you employ all due haste in your departure. We shall have another opportunity for conversation, you and me. We are interested in, uh, whatever it is you have to sell. And . . . please do forgive my wife's behavior. She's been terribly high-strung of late. Pressures of the campaign, you know. I profusely apologize for what happened just now.”

  Well hell, what could I do?

  He was right about the police showing up. I couldn't have that. I wasn't leaving here with any of the answers I had come looking for, thanks to the again harmless-looking silver-haired lady who still sobbed into her hands, oblivious to all that was going on around her. But I had to stay free if I wanted to clear up this mess. That was my first priority.

  When I reached the front door, I palmed the .32's ammo clip, ejected the chambered round and dropped it all to the floor. I opened the front door and paused there with my hand on the knob, looking back at Carlyle.

  I said, “You might also ask your boy here about his tie-in with Sal Fallaci. You do know who he is, don’t you, Mr. Carlyle?” I steamed on without waiting for an answer. “Or maybe you won't have to. Just sit around and wait. I just came from having a talk with Sal. He was kind of upset. He'll be getting in touch with you boys any time now.”

  Then I closed the front door behind me and got the hell away from there.

  Or tried to.

  I had accomplished enough here anyway, at least for the time being. I had the impression that most of what I'd said about Richmond's connection to Cheryl had come as news to Lloyd Carlyle. Now I had to keep the burners on high. Keep all those people nervous and unsure and jumping until someone made a mistake that I could jump on and use to wind this thing up. Dividing the enemy was always sound strategy, if you manage it.

  No more than three or four minutes had elapsed since Mrs. Carlyle had decided to turn Paul Richmond's living room into a shooting gallery. There's beaucoup bucks residing along the Monaco strip and the police give it above average protection. At least, they were on this day. Someone must have called in to report the gunfire the instant it happened, and there had to have been a cruiser in the immediate vicinity. How else to explain the DPD car skidding to a stop at the curb in front of me even before I reached the VW in front of Richmond's house?

  Two hard-as-nails patrolmen--one white, one black—seemed to eject from the cruiser and stood suddenly poised less than ten feet from me in their best firing range stance, a pair of heavy caliber service revolvers drawing a straight, unwavering bead on you know who.

  “Freeze, right there!” ordered the white cop.

  His partner added, “Turn around very slowly and lean forward against the car with your legs spread. Do it! One wrong move, mister, and you are dead.”

  One handcuffed me while his partner trotted up the walkway to knock on Paul Richmond's front door.

  The tension in Neil Dickensheets' office was tangible. The office was grim, chilly, just like the low ceiling of clouds visible beyond the windows. It was barely 4:30 but getting dark. A storm was inevitable. It was only a matter of time. Down on Broadway, vehicles were already traveling with their lights on. People scurried to bus stops, to their cars, to home. And up here, on the fourth floor, another storm was brewing. A human storm.

  A burly police officer had ushered me in, removed my handcuffs and stationed himself with his broad back to the office door. Joe Gallegos occupied a chair against the wall, near the door, looking very unhappy with everyone and everything. The Assistant DA sat behind his desk. I stood between Joe and the desk, facing Dickensheets.

  “I must say I've been looking forward to seeing you again, Kilroy,” said the DA's man in his smooth politician voice.

  Dickensheets had regained some of his color since the last time I'd seen him. He reminded me of Paul Richmond.

  I said, “What does Paul Richmond have to say about this?”

  His features pinched in, more than usual.

  “Mr. Richmond has declined to press charges against you.” His eyes in that pinched face were unblinking. “The gun went off accidentally. Don't you remember? Lloyd Carlyle will keep it out of the media. God knows he’s used his pull often enough in the past concerning that daughter of his. But I want you to tell me what happened over there on Monaco Parkway. So, tell us, Kilroy. Start with Robert Pierpont, and save your smartass remarks. When did you last see him?”

  There are times to push it, and times to back off.

  “Last night,” I said “Joe and I broke the news to him about what happened to Cheryl, and what she’d been up to at that bar. Then Joe took off and I stuck around with Robert for a while, like Joe asked me to.”

  “What did you and Pierpont talk about?”

  “I told him I'd look into what happened.”

  I left out the part about Pierpont asking me to kill whoever was responsible for Cheryl's death.

  “And did you look into it?” The DA's man could have been squeezing someone on a courtroom witness stand. “Were you in, or anywhere near The Tattle Tail last night?”

  I turned to Joe.

  “I still haven't heard anybody read me my rights.”

  “No one’s charging you . . . yet,” said Joe, without expression. “But if we do, you’re up against a Murder One. Stop bullshitting us. Your piece, that .44 Mag, was found next to the body of a punk named Sparky Boines.”

  “I told you. That gun was stolen.”

  Joe made a face like something smelled bad.

  “That won't play, and you know it. The officers responding to that shooting behind the bar last night found your gun next to Boines’ dead body at exactly 10:12. Your call reporting that the gun had been stolen was logged in as 10:34.”

  “The theft was reported the minute I discovered the gun was missing,” I said, straight-faced. But even as I heard them, my words didn't sound convincing. I said, “I’ve been doing some thinking since those cops had pinched me, outside of Paul Richmond's home. Leon Somerset killed Cheryl Kaplin with his vehicle. I've heard on the street that the Somerset kill was a mob hit. So, whose murder are we talking about?”

&nbs
p; “Our intel confirms that,” Joe acknowledged. “Somerset was hit by an out-of-town team of professionals.”

  I thought, Fallaci has kept his part of our bargain.

  I said to Dickensheets, “As for my gun being found in that alley where Boines was killed, you'll need more than that to cause me trouble, and I'm surprised you'd want to. This close to the election, I mean.”

  Dickensheets frowned.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Come on, Neil, you know what I'm talking about. You're just holding it back in case the threats and tough talk don't cut it.”

  He was still frowning.

  “Wait a minute, you ballsy son of a bitch. Are you offering me a deal?”

  I thought, Here goes nothing.

  I said, “I could be the D.A.’s ace up the sleeve. He could sweep the election next week against Paul Richmond. And you, Neil, you would be the man responsible for that victory. Sure, maybe your boss could win without my help. He did last time. But Richmond is pushing hard. He's got Lloyd Carlyle and a multi-million-dollar campaign machine behind him.”

  “Explain to me exactly what you mean,” said Dickensheets softly.

  Joe's taut voice interrupted.

  “I don't believe I'm hearing this.” He got to his feet. “I know exactly what Kilroy means,” he rasped at Dickensheets, “and I don't like it. He's dug up dirt on Richmond or Carlyle or both. That's what the scene this afternoon at Richmond's was all about. Kilroy was trying his own hand at a little extortion. Cheryl Kaplin must've given him ideas. And now he's trying to use whatever dirt he’s found to buy his way out of this.”

  Dickensheets said, with forced mildness, “Detective, would you and your man kindly step outside and stand by in the hallway for a few minutes. I would like to have some words with Kilroy in private.”

  Joe took an angry step forward. He usually kept his emotions well in check, but not this time.

  “Hold on there! Are you impeding my work on this because of its political implications?”

  Dickensheets' reply was scalpel-cold.

  “Detective, you and your man are dismissed. You will leave my office at once or you will be relieved of this investigation and an official reprimand note will be placed in your file. Do I make myself understood?”

  Joe was working real hard to keep that Spanish temper under control.

  “Perfectly,” he said, as if he was talking to something that had crawled out from under a rock. He looked at the man by the door. “Come on, Hogan. Let's get out of here, like the man says. The air is starting to smell bad in here, anyway.”

  A moment later, Dickensheets and I were alone. He skewered me with a calculating glare.

  “Bottom line,” he said. “What have you got to deal with?”

  “I've got proof that Paul Richmond socializes, and is possibly tight, with Sal Fallaci,” I said. “I have proof that ties Richmond in with the Kaplin/Somerset/Pierpont mess. How deep remains to be seen. That's something I intend to find out for myself, if you'll let me. Even the implication of a connection with Fallaci ought to make a joke of Richmond’s a candidacy, Carlyle or no Carlyle. So, your boss will be a shoo-in when the voters take to the polls next week.”

  “You say you have proof. What kind of proof?”

  “It's not that easy,” I said. “I've got to hold something to ensure that I’m not double-crossed.”

  “I see,” said Dickensheets, “and my part of the bargain is that I allow you to walk out of this office and continue with your investigation, is that it? You're doing an awful lot for this Robert Pierpont. Are you sure you haven't been in touch with him?”

  “I thought we were talking bottom line,” I said. “Do we deal or not?”

  It seemed like I was making deals all over town today.

  “You know, Kilroy, we could add withholding evidence to the charges we've got against you.”

  He wanted bottom line, so be it. I had to deal with too many of these sleaze balls today, and I guess it got the better of my common sense.

  “You could, but you won't. You're not interested in legal justice, Neil,” I told him, or reminded him, “or any kind of justice. You just want to keep your piece of the pie and the power and the ego and the money that goes with it. It's enough to make our founding fathers puke, if they could see what you people have done with their system.”

  He registered no visible response to that tirade.

  He said, “And you're willing to help me do that?”

  “I'll help you,” I admitted, if it will get you off my back. I think you've corrupted the system beyond repair, you and the others like you. But there's someone involved in this who can still be helped, call it saved. I can't help him if I’m sitting in a jail cell.”

  “Tell me exactly what you want from me.”

  “Time,” I told him. “I'm close to winding this up. I can feel it. All I need now is room to swing without your interference. When I have this thing tied up, you get what I have on Paul Richmond. Then our illustrious District Attorney, your boss, can clean up at the polls. I wouldn't be surprised if Richmond dropped out of the race before the election, if he isn't sitting in a jail cell by then, who knows what he and a mob boss were up to, but I smell a payoff in it somewhere.”

  Dickensheets mulled it over without once taking those calculating eyes off me. Then he rose and strode to a side door that must have connected with another office.

  “Stay put,” he said. “I've got a phone call to make.”

  When he came back in, two minutes later, he did not return to his chair. He crossed over and opened the hallway door and leaned out.

  “Detective, please join us.”

  Joe came in, closing the door behind him. He still didn't look pleased, but he was doing a better job of keeping it under wraps.

  “Well? Did you make your deal?”

  Dickensheets went back to his chair.

  “The word from upstairs is that Kilroy is free to go,” he said briskly to Joe, and to me, “You've got twenty-four hours Kilroy. Then we come for you. We come down on you hard, understand?” He didn’t wait for my reply. He waved his hand irritably in a dismissive gesture. “Now get out of here, both of you. I've had a long day and I'm going home.”

  The SOB started gathering and shuffling through papers on his desk as if Joe and I weren't there.

  We exited the office together. As soon as we hit the hallway, with Dickensheets' office behind us, Joe started stalking off in a determined effort to quit my vicinity. He was angry.

  So was I.

  “Isidro, wait.”

  I thought using his Spanish name, like his close friends did, might stop him, and it did. He whirled to face me as if I'd yanked him around bodily.

  “No. No Isidro. We're not friends, Kilroy. We've got nothing to talk about, you and me. The man in there just told me to leave you be, so be on your way. You nauseate me.”

  I said, “Cool off, Joe. Why are you ticked off at me? I had dirt on Richmond, so I used it. So, what? The only reason I had dirt is because he's dirty.”

  “It makes you dirty, that's so what,” said Joe, his voice a low growl. “I'm paid by the people of this city to keep their city clean, and you're making things dirtier by playing their game. That makes you no better than they are.”

  “I've got a feeling my investigation is the only way you're going to clean up this tangle,” I said. “Joe, we both want the same thing. I thought you knew me well enough to know that. We still don't know if Leon Somerset was working for someone when he ran down Cheryl yesterday, and if he was, then who hired him? If that's the case, why can't we catch a killer together? Why end our friendship just because I’m instrumental in bringing down a few creep politicians in the process? These people need to be taken out of the picture, Joe, and sometimes you have to beat them at their own game because the laws and the courts won't help. That's how these greed heads got their hold on us in the first place. They’re trashing this country, and they're doing it from with
in. We elected them. They live fatter and fatter while everyone else is losing their job because these clowns don't know anything about running a country in the first place. They're only in it for what they can get from the rest of us. I saw a chance to tag one of them out of the picture and I took it.”

  I could see the anger begin to simmer down in his Latin eyes. Then he grinned in spite of himself.

  “Damn, compadre. You ought to be running for office. I was hoping you weren't as shady as you looked.”

  I said, “We can work together on this, Joe. Dickensheets gave me free rein. That's a lot more than you've got.”

  “You want to make a deal with me too, is that it?”

  “Call it what you want. You've got information that I can use.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as that extortion note Pierpont found in Cheryl's apartment; the one he gave me, and I gave to you. Did you locate the typewriter it was typed on?”

  “We did. It was stashed in the back of the Kaplin girl’s bedroom closet. It was her typewriter. It was her note. She was squeezing somebody for ten grand.”

  “Or trying to,” I said. “Anything else interesting turn up?”

  “Why? And what do I get out of our deal, amigo?” asked Joe. “Do you give me what you have on a Fallaci-Richmond connection?”

  He was tensing up. He knew me well enough to know what was coming, and I didn't disappoint him. I thought of Teddy Bostwick, with those damning snapshots I’d given him, checking facts for me at the News.

  “They are tied in together,” I said. “But it does remain to be seen in what ways and how deeply?”

  Joe stared at me for a long time.

  Then he said, “I don't know what to believe about you, Kilroy.”

  He turned and strode off down the corridor without looking back, and I didn't blame him.

  I didn't know what to believe, either.

  15

  I called my answering service from one of the pay phones in the Courthouse building. There had been no word from Robert. Then I called Teddy Bostwick. He answered on the first ring.