Corpses Say the Darndest Things: A Nod Blake Mystery

by Doug Lamoreux

  “I'm sure he didn't.”

  “Gina, let me back up and try this again,” I said. “I just told you what Reggie said; that he had never missed a crusade. You confirmed it.”

  Her face reddened. It was apparent she'd caught the bus the second time around. But her shock had nothing to do with Reggie's actions. “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “No. I'm asking you what's going on. Riaz made a statement diametrically opposed to the facts. You confirmed what he said. When the truth was brought to your attention, you just smiled.”

  “Fact and truth are not the same things.”

  I picked my coffee up. She set hers down. She needed her hands to talk. “People say, welcome to sunny Florida. But it isn't always sunny in Florida. Are they liars? Florida is sunny, when it's not raining. I'm not a liar, Blake. And, while we're at it, I didn't know this was an interrogation.”

  “I wasn't interrogating you.”

  “Was that a lie?”

  Okay, so it was; that was none of her business. We stared, each searching the features of the other for – what? Something significant? A gambler's tell? I silently wished Gina luck. Many had tried before to examine my imagined depths, found nothing but unending layers of rotten onion and had eventually given up peeling. I was having no better luck. I saw a beautiful, innocent-looking, hurt young woman, nothing more. But I could have been mistaken. A round hole in my back, now just another scar, was evidence I'd been fooled before. So much for reading books by their covers.

  “I thought you and I were talking,” Gina said. “I answered your question about Reggie; about the type of person he was. I thought that's what you wanted to know. I assure you, Blake, I'm not trying to keep any facts from you.”

  “I've been keeping some from you,” I told her. “Reggie was involved with Katherine's death.”

  She shook her head and, to keep her hands busy, pushed her cup back from the edge of the table – spilling coffee. She tamped at the mess. “I won't believe that.”

  “I don't believe he killed her,” I said, trying to soften the blow (though I wasn't sure why). “I don't know that Katherine was meant to be killed. But Reggie was involved. He told me that himself.”

  She clenched the napkin and stiffened. “He did?” The bottom had dropped out of her voice.

  “We were supposed to meet. He was going to tell me everything, but he never got the chance.”

  “Everything?” She cleared her throat. “What did he say? I mean, what did he say when you arranged the meeting?”

  “Just that he was involved. He was killed before he could elaborate on anything.”

  She sagged. Oddly, it looked for an instant like relief but must surely have been emotional exhaustion. She verified that thought when she said, “I don't want to believe it.”

  “Tell me something, Gina, did Reverend Delp know about Reggie's record?”

  “Of course he knew. He met Reggie in… Whichever prison he was in?”

  “Stateville.”

  “Right,” Gina said. “That was it, Stateville; through his evangelism program. When Reggie was paroled Reverend Delp hired him. That's when Reggie met Rocio; through the church.”

  Something about our conversation was cock-eyed but I couldn't put my finger on it. I soldiered on. “Has the church been having money problems?”

  “Blake, you're all over the map.”

  “Yes. Has the church been having money problems?”

  “How did you even know about that?”

  “I don't know.”

  “You're just asking questions?”

  “Yes. Now, for the third time…”

  “Yes. All right, yes. But I don't know any details. I don't know how bad it was. Reverend Delp asked me to take a salary cut. But I didn't mind. That's what you need to understand. I'd work for a man like Reverend Delp for free. Besides, those problems are over. With all he's been through, people around the country have been donating like crazy to help.”

  “You mean that the money's been pouring in?” She frowned at the way I'd put that but I wanted to scream, `Bingo. On the friggin' nosy. Don't you get it?' She stared, wearing a smile that made her look like the Grinch's dog. For a smart woman, she seemed clueless as to where we'd arrived. We had arrived, hadn't we, at another motive? That's what it was another motive, on top of a possible jealousy, for murder. Gina didn't see it; didn't see a thing. Was she willfully blind or was I completely wrong? Was there nothing to see? Delp had something to gain, riches. He had something he might have wanted to lose, a cheating wife. No, it wasn't in and of itself proof the reverend had done anything, but… Couldn't she see the motives? Gina blinked and smiled the Temple of Majesty smile; Max the pooch on a sled on Mount Crumpet.

  “You're devoted to him?” I made it a question at the end but it had been a statement all the way. She answered without hesitation.

  “I'm devoted to God. I believe in Reverend Delp.”

  “What if he isn't what he seems?”

  “I won't listen to this, Blake.”

  “Gina, everything isn't as it seems.”

  “Apparently not,” she said. She didn't exactly spit the words but nobody could have lived on the difference. She gave a look that, no matter how much I loved myself, made me not like myself very much. But she wasn't finished. “Why do you disdain reverence?”

  “I don't. I disdain reverence for things that don't deserve it.”

  “Who decides, Blake? Reverend Delp has a book he goes by when he makes moral judgments. You can agree with him or disagree, but there it is. What have you? Your objectivity? Heaven forbid, your subjectivity? Your feelings for your fellow men? Who and what, in your world, deserve reverence? How do you decide? Who are you to decide?”

  “You're under the impression this personal nonsense matters,” I told her. “I'm not writing Delp's biography, I'm trying to solve his wife's murder, and all the killings that have resulted. You don't make friends when you're trying to solve murders.”

  “You could.”

  “I could what?”

  The anger had left Gina's eyes and she was staring intently. For the first time I recognized how closely we were sitting. I could feel the heat from her body and, something else, something magnetic. I'd felt it in the bathroom when she'd touched my back and now, again, a twitching of the nerve endings I hadn't felt in a long time. It was nuts. What about our conversation had led us, led me, there, with thoughts of body heat dancing in my head? My throat had gone dry. I tried to clear it and wondered how, at the same time, I might clear my head. “I better go,” I managed to say, and licked my lips. “I've imposed on you enough.”

  “You can't go like this.” She leaned in to me. Her hand found mine. More electricity. The natural human kind, thank God, but electricity all the same. “You're half dead,” she said. “You need…” Her moist red lips could have turned a desert to a wooded glade. “You need some sleep.” Her eyes were lakes. I was dying for a swim. She was still talking. “It would probably be better… if you just stayed… if you wanted.”

  I'm not a romantic. At least I don't think I am. I'm a dinosaur, a creature out of time. But I was pretty certain about what was happening. I could feel her hot breath on my bruised lips. Her long, intense stare, our stare, was threatening… to become a kiss.

  But it didn't. Not then.

  Gina broke away, rose, and headed for the hall. I followed her like a mutt chasing a plush play toy. She opened a cupboard built into the wall, pulled out a pillow and blanket, and pushed them into my chest. She pointed back to the living room and, by proxy, to the couch. “That's your bed, Blake,” she said. I didn't whine but I wanted to. “You're a train wreck,” she added. “You're half-dead. If you were in good working order… Forget that.” She closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she said, “You are probably, make that definitely, very bad for me. Right now, I'm bad for myself.” She pointed again and shook her arm for emphasis.

  I turned, pillow and blanket in hand, tail between my l
egs, and started back to the couch. I slept uncomfortably, in pain, with occasional moments of bliss. Gina visited me in those moments, and Mary and Becky from high school, and (I'm sorry Mrs. Solomon) Lisa too, in their turns. Brain damage. There was absolutely no doubt.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  A few hours later, what the calendar laughingly called the next morning, I tip-toed out before the sun came up. Okay, I couldn't have tip-toed if my life had depended upon it, but I did leave quietly doing my best not to wake Gina in her bedroom a few feet away. I vetoed a cab thinking a walk might be good for me. It turned into more of a limp as I headed back to the Flying Saucer, taking the long way around the brick yard, and keeping my mind off the aches by day dreaming about the pain medication I didn't have with me. I reclaimed my car and, when I reached my office, called Wenders and gave him what I had (omitting, for reasons of brevity, any mention of chats with the dear departed, psychic visions, or criminal trespass in a certain brick yard). He wasn't impressed. In fact he had difficulty making it sound as if he cared at all. No surprise there.

  The surprise came later that afternoon when I was sitting at my desk, gingerly as I was one big bruise, with that self-same Lieutenant Wenders sunk into the chair across from me. He was frowning above his row of chins and hating himself because, and this was the unbelievable part, he was trying to be helpful. Not that he was; he was useless as tits on a boar but he was trying. That was phenomenal. Of course it was also very short-lived. Within minutes of assuming our usual positions, our tempers worked themselves into their usual positions as well.

  “Eddie Love?” Wenders asked with a sneer. “I don't get it. Make the connection for me.”

  I sighed deeply. “He was an old cell mate of Reggie Riaz. I've already told you. Either through Reggie, or because of him, Delp got a hold of Love and conspired with him to do in Delp's wife.”

  “And you have evidence of this?”

  “No.” I moved (and shouldn't have), then tried to move back (and shouldn't have done that either). “No,” I repeated, “I don't have evidence.”

  Wenders swore. “I know it's been a while since you were a cop, Blake, but see, the real police, we still need to collect evidence against people we suspect of committin' crimes. They don't put people in jail on your word that they're naughty. If you could prove he was in the city…”

  “I was in his motel room. How many times have I got to tell you?”

  “Keep tellin' me, Blake, only stick in a fact or two for flavor. If you did get in his room, the way you say you did, it's breakin' and entering. I admit, that's a minor felony for you, so I'd overlook it. But it isn't the way you say.”

  “The Flying Saucer Motel; room 12. Get off the dime, Frank. Check.”

  “We checked, smart guy. There's nobody in room 12 at the Flyin' Saucer. The manager says there hasn't been. Been closed for repairs; no carpet, unplumbed. But it does have a nice new door – that does not feature a deadbolt.”

  “And none of that seems at all convenient to you?”

  “Yeah, it does. But here comes that nagging word again, Blake; evidence. There's no evidence the room hasn't been closed for repairs. There's no Love in the room. There's no Love on their books. There's no evidence he's in the city. He's skipped on his parole officer.”

  “I know,” I said. “I've talked to his parole officer.”

  “Then you also know, since he's chosen to violate his parole, he'd be a numb nuts to still be hangin' around Chicago. He's gone, Blake. Probably back to the wild west. He `got along little doggie' and he's someone else's problem.”

  “I'm telling you, he's here.”

  “Great. He's here.” Wenders sighed a ton. “When we find him we'll smack him with a ruler. Meanwhile, there's no evidence he's a murderer and you're still missin' a motive. If you could at least suggest a reason for Love to go on a killing spree, I might buy it.”

  “He's a psycho.”

  “So are you!” Wenders growled. Then he made a noise that I won't try to recreate. When he got himself under control, he started again. “I know he's a psycho. I read his jacket. But he's never shut off anybody that we know of. The trouble, Blake, is that the world's full of psychos. What I need to know is, is he a psycho I got to worry about? If we find him, if we can nail down a motive, if we can collect something like evidence, I'll buy Love. But so far we haven't done any of those things. That makes it look like you pulled his name out of your square hat. As for Delp, forget him. You ain't Clint Eastwood. You got dick on him and I'm not buyin' Delp.”

  “His wife was playing hide the corn dog with Nick Nikitin.”

  “You have zero evidence Delp knew anything about it. And even if he did, and he had nothing but black bubbling murder in his heart, he had no means because he had no opportunity. He was on television, from a different state, bein' stared at and cried over by his voluminous flock.”

  My mouth fell open. “Where'd you learn that word?”

  “What?”

  “Vo-lum-in-ous?”

  “That's what I said. I said it right.”

  This from a mug who signed his name with an X. If only I could have shook my head.

  “Do you mind?” he barked. “Nobody is goin' to buy Delp, until you come up with something that will impress someone other than your mother.”

  “If I could impress my mother, they'd give Delp the chair.” Staring at Wender's pig eyes staring at me was helping to turn my already queasy stomach. I got up, like a bag of broken bones, and limped to the window to get a look at all the air outside that didn't have his breath in it.

  “Your old lady has all my sympathies,” Wenders continued behind me. “But I ain't your analyst, Blake, so you can just put away the couch. Now, leavin' your family problems and getting back to Delp, I repeat, you got nothin'.”

  “Then I'll have to get something.”

  “Forget it. On Delp, you're out of room to push. I'm not asking you, Blake, I'm tellin' you. For once in your life you'd better listen. Delp is an important man; he isn't to be screwed with.” He was watching me stare out the window and, apparently, didn't like it. “Are you listenin' to me?”

  I couldn't help it, I was sighing too. “I hear you.”

  “I'm trying to do you a favor, whether or not you're too stupid to realize it.” He was rising from his chair. It sounded like a farmer pulling a trapped boot from a mound of bullshit. I watched the street, looking at nothing, avoiding the sight of Wenders foundering. He drew a loud breath when he finally reached his feet, then started back in on me. “The Reverend Conrad Delp has made it plain he is going to file harassment charges against you if you don't stay the hell away from him.”

  “Yes, I heard.”

  “You heard? But it didn't sink in, you dumb bastard. This man is the biggest thing in the God department Chicago has ever seen. He has friends that make you look like an ant.”

  “Yeah,” I told the window pane. “I've seen his photo collection. I was uber impressed. I'd worship him myself, if he hadn't killed his wife, Nick and John Nikitin, and Reggie and Rocio Riaz.”

  “A minute ago, Eddie Love killed them.”

  I turned slowly. “Follow the bouncing ball. He hired Love.”

  “This is America. You need to prove that.”

  “I'll prove it when I find Love.”

  “You're not a cop anymore,” Wenders said, plodding for the door. “We'll find him.”

  “Yeah, you'll look under your plate at lunch. And if you accidentally fall into a hole full of evidence against him, and he calls up and tells you which bench he's sitting on in Grant Park, you'll walk right past him. Or, worse, you'll shoot the bastard. Love won't go to prison again; he'll make you kill him.”

  “So where's the downside?”

  “I need him alive to prove Delp was behind this. If he dies, Delp goes free.”

  At the door, Wenders tossed his hands into the air and let them fall – resigned. “I give up. You're like a crazy person.”

  “How many sil
ver dollars were found around the Riazs' bodies?”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “I'm just curious, Frank.”

  “You're just curious? Twenty-nine. Ding. Ding. Ding. Twenty-nine silver dollars. Does that solve it for you, Sherlock? Is that the last piece of the puzzle?”

  “No.”

  Wenders opened the door to the outer office, startling Lisa into spilling her mocha poop-a-chino all over the papers on her desk. She glared like an angry owl. The lieutenant ignored her and turned back to me. “Do not bother Reverend Delp again, under any circumstances, Blake. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah. I got it.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Of course I ignored Wenders. I didn't have a choice, my case was burning out for lack of fuel. When that happened, the first, the only rule of detecting was: relight the fire, no matter the cost.

  I can't really describe much of what I saw when I entered the radio station. I'm okay, now, to tell it. Trouble was I wasn't all that okay then to take it in. Between the original concussion, the subsequent head injuries, the head-to-foot pummelings, the headaches, the ghostly visions (call them hallucinations if you want), the special pain-killer, and the most recent shouting match with a certain block-headed lieutenant, my brain had taken on a life of its own and pretty much included me out of everything. Anyway, I saw what I expected as I walked into the lobby of WKNG, friendly business-like colors, waiting room chairs that (like those in the fast food joints) looked comfortably inviting but were molded in hard plastic telling your butt to be on its way. The station's call letters, in splashes of pink, white, and blue (pastel patriotic?), and a golden `crown' logo filled the wall backing the high reception counter top. A conservatively frocked blonde stood on duty behind it. Once upon a time, she would have been my type. Of course, once upon a time, my type was eighteen to eighty, blind, crippled, or crazy. Now they were all too good for me.

  “Hi,” she said, delighted I'd finally come into her life. “Can I help you?”

  “Hi.” I saw her delight with a warm smile, then raised it with a phoney business card. “Onslow Stevens,” I lied. “I'm with Reverend Delp's ministry team.”