I glanced back and thought I saw John Fat Gai's slim form outlined in the phosphorescent hell he'd unleashed as he calmly stepped into a motorboat, cast off and sped away from the devil's cauldron. The upper level of the ship lay slathered in flames. Thick, toxic clouds of black smoke spiraled upward. More explosions echoed, one ignited the other in a chain. The ship's hull glistened darkly at the water line.
Jake flopped around in the water. “I can't swim. I can't swim.”
I stroked toward him. He reached out to grab me in a chokehold. Panic flooded his eyes. I socked him hard in the jaw. Before he could slide under, I reached down, grabbed him under the chin and towed him to shore. I pulled his slack body on to the sand, let it roll over like a beached porpoise. Birdie sat in the sand watching the show. He'd removed his shoes and socks but still held on to the 12-gauge. Eli sat back on his haunches panting.
“You guys know how to show a fella a real good time,” he gasped.
Birdie looked down at himself in disgust. “Another good suit ruined,” he said.
I grinned at them. “It's good to be alive.”
I reached into my jacket pocket and felt for the pack of Sweet Caps but they'd turned to mush.
By the time Callaway and Tobin showed, the ship had burnt down to the waterline, held upright by the metal hawsers tied to the pier.
“What took you?” I asked.
“We were delayed,” he growled. Tobin just glared at me but said nothing. He sported a lovely shiner under his right eye. The big fish had swum away.
“By what?”
“You don't know?” Callaway asked. I looked at him blankly. I was wet and singed and tired. “The ferry terminal blew up. Two seriously hurt, three more missing and the ferries had to stop running. We commandeered some boats from the harbor patrol but by then the fireworks over here had already started.”
I shook my head. “We were a little distracted.”
Tobin couldn't stand it any longer. He pounded over. “I thought you said John Fat Gai wouldn't leave today because it's the fourth. That he was afraid he'd die.”
“That's right,” I replied, trying to stay calm. “He did die.”
Tobin gaped at me. “What are you talking about?”
“A professional death.”
“Huh?”
I sighed. “Think about it, Tobin. His house gone, warehouses gone, business gone—right now it's the closest we're going to get. Until next time. You've got the copy of the ledger and you and Callaway can roll up his network of dirty cops and politicians. That's not a bad deal, is it?”
He went to grab my shirtfront but I stepped back. “That's not good enough,” he said.
“I don't care,” I replied. “You've got most of what you wanted.”
Two of Tobin's guys hauled Jake to his feet, spun him around and handcuffed him. They put leg shackles on him so he had to hobble over to an old Ford pick-up they'd managed to borrow.
Just before they shoved his head into the interior, Jake smirked over at me.
“See you later, boychick.”
“Sure. I'll come visit you in the slam,” I said and turned my back on him to bum a cigarette from one of the detectives working the scene. Eli came over to bum one too. He stared after Jake. I acted on my promise and decked him. He sat hard on his haunches, rubbed his jaw and nodded. I reached down. He hesitated then grabbed my hand. I pulled him up, stuck a fag in his gob and lit it for him.
49
Birdie and I had squeezed on to the sofa in Aida Turner's small living room. She poured tea. As usual, Birdie looked immaculate. Adele and Mrs. Turner took a look at my bruised face and the singed eyebrows but decided not to say anything.
“That poor family,” Mrs. Turner said and handed each of us a cup. I tried not to rattle the cup against the saucer. “They are feeling such a burden of loss. And it is a heavy burden.”
She referred to the Fosters. Adele sat opposite her aunt and averted my gaze.
“Yeah, it is tough, I suppose,” I replied.
I didn't have a lot of sympathy for the Fosters but that was just me. We had apprised Aida Turner and her niece of the general sequence of events.
“I understand that feeling very well, Mr. Gold,” Aida Turner continued. “Biscuit?” She offered up a plate.
“Thank you,” I replied and chose a Peak Frean ginger snap. I'd always been a sucker for them.
Birdie smiled and shook his head. He slurped the tea draining the cup then set it down carefully.
“I can't believe it is all over,” Aida Turner said. “It feels like a dream. I'm waiting for someone to wake me up.”
“Auntie,” Adele began then stopped.
“He still hasn't come around?” I asked.
Aida Turner shook her head. “Not yet. But I expect he will eventually. I know he's out there and he's safe. That's all I ever wanted. That reassurance. And I have you to thank for it.”
“He's been living that life so long. I'm sure it's difficult to give it up,” I replied.
“He needs to get his trust back,” Birdie boomed. “Understand that the world isn't such a scary place. He's still afraid of what the white man can do, how much power he holds over folks. Henry's seen all kinds of crazy things happening, Chinese gangsters, dishonest police and the like, dead babies. He'll find a reason to come back, you'll see.”
Aida Turner smiled. “I expect you are right, Mr. Birdwell. And that will take some time. Once my Henry knows it's safe, he will come back to me and we will go on as we did before.” She sighed, imagining that version of paradise. Aida Turner set her cup down and reached into the pocket of her apron. “Now it's time to fulfill my debt, gentlemen.” She drew out the roll of used bills and set them down on the table.
“Auntie,” Adele said again.
“No, Adele,” Aida Turner said. “These gentlemen have done what I asked them to do. And that is that.”
Birdie and I had talked about this. Well, argued about it really. Until we came to a conclusion. A kind of solution.
“Thank you, Mrs. Turner. We're much obliged,” I said. I pocketed the wad of used bills saved up over countless days and weeks. I imagined what she had to do to set it aside, what she had to sacrifice. But it was what she wanted in the end. “If there is anything else we can do for you…” I set my cup down and eyeing Birdie we both stood up.
“My heart is lighter than it has been for years. That is my reward,” Aida Turner said.
“Goodbye then.” I looked at Adele but she stared at the floor.
Birdie smiled and nodded then we took our leave.
We were at the gate when she called out. “Mr. Gold?” I turned and there were those magnificent ankles in full view.
“Yes?”
She hesitated and glanced at Birdie. He took the hint and sidled over to the Chevy that was parked half a block up. Adele came up to me.
“Yes?” I repeated.
She put her hand out and patted my lapel. “I, uh, I, think I misjudged you, Mr. Gold, er, Mo. Maybe I made a mistake, an error in judgment.”
“You think so, Adele?”
“Yes. I'm sorry about that.”
“And what about…?”
She swallowed hard. “That is over. Well and truly over. Another colossal mistake on my part, I'm afraid. Seems like I've been making a lot of mistakes lately.” She smiled rather prettily. “I was wondering…”
“Yes?”
“I was wondering if, maybe we couldn't start again. Pretend that we've just met and see what happens. Would you be willing to do that, Mo? Try again?”
I looked down at her feet. She saw where I was looking and smiled faintly. My heart raced in spite of my head telling it not to.
“It seems like I misjudged you too, Adele. I mean, Ms. Rosewell.” Her smile froze. “I want to wish you all the best. I hope all goes well with the trial. I know you'll have to testify on Lawson's behalf, I mean. If you see him, give him my regards. Goodbye.” I touched her hand and it felt cold. About as cold
as my heart.
If anything, the house looked more ramshackle than before, as if a stiff breeze would blow it over. The grey washing flapped on the sagging line and the threadbare lawn looked forlorn and abandoned. Nothing but sadness permeated Rochelle Dodson's property.
I stood at the gate as Birdie strode up to the front door. He knocked gently, concerned, I'm sure that if he put any more force into it, the whole house would come tumbling down. Rochelle Dodson answered tentatively, opening the door a crack. Then the door opened wider. I could see, from that distance, the bruising around her eyes. Two young children clung to her skirt, frightened of themselves and perhaps of the skyscraper of a man who stood on their threshold.
Yet I could hear his gentle tones as he told her what had happened. That Henry
was alive and well. That it was time for her to get a new life for her and her children. I saw Birdie press the worn bills into her hand. She shook her head and tried to push it back. Birdie closed both his hands over hers and spoke warmly but insistently. Rochelle Dodson cried. Fell to her knees and sobbed but I could also see they were tears of relief. In a mop-up operation, O'Rourke had been arrested as part of a gang that had been hijacking liquor shipments around the city. We'd put Callaway and the guys in robbery, particularly Dewey, on to Steve O'Rourke and they'd pulled him in. Caught him driving a truck full of cases to a warehouse down on the docks. Fortunately, Rance Callaway hadn't been with him. This time.
The money from Aida Turner would give her a fresh start. Birdie lifted Rochelle Dodson up, kissed her on the cheek, patted each of the children on the head and came back down the walk toward me. He looked happy and that was good enough for me.
Kernahan never did talk. After all the hubbub had died down, Callaway dragged himself back to the precinct. When he checked on the patrolman in the holding cell, he found vomit down the front of Kernahan's shirt, his meal tray upturned on the floor and a glazed, dead expression frozen on his face. Food poisoning apparently. Of the lethal variety.
50
I moped around the apartment, listening to the Jazz Hour on CBC radio keeping a bottle of Scotch company when the phone jangled.
“Yeah?”
“You might be interested in seeing this.” Callaway.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, I said so, didn't I?”
“Where are you?” He rattled off the address. “Give me half an hour.”
“Right.” He hung up.
I splashed some cold water on my face, pulled a clean shirt from the wardrobe and knotted my tie. Picking up my jacket, hat and .45, I was ready to go.
I lit a Sweet Cap, rolled down the window and fired the Chevy up. Still a warm evening—after midnight. Callaway was a dedicated guy, married to the job first then his wife. The address he gave me belonged to the Plaza Hotel. The top two floors laid out as apartments. I parked outside and took a ticket from the bellhop, told him where I was going and he practically saluted. Several patrol cars blocked the street with restless cops in them.
I went into the lobby and took the elevator up to the 18th floor. I could hear the activity as I trod down the hall. I knew the two bulls on the door and they nodded me in. The view opened up to a large living room with windows on two sides overlooking the city. It was a nice outlook. You could practically drink from the lake. A modern apartment–expensively furnished. Several cops searched the place. They didn't bother to look up when I came in. I heard the pop and saw the flash of a bulb coming from the bedroom. I went to the doorway and looked in. Callaway stood to one side while the photographer did his work.
“Make sure you get close-ups of everything. And I mean, everything,” Callaway said. He glanced my way. “Hello Mo,” he said casually. “Glad you could make it.”
“Thanks for the invite, what have you got here?”
Callaway pointed to the victim. The photographer stepped aside and I saw a bloodied figure lying on the carpet. The carpet oozed blood. It foamed up through the fibres. The photographer tiptoed around the edges but I could hear the squish of his footsteps. A knife, looked like the bone handle of a kitchen knife, stuck out of the victim's chest. He wore silk pajamas. Of course. What else would you wear in a swanky joint like this?
“Got him right in the heart,” Callaway said. “Remind you of anything?”
I edged closer taking in the dark, slicked back hair, the smooth, smug features.
“Troyer,” I said.
His eyes had popped–his mouth frozen into an 'O'. “He looks surprised and it was one that wasn't particularly pleasant.” I inhaled the rusty smell of blood. It permeated everything.
“No kidding,” Callaway said. He beckoned me over. “I asked you a question,” he said, quietly, almost in a whisper.
“Yeah, I heard you. Troyer let the killer in. Must have known who it was.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You're thinking, Alison Lawson?” Callaway nodded. “What about…?”
“Wasn't Lawson. He's being released on bail tomorrow morning. He's been in custody since his wife took it in the chest too.”
I glanced down. “More than one wound. Seems that Harvey was stabbed multiple times just like Alison Lawson,” I said.
“That makes it personal,” Callaway said. “This give you any ideas?”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
“You got any ideas I want to know about them. Right now, I gotta check if Harvey here stole from any of his clients or was fiddling his accounts as well as check into his known associates. I figured you'd want to see this because of the Lawson incident. There's going to be a lot of heat on this one. The kid's old man is a judge, for Christ sake. Why couldn't he be a cabbie or a garbage man?”
“Just your lucky day I guess,” I said.
“Mason's funeral is tomorrow,” Callaway said.
“And?”
“You thinking of going?”
I shook my head. “Hadn't given it much thought.”
“I have to be there, of course.”
“Of course. He worked for you.”
“You're old man's going to be indicted by the feds. Racketeering, loan sharking, tax evasion, you name it. I think they're even going to get him for jaywalking if they can. I don't think he'll be able to wriggle out of this one.”
“It's what the old bastard deserves,” I said.
“You're a hard case,” Callaway replied.
“You better believe it.”
I turned to go but stopped. “One more thing…”
“What?”
“Better hide your nephew until this blows over. He could be next.” I indicated the mess that stared back at us.
“Rance? I, uh, yeah not a bad idea at that,” Callaway admitted.
“Thought so.”
51
I lifted the heavy brass knocker and let it drop once. It hit the solid oak door with a resounding thud. Birdie and I stood on the veranda, hats in hand, shoes polished, trousers correctly creased. A bolt slid back, the door creaked open and the same bird-like maid eyed us with suspicion. She was about to slam the door in our faces when Birdie stuck his size 17 shoe against the frame.
I smiled as prettily as I could that early in the morning. “Tell her, it's us or the cops.”
The maid froze. She looked down at Birdie's foot, then up at me. I gave her a wink. She harrumphed.
“Are you going to remove your foot or aren't you?” she snapped.
“Not until you let us in,” Birdie said.
“Very well.” The door swung back. We stepped inside the vestibule.
“Wait here,” she ordered, after slamming the door closed and shooting the bolt.
The house remained hushed, like a mausoleum. I wondered where they kept the incinerators. The maid waddled off down the corridor and disappeared.
“As chirpy as ever,” I said.
“Lives on the sunny side of the street,” Birdie replied then chuckled.
She kept us cooling our heels for a good five minutes. Then, out of the gl
oom, she reappeared, the features still sharp, the eyes a piercing blue. The skin freckled parchment, lightly powdered. “This way,” she said.
We followed her down the corridor to the same sitting room as before. The maid opened the door and stood back.
“Go on,” she said. “Get in. It's what you wanted, isn't it?”
She sat upright on the settee looking so brittle I thought she'd crumble before our eyes. The Persian lay across her lap purring. She stroked its belly absently.
“Mrs. Sorenson,” I said.
She looked up sharply. “Yes?”
“I think you know why we're here, Mrs. Sorenson.”
“Do I?”
“Mind if we sit down?”
She started. “Yes, of course, where are my manners. Gone out the window I suppose, like everything else.” She caught her breath and it came out in a stifled sob.
We each took a seat in the wingbacks opposite her. I settled myself.
“Look, Mrs. Sorenson, there's no point beating around the bush here. Like I told the maid, it's us or the cops. I think you're better off with us. Last night I came from Harvey Troyer's apartment….”
Her eyes clouded. “Harvey? What about him?”
“Well, the fact of the matter is that he's dead….”
There came a sharp intake of breath. She put a veined hand to her throat.
“How dreadful. I must call his parents at once.” She made as if to rise.
“Just a second, Mrs. Sorenson. Harvey Troyer was killed in the same manner as Alison Lawson.”
“What do you mean exactly?”
“It was a frenzied attack with a knife. The cops found the murder weapon. It was buried in Harvey's heart. There was a lot of blood. The carpet was swimming in it…”
Mrs. Sorenson shook her head. She'd gone so pale I thought she was going to pass out. “Both victims, Harvey and Alison opened the door to their killer. That means they knew whoever it was. There was no sign of forced entry and both of them were taken by surprise. The fact that the attack in each case involved multiple stab wounds with the final ones coming post-mortem, indicates that the killings weren't random. They were deliberate and they were personal. Someone was taking revenge.”
Looking for Henry Turner Page 33
