Stone Cribs: A Smokey Dalton Novel

by Kris Nelscott

  Her lips thinned. “What did you tell him?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “I never told him that I was already looking. Maybe I should have.”

  “You think he went looking?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know anything right now.”

  “Gangs don’t do this,” Marvella said. “It’s not their thing.”

  I sighed. Part of me had hoped that the gangs had a sideline in illegal operations. That would have explained Johnson’s death.

  “He didn’t work with gangs, did he?” I asked.

  “I don’t know what he did day to day,” Marvella said. Then she frowned. “You don’t think they killed him.”

  “I know they killed him,” I said. “I was at the crime scene.”

  “Was it bad?” Her voice sounded small.

  I nodded.

  “Jesus, Truman,” she said again, as if he could hear her. “And it was the gangs?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Then why are you asking me these strange questions?” Marvella asked.

  “Because,” I said, “it was a hit. A gang hit. They knew he was going to be there.”

  She shook her head as if she couldn’t comprehend it. “Why would the gangs go after Truman?”

  “I thought maybe you would know.”

  She glanced at the room behind her, almost as if she were worried that Valentina could overhear us. “I don’t know much about his work. He never said much. Why are you asking?”

  “I want answers,” I said. “The police aren’t really investigating.”

  She frowned. “They said they were.”

  “No,” I said. “I told you I was there, and there were a lot of things wrong at that crime scene. No one really cared about it.”

  “They have to care about Truman. He was one of the best detectives on the force,” she said.

  I shrugged. “Something changed.”

  “Or maybe I don’t know what was going on,” she said. “He always filtered everything. He didn’t want the women in his life to be tainted by his job.”

  I remembered how protective he had been of Marvella. He had checked me out when we first met, knowing that she was interested in me.

  She gets in trouble with men, he said. She mentioned someone new. I wanted to find out about him.

  I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my wallet. Marvella was frowning at me.

  “I found these in Truman’s coat,” I said. “Do you recognize either of them?”

  I handed her the withdrawal slip and the piece of paper with the address. I had already checked. The address didn’t match any she had given me, but I still had hope that she might recognize it.

  “Five hundred dollars,” she muttered, citing the sum in the withdrawal line on the slip. “Wow.”

  She frowned, staring at it some more.

  “It’s our bank,” she said after a minute. “Truman banks there. But that’s a lot of money to withdraw. On Friday. What would he need—?”

  She looked over her shoulder at the room again.

  “I can’t tell you anything about this,” she said.

  But I looked, too. For some reason, she thought the slip was related to Valentina.

  “You think he took the money out for her abortion?” I asked.

  “Shh,” Marvella said. “And no, I don’t. It’s just weird that it’s on the same day that Val would have had to get her money.”

  Marvella handed the slip and the paper back to me.

  “What about the paper?” I asked.

  “It’s an address,” she said, “but I don’t recognize it.”

  I sighed. Even though I had expected it, I had hoped that she would know what these two pieces of paper meant.

  “Look, Marvella,” I said, “I know this is a bad time, but did he say anything, anything at all that might be able to help me?”

  “About what? About gangs? He knew them. He knew some Rangers—Stones, whatever you want to call them. He put some away.” She shrugged. “He helped a few go straight. He had mixed feelings, just like anyone who lives down here, but that’s all I know.”

  “What about anyone else?”

  “Why would anyone else matter?”

  “Trust me,” I said.

  “God, I don’t know,” she said. “He was a cop. He must have had a hundred people who hated him. Not to mention some of the white guys on the force who hated a nigger getting promoted over them.”

  The word sounded odd on her lips, odd and bitter.

  “He told you stories about that?” I asked.

  “He didn’t have to,” she said, “any more than I have to tell you.”

  “Did he keep stuff at home? Work papers, things he was working on?”

  I was reaching, but to my surprise, she nodded. “When he helped you out on that last case, he had stuff at home. And before that. He wouldn’t let anyone in his study, except maybe Val.”

  I felt something for the first time since that afternoon. Curiosity, hope, something. “Can you take me there?”

  “To Truman’s? No.” Marvella glanced at the door behind her again. “I’m staying here. I’ve got hospital permission. I’m not letting press come here or family or anyone who’s going to mention Truman in her presence. I don’t want to lose her, too.”

  Her voice broke. What a week she was having. First, her closest friend, and then her cousin.

  But I needed her help. I needed to move quickly on this. I only had twenty-four hours before the time I’d bargained with Franklin would go away. I knew he wouldn’t help with Jimmy after that.

  “How about giving me Truman’s address then?” I asked. Maybe I would turn into a cat burglar. Maybe I would break in just to find out what was in Johnson’s private files.

  “Truman was a cop, Bill.” She almost smiled. “He didn’t hide keys under his mat.”

  “I didn’t expect him to.”

  “You’re very serious about this.”

  I nodded. “I owe him. He asked me to help him find that butcher on Monday and I said no. I’m thinking now maybe if I had let him help me, he would still be alive.”

  “And maybe if I hadn’t sent him home, he would be, too.” Marvella’s eyes glistened. “We can’t do this to ourselves, Bill. He’s dead. We’re going to have to accept that.”

  “I’ve been doing an awful lot of accepting this past year,” I said, and was surprised to hear the anger in my voice.

  Marvella raised her eyebrows. “What’re you going to do, raise him up? Easter was Sunday. I think we missed our chance.”

  A tear ran down her cheek, belying her sarcastic tone. I wiped the tear away, and she tucked her face into my hand. I pulled her close again, but she didn’t cry. Instead, she leaned on me.

  She hadn’t had anyone to lean on, not for the past several days. She had done this alone, and with courage, and now she was second-guessing herself.

  “It probably had nothing to do with us,” I said.

  She nodded against my neck.

  “It might be in those case files,” I said.

  She pulled back, rubbed her hand on the wet spot she’d left on my skin. Then she looked at me.

  “What are you going to do if you figure out who ordered the hit?”

  “Report it, I hope.”

  “You hope?”

  “I’m hoping someone’ll listen,” I said.

  “If they don’t?” she asked.

  “I’m taking things moment by moment right now.”

  She nodded, apparently satisfied with that.

  “I can’t take you to Truman’s,” she said, “but I can help you.”

  “How?” I asked.

  I expected her to pull a key out of her pocket. Instead, she said, “Paulette.”

  “Paulette?”

  “My sister, Paulette Shipley.”

  “What about her?”

  “She lives just two blocks away from him. She can let you in. It’s probably better that way, anyhow. The neighbors won’t thin
k anything of it if she goes inside.”

  Good point. “Can you call her for me? Have her meet me there?”

  “Yes,” Marvella said.

  I smiled at her, and rubbed my fingers down her face. “You’re amazing.”

  “It’s about time you realized that,” she said, and gave me Johnson’s address.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TRUMAN JOHNSON lived on a tree-lined street in one of Bronzeville’s better neighborhoods. The houses had all been built around the turn of the century and were made of stone, in keeping with Chicago’s strange city ordinance.

  After the famous fire of 1871, Chicago forbade wooden structures inside the city limits. It created a great world of stone—making the entire place look harsh and elegant at the same time.

  Johnson’s neighborhood retained that elegance. The homes weren’t grand, but they had been kept up. The surrounding trees were almost as old as the houses, creating a comfortable canopy over the wide street.

  I didn’t like the shadows the trees cast. The streetlamps were large here, illuminating a wide circle around their base, but the trees interfered with that circle, leaving too many patches of deep darkness.

  One of them was the walk that led up to Johnson’s house.

  I parked in the driveway as if I belonged, uncertain what to do next. I didn’t see Marvella’s sister anywhere, and I didn’t want to stand in the middle of Johnson’s yard.

  I didn’t want to call attention to myself.

  The storms still passed overhead, but the thunder rumbled far away. Lightning illuminated the black clouds, but didn’t fork downward any longer. The air smelled fresh and clean, like it should after a strong rain.

  After a few minutes, I heard footsteps on the sidewalk. I looked out my side window and saw a couple walking down the street arm in arm. They carried a flashlight, its tiny beam illuminating the cracked concrete before them.

  I got out of the car, figuring that they might think it suspicious to see a man just sitting there, ignition off, lights gone. The couple might notice, too, since they had a flashlight and could look inside.

  I let the car door thunk closed. Then I started for the front door. It wouldn’t hurt to knock, pretend that I didn’t know anything about the day’s events.

  “Mr. Grimshaw?” A woman’s voice floated across the air.

  I turned. The couple stood at the foot of the driveway.

  “Paulette Shipley?” I asked.

  “Yes,” the woman said and the couple came forward. The man held the flashlight. He ran its beam over my body, letting it linger on my face.

  The light hurt my eyes. “You don’t need to do that.”

  “Sorry,” Paulette said. “This is my husband, Mike. He’s a bit protective.”

  “Probably a good thing right now,” I said. “I’m sorry about Truman.”

  Paulette nodded. I couldn’t see her face in the dim light. “I guess it’s not unexpected. I mean, he’s a police officer and all.”

  “It was unexpected to me,” I said.

  “Tell me why you want to get in his house?” Mike Shipley said. He had a deep voice that carried across the quiet street.

  I opened the back car door and took out my gloves. “I don’t know how much Truman talked to you. He and I worked on a few cases together.”

  “You’re a cop?”

  “Private,” I said.

  “You solved those murders last December,” Paulette said. “The ones that were bothering Truman so much.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I was at the crime scene this afternoon, and a few things don’t add up.”

  “What do you mean, they don’t add up?” Shipley wasn’t going to give me any quarter. He was as tall as I was, but whip thin. I couldn’t see his face clearly, either.

  “I don’t know what Marvella told you,” I said.

  “Nothing,” Shipley said.

  “Enough.” Paulette spoke with an authority that silenced her husband. “She told me it was a hit, that someone ordered it, and you’re going to find out who because the police aren’t interested.”

  “I don’t know how you know this stuff,” Shipley said to me.

  So I explained it to him as quickly as I could. I kept my voice down because I didn’t want the entire neighborhood to learn what was going on, but I felt it didn’t hurt to tell the family. They might be able to get the city to take action if I couldn’t find anything.

  “I still don’t see what Truman’s house’ll tell you,” Shipley said.

  “Marvella said he kept records here. I just want to see them. You can supervise me the entire time.”

  “Mike,” Paulette said. “Marvella trusts him.”

  “Yeah,” Shipley said. “And she trusted that bastard ex-husband, too.”

  I wasn’t going to let them continue bickering. I had things to do.

  “Do you have the key?” I asked Paulette.

  She waved a small key ring at me.

  “Let’s go then,” I said.

  She led me to a door beside the garage, one I hadn’t even noticed. She unlocked it with a small key, then stepped inside and turned on the garage light.

  The place was spotless. I had never seen a spotless garage before. Directly in front of us stood a workbench, tools hanging above it on a pegboard. A chair was tucked beneath it.

  The car parked inside looked like it hadn’t been driven in a long time. It was a Woody, which surprised me, and it was as clean and neat as the garage. The wooden side panels shown as if they had been polished.

  At least it smelled like a garage, slightly musty tinged with gasoline.

  Shipley closed the door behind us. I finally got a chance to take him in. He was as frail as his thin frame implied. His hair was naturally straight and his eyes were blue, but his skin was as dark as mine.

  It was a striking combination, one that drew immediate attention to his face.

  Paulette was a surprise. She looked like Marvella, which I remembered from the time I met her before the Nefertiti Ball. Paulette and Marvella shared their build, as well as the high cheekbones and dramatic bone structure. But I had thought Paulette the less attractive sister. I might have been wrong.

  She turned slightly, beckoning us forward, and I realized with a start that she was about four months pregnant.

  “I don’t think he’d keep anything out here,” she said.

  She led us up three concrete steps to the back door. This too she unlocked, and started to push it open, but I caught her arm.

  “Let me go first,” I said.

  She looked at me as if I were crazy, but moved aside.

  I had no idea what I was expecting, but something warned me to be cautious.

  “The light’s to your left,” she said.

  I felt around and found the switch, one of those push-button kinds that dated from the first days of electricity. The light came on with a snap, shedding a pale light throughout the kitchen.

  It was a disaster, cupboards open, food scattered, dishes broken.

  Behind me, Paulette gasped, and I heard Shipley’s worried voice ask what was wrong.

  “Give me your flashlight,” I said quietly, wishing I hadn’t left the gun in the glove box.

  Shipley handed me the flashlight without a word. It was solid steel, heavy enough to do some damage if I used it as a club.

  “What happened in here?” Paulette asked.

  “Stay by the door,” I said.

  I slipped inside. It was impossible to move silently, my boots crunching on cereal and broken glass. Other footprints marred the flour someone had poured all over the floor. The room stank of syrup and coffee grounds and the shattered jar of grease.

  “My God,” Paulette said. She had followed me inside and Shipley was beside her. “Who did this?”

  “Stay there,” I said, this time with more emphasis.

  The kitchen had two doors beside the one we came in, one on my left and the other directly in front of me. The door on my left was closer. I approa
ched it carefully, trying to avoid the glass. When I reached it, I debated turning on the flashlight, then changed my mind.

  If someone else was in the house, all the flashlight would do was make me a target.

  I felt for a wall switch, found it, and pushed it on.

  Another overhead light, just as pale as the one in the kitchen, this one revealing a ruined living room. Couch cushions upended, chairs on their sides, picture frames smashed. In the far corner, a desk had been swept clean, its surface contents spilled on the floor around it. The drawers were half open, and in one, I saw something glint.

  I would come back to that.

  The curtains were closed, which was a blessing. I didn’t feel as conspicuous that way, and it didn’t reveal the mess to the neighbors. I didn’t want anyone to see me, see the destruction, and call the police.

  A large rug covered hardwood floors. As I crossed it, the glass, cereal and flour came off my boots. My footprints were the only ones outlined in white. Whoever had done this had destroyed the kitchen last.

  I kept my back to the central wall, and worked my way right. A staircase bisected the room, leading into darkness above. I hurried past the stairs, and found myself in the dining room.

  It was almost intact. The chairs had been moved, and one of the glass doors on the built-in china cabinet had been shattered, but whoever had done this had stopped before going to full-scale destruction.

  A small bathroom stood just beside the dining room, obviously added to the house years after it was built. Nothing was disturbed in there, not even the medicine cabinet.

  I came back into the kitchen. Shipley was standing in front of Paulette, as if he could protect her with that thin frame.

  His gaze met mine.

  “No one downstairs,” I said. “Is there a basement?”

  “Storm cellar in the back,” Paulette said. “You can only get to it from the outside.”

  I’d leave it alone then, unless I saw a reason to go inside. “Have you heard anything?” I asked, and pointed upward.

  Shipley shook his head. I nodded once, then eased myself back into the dining room. I could be quieter approaching the stairs from this side.

  The light was at the bottom of the steps, just like I expected. I touched the wall plate, then decided against turning the upstairs lights on.