Freznik flipped the file closed and swung around to eyeball his partner. He nodded and looked back at me. “You can go,” he said vacantly. “We know where you live.”
I stood and showed my teeth to carp-boy who suddenly didn’t look well. Then I sauntered out. It was another ten minutes before my lungs recovered and an hour before I arrived back at my new place in Newark. Then I hugged the toilet like an old friend and swore I’d never smoke again.
***
When I’m on a case I wake before dawn. Maybe it’s my subconscious sifting out the facts, pitching pennies at my consciousness to take notice. By the time the sun was up I was way out on the west side, dropping the mud scrapings off at Larry’s—a friend with an independent lab.
I needed to size up Molly Bennett before the police did, so I drove up to Verona and found her house just as her car started to back out of the driveway. I blocked it with my own, shut off the key and walked up to her coupe. She rolled down the window, and I looked into the concerned face of a slim, dark-haired dish with green eyes. It was Eve’s face in the Garden before the snake and apple trick. Molly Bennett was in her early twenties.
“Molly Bennett?”
“Yes, why are you—”
“Sorry to bother you, I was hired by Mrs. Holden to look into the shooting last night. I’m Mike Angel.”
“What shooting?”
The cops have too many cases maybe. Or they were just starting out real sloppy on this one, not yet questioning the secretary. Either way, I had to inform this peach that her boss was a stiff. I didn’t like doing it. She didn’t take it well. It would have been kinder to punch her in the gut.
I got in her car and helped her blow her nose. It was a tiny perky nose, not one that should be blown too hard. Something about her tears worked me more than ordinary tears. The blue and white secretary outfit she wore showed off her tiny waist and made her look very girlish. To a grizzled old detective of 30 she was a girl. Her silky chestnut hair was the same length and shade I’d taken off of Zack’s shoulder. I daydreamed that a young, unspoiled Kimbra would have been a dead ringer for this cupcake, except Kimbra hadn’t been pure in a hundred years.
When Molly calmed herself I went ahead with my questions, feeling like a heel, but needing to ask.
“I have to ask, Miss Bennett, the cops will be along soon and I want to stay ahead of them—how long have you been Zachary’s private secretary?”
“Two years,” she snuffled. “Next week.” She lifted her chin and shamed me with a look like an abandoned puppy. I’ve always been a sucker for lost puppies. If Haley had worn that look, I’d still be comforting her.
“Did anyone grind on Zack lately—any sort of disagreement?”
Her voice became a bare whisper: “Well, no . . . not really. He’s been under a lot of . . . pressure, but, no, I don’t think so. He did seem sad Friday, I don’t know why. I just can’t believe he . . . who would kill such a wonderful man?” More tears.
I unfolded my copy of the suicide note and laid it in her unsteady hand.
“What sort of pressure? Enough to write this?”
Molly Bennett wore a glow that didn’t announce itself, but slowly pulled me in. She was Iowa fresh, which was probably why I was gaping at her in Jersey. I soaked in her looks as she scanned the copy of the note. She had an expressive mouth, cameo skin and was put together pretty good. At any other time she’d be fun to flirt with. My urge to kiss her was obscene, given the circumstances. I shooed the thought away.
“I don’t believe Zachary wrote this—he was such a particular writer, an excellent speller. He wouldn’t make two mistakes like this in a year. It does look like his handwriting, though.”
“Maybe he was forced to write it and the misspelling was his way of clueing us in,” I said. “Zack was clever. I don’t buy him as a man tired of living.”
“Things have been hectic the past few months since he’d been trying to sell the company. I think the negotiations were draining him—but not to the point of . . .this.” The power of beauty like Molly’s can pry secrets out of most mugs, but she was so pure she wasn’t aware of her power and I didn’t need a curtain call on being dumb for another stunning dame. The murder was up front in my mind, even if my back door was loose on its hinges. Molly wasn’t the sort who would play me. I was betting she’d never told even a white lie or got a parking ticket. Unlike Kimbra, I’d never have to guess about her motives.
“Faked probably—sell out? To whom? And why? Was Zack in some kind of financial jam?”
“I don’t know the full extent of his finances. That isn’t my…wasn’t my duty. He said he wanted to travel to the Caribbean. That he had interests there. He met with two companies in April. Then Allied dropped out after Standard upped their offer. I wasn’t in on the particulars. I just made the appointments for the meetings. He didn’t want to sell to Standard for some reason—something about the CEO, Chester Jorgensen, he found distasteful. He never said what exactly, just an impression I got.”
“I see—and the missus, the No Smile Girl? Was Zack getting along with her?”
“As far as I know. But, she doesn’t come down to the office much now, not since he told her to stay away a few months ago.”
I thought even more highly of the late Zachary Holden.
“Why did he lay down the law?”
“Oh, well, you’d just have to know Julia to understand. For some reason, she was jealous of any younger woman in the company who reported directly to him, always poking her nose into personnel matters. Mr. Holden wouldn’t have any of it. None of us could stand up to her, but he seemed to know what she was up to and always cleaned up her messes. Then I think he just gave her an ultimatum to stay away. Things were calm after that. He always told me not to worry about her interference—that he’d handle her.”
“They ever quarrel in the office?”
“Not that I know of. He only had to say something once, you know. A very strong man, good man. I can’t believe he’s gone. Now I suppose she’ll run things,” she said weakly, shaking her head and fidgeting with her hankie.
“Okay, kid. Now dry your eyes and do us both a favor. Get to your desk before the cops do and copy Zack’s calendar for the last couple of months—can you do that? Don’t let anyone see you doing it. Then get it to me. Here’s my office address.”
“Yes. I can do that.” Some women wear a special look when they cry that attracts even dead men. Molly’s tears could melt an IRS auditor’s heart. Knowing Zack the way I did, I had to ask: “One more thing—was Julia Holden jealous of you?”
“Jealous? I don’t see why she would be. I respected Mr. Holden—of course there was never any—”
“I know, I know. I can see you’re too good of a kid for that. Now get over there and snoop around until the cops show up. It’s been on the radio so that’s how you heard—don’t say I was here asking questions. Julia hired me, but regardless, I’m after the killer—Zachary was a good man and I owe him that much. I’ll call you later.”
As I drove back into Newark, I hoped something on Zack’s calendar might show me which angle to play. If Julia was mixed up in her husband’s death, it was pretty stupid to get me involved, just as stupid as someone trying to fake a suicide. My guess, the killer forced Zack to write that note to scare him, then decided or was forced to kill him. Or, the note might purposely be a clumsy forgery. Zack knew there wasn’t an “a” in “definite.” Whoever shot Holden may have wanted investigators to see through a fake suicide so as to cast blame elsewhere. Devious can be stupid or stupid can be devious. Time would tell which this was. And while I was waiting to hear from Kimbra, I might as well be working a case to pay the rent.
Chapter 19 – Working the Case
Verona turned out to be the only place in the state with a particular mix of silicates that matched the clay from Zachary’s shoes. Convenient. Someone went to a lot of trouble. The mud would put Zach at Molly’s place that night, and suggest hanky panky. Also, co
ps love clues that show up under microscopes—makes them feel like the god of science is on their side.
It was too neat. Whoever planted the mud, the hair and the panties, wanted it to look like Molly and Zack spent time together, had sex in the office, after which Molly killed him and faked the suicide. If it weren’t for the illiterate note, and Molly’s obvious innocent nature, the frame would be airtight. If Julia were jealous of Molly, it didn’t make sense she’d kill Zack and set up a frame, then call me to sniff it out. Julia was an iceberg used to getting what she wanted by more devious means than murder.
Still Molly Bennett might not be so innocent. I wasn’t beyond being fooled by a pretty face. She had access to Zack’s handwriting and could have forged the note. She also knew his movements and probably knew about the gun he kept in his office, too. She had ample opportunity to kill him after hours. And, if Zach jilted her, she would have had motive. It wouldn’t have been the first time a dame had twisted me up on a case, but this canary for Zachary’s murder felt as wrong as Shirley Temple in the role of a gang moll. If my instincts about Molly Bennett were that far off, it was time to sell shoes for a living. I wanted to ask her where she’d been at the time of the murder.
I couldn’t reach Molly at her office or her home. Then the phone rang. Evidently, the cops didn’t share my built-in crap detector—the too-obvious frame had snookered Freznik and his sadistic little pal. Molly had been held for questioning and they put her through the shredder. But even those 18th precinct pluggers didn’t like to jump too soon. More than likely, the note held them off.
Molly said she was going back to her place and had smuggled out a copy of Zack’s appointment book. After I paid a visit to the CEO of Standard Insurance, I’d have another talk with Molly to look at the copies. Her voice on the phone wavered, and I gave her my best father-comforter routine. Innocence like Molly’s can’t be trumped up. I was even more convinced she had nothing to do with Holden’s murder. Still, she might know some detail, unimportant to her, yet vital to my investigation.
“Molly, one question: you’ve given it to me straight—all you know?”
She swore she had. Then she cried some more.
***
The Standard Building stood in a seedier section of Newark, which is like saying someone’s trash was thrown in a smellier part of a garbage dump. Newark invented seedy.
The concrete, five-story structure squeezed between a bar and a café, next to the rail yards—not the kind of neighborhood you’d think of as white-collar business. Maybe their premiums were cheaper.
I pulled up across the street and checked the address. Chester Jorgensen’s office was on the fifth floor. It was one of those ancient office buildings with transoms over the doors and small octagonal black and white tiled hallways that echo like the Lincoln tunnel. The lobby stunk like it too—bad cigars and moldy heat ducts. A spent condom on the elevator floor.
An anemic dark haired skirt rushed into the elevator just as I stepped out. Something familiar about her smacked my brain, and I craned to get a clear look at her face but the doors closed fast.
Hurrying down the stairwell, hoping my bum knee wouldn’t buckle, I hit the lobby running and shouldered out the front door. The woman was striding up the street. I followed her for a block and realized she wore the same outfit Molly had worn yesterday morning. Plus, the woman’s hair and build were the same.
I kept a block’s distance until she got into a maroon Plymouth coupe four blocks from the Standard Building. I wondered why she’d park so far away when the streets were half empty. No license number on the back of the car.
I yelled out a fake name to her like I was a long-lost sailor home on leave: “Nancy! Nancy Blake!” You can go a long ways sometimes, yelling fake names at good-looking dames—and sometimes they wind up owing the name you dreamed up. Or pretending to.
The dame turned with a confused look on her puss and then quickly got into the coupe. If I didn’t know she’d just called from the 18th, I would have bet a week’s pay it was Molly Bennett. I sprinted up behind the car waving, but she started the engine and drove off rapidly, checking her rear view mirror as she went. Either Molly had an anemic twin who shopped at the same clothing store, or I was seeing things. I hadn’t got close enough to confirm it was her, and as I stood there heaving oxygen, I knew Molly Bennett wasn’t the type of woman to wear the same dress two days running. In fact, I didn’t know any dames that would.
I turned back and went up to the fifth floor again. Just inside of Standard’s glass-paneled door, a tanned, very blond man sprawled on a couch behind an empty receptionist’s desk. He was reading a Spider Man comic book, and probably related well to half the creeps in it. A gaudy diamond stud winked from one ear lobe.
He yawned as I came in and affectedly put his hand to his face. His striped shirt was unbuttoned half way down the front.
“Hey Mack,” I said gruffly, “Chester in?”
His mouth spread in a wide grin, then he opened his teeth and ran his tongue along the edge of his top pearlies. “Maybe. Who’s asking?” he drawled, all sugary.
“Mike Angel—friend of Zachary Holden.” The name didn’t register on the weirdball’s face.
He slid on a pair of white loafers and limp-wristed an impatient movement, as if I’d erased the dialogue on his comic book. Waltzing around the desk, sizing me up like I was dessert, he swished down the hall to an office door marked with Jorgensen’s name. He leaned through the doorway trying to show off his ass with the revolver sticking out of his waistband.
He tripped back and said singsong like: “Sorry. Busy. Don’t know any Holden.”
Normally I would have left a card if this creep had stopped at “Busy,” but I wasn’t in the mood. I started towards Jorgensen’s office. I said smoothly: “I’ll see for myself.”
The blond darling cut me off, which is what I was hoping he’d do. My elbow jammed up under his chin and a hard fist thumped his ribs. I felt them crack. A worm of blood escaped the corner of his mouth and his eyes rolled back like a broken kewpie doll. He paddled with his hands like he was treading water, then stiff-backed onto the marble floor. I rolled him over and yanked the Luger out, flipping the safety catch off and holding it at the ready.
Jorgensen looked startled to see me barge through his door. He rubbernecked down the hall, looking for his queer bodyguard. Unless Jorgie was a cross-dresser, the female who’d recently visited wore gardenia cologne, the same stink on those planted panties. Considering how empty the dump was, the female was most likely Miss Molly’s look-alike.
“Keep your paws on the desk where I can see them,” I said evenly, holding the Luger steady.
Jorgensen’s right hand was half way down to a drawer. He kept it there. His flat mouth twitched under a shiny pencil moustache, the silly thin kind unworthy of the name. Except for deep-set, flat gray eyes, his features were too large for his cantaloupe-complected face. His nose stuck out too far. His ears were open doors on a taxi. Jet-black hair rolled up behind a glistening scalp over a shrewd puckered puss. Aside from those flaws he was dog-ugly. A real wart on life’s ass.
He bug-eyed me like a vermin caught in headlights.
“Sure, sure. Don’t get nervous. Do I know you?” His voice was the pinched whine of a fat man, only he wasn’t fat.
“You knew Holden. So did I. Now all we have is each other, Jorgie.”
Jorgensen slid his hand further down the face of his desk, stopped it on the drawer handle, made a grimace-like grin, and gestured to a chair next to his desk. I hoped he’d try for whatever was in the drawer. I hadn’t eaten lunch and my stomach was getting angry. He kept trying to look around me down the hall, so I’d maybe turn my head. I’d sooner turn my back on a vengeful cobra with an achy fang.
“Tell me what I can do for you, Mister—”
“Angel. Mike Angel. And I’d keep that hand where I can see it, if I were you. Blondie’ll be napping awhile. You should hire real men.”
With hi
s left arm he made a sudden sweeping motion, pushing the desk lamp at me. At the same time he yanked the drawer out. I dodged easily. The lamp crashed to the floor. I lunged and slammed the drawer shut on his fingers.
Jorgensen sucked in his breath, and made a choking sound. His eyes widened. I put the cold muzzle of Blondie’s Luger into the tight skin of his throat, just below his Adam’s apple. He stiffened.
“Now then, let’s start over. You didn’t just know Holden, you wanted to buy his company, isn’t that right?”
He grunted with a nod.
“The name of the dame who was just in here?”
“There was no woman in—”
I put more pressure on the drawer until he began to squirm. Snapping a bone this way would be as easy as cracking lobster at Alfredo’s. “No woman? I suppose you wear gardenia cologne.” He lifted his other arm as if to reach to my face. I slapped his greasy moustache twice with the heel of Blondie’s Luger. Blood spread across his mouth.
“Who is she? I won’t ask again,” I said impatiently. I smiled tightly, wanting him to think I enjoyed his pain. I did.
“Esta Enterra. She did a job for me—came to get paid.”
“What sort of job?” I asked, releasing some pressure from the drawer.
“Why are you here? What do you want?” Jorgensen sputtered, trying to pull his hand out of the vice.
I pushed on the drawer harder and leaned into his face. “I’ll ask the questions. What sort of job?”
Jorgensen turned white; a wet circle spread in his lap. “Okay, okay. I’ll tell you. Just let me…take my hand out...god!”
I pulled the drawer out and Jorgensen yanked away bloody knuckles. I was collecting guns today. Jorgie’s was a nasty .32 automatic.
My eyes narrowed on him. “Talk now or your head goes in the drawer next.”
“Enterra dressed to play the part of Holden’s secretary and take some files from his office. That’s all. I swear. I wasn’t going to get curbed by another bidder after outlasting Allied.”
Dark Quarry: A Mike Angel Private Eye Mystery Page 11
