by Ed Gorman
"I should open the damn thing and look inside. But—" I looked down at it. "I can't touch it. It's like having some sort of phobia."
"You want me to do it?"
"I shouldn't have stepped on his hand so hard." She didn't say anything.
"I shouldn't have, should I?"
She sighed. In a tiny voice, she said, "No, I guess you shouldn't have."
Then I couldn't say anything.
"I wish you hadn't asked me that, Dwyer, because I love you so damn much, but I don't want to lie, either."
"I know."
"But it wasn't your fault he died. I mean, you didn't push him out into the street."
"Yeah."
"Here, I'll open it." She picked up the wallet. She got blood on her hands right away. She looked at me. Then she took Kleenex from a box in the glove compartment and said, "It wasn't your fault, Dwyer. Do you understand?"
She opened the billfold and thumbed through everything. She found a ten and four singles. A picture of Lockhart and a plump girl in a bikini on a summer beach. A Milwaukee Brewers baseball schedule. A Trojan. She held the rubber up to the light and said, "God, that's really classy."
"I've got one in my wallet."
"Bull."
"I do."
"I know better because I looked through your wallet."
"You did, really?"
"Yeah, one day I needed money. I guess I should have told you. Does that make you mad?"
"Uh-huh."
"Really."
"No."
"You sure?"
"Positive. Because if I got mad at you then you'd get mad at me."
"For what?"
"Because one day when you were on the phone talking to Chad I got kind of pissed or jealous, I'm not sure which, and I started going through your purse."
"God, Dwyer," she said.
"Hey, you can hardly afford to get sanctimonious."
"A wallet's one thing but a purse is something else."
"You are stone fucking crazy, you know that?"
"No, really, Dwyer. There's only so much you can find in a wallet, but a purse can be filled with all sorts of things. I mean, there's a mathematical difference. Looking in a purse is a lot worse than looking in a wallet."
"Right. So what else is in there?"
She put the Trojan back. The next thing she found was a business card. "Trueblood Medical Supplies," she read.
She handed it over. I thought of Lockhart being an orderly in the prison infirmary and stuck the card in my pocket.
She leaned over and kissed me. "At least you're feeling better. Even if you did look in my purse."
"You're really pissed about that?"
"Not real really, if you know what I mean."
"You're deranged."
I opened the door and got out. My clothes were wet enough that the constant rain didn't matter anymore. Donna got out, too. In front of us the marquee was dark, hundreds of dead little bulbs battered by rain. The six front doors leading into the theater were also dark, like the doors on a movie set shut down for the night.
We went around to the side and found Stan. He was sweeping up by the dressing rooms. He nodded hello. "You just can't seem to stay away from here, can you?" He smiled, rubbing one hand on his gray janitor's uniform.
"Actually, we'd like to see the Ashtons, if that's possible."
"Well, I'll call up and see what David says," he said.
"I'd appreciate it."
While he went over to the elevator, I walked from the nearest wing toward the stage. My footsteps were loud and hollow. I peeked out into the empty theater.
Donna came up behind me. "God, if I ever got on a stage, I'd freeze."
I kissed her. It was like high school. Furtive. And very sweet.
Stan came over. "David said for you to come on up."
He'd caught us kissing. Donna was blushing.
"We just heard on the news about Wade," David Ashton said as we stepped off the elevator. He wore a blue polo sweater and tan slacks. With his blond hair and Scott Fitzgerald features, he looked like an aging tennis pro.
I listened for excitement in his voice, but there wasn't any. He was just reporting the facts. He led us into a living room that in my neighborhood would have passed as a ballroom. Sylvia was sitting in front of a huge TV screen. In red lounging pajamas, her dark hair tousled, she seemed young and quite desirable. Only the dark glasses spoiled the effect. Instead of seeming mysterious, they smacked of neurosis, the tic of a perpetual mental patient.
"Sylvia, Dwyer and his lady friend are here."
Sylvia raised her head from the screen. She acknowledged our presence by rattling a glassful of ice in our direction. David dispatched himself instantly. He took her glass, went to a dry bar, and with almost chilling medical precision made a drink: three parts this, two parts that. Then he brought it back to her and put it in her hand.
He came back to us and said, "Sylvia's taking some of her heavier medication. It won't hurt her to have it with alcohol, but it makes her very drowsy." How convenient, I thought, in case the police ever wanted to question her about anything.
"It's odd that you should show up now," David said. He led us past an almost funereal dining room with a long shining table and a low-hanging chandelier toward the front of the penthouse where he and Sylvia and Evelyn lived.
"Why's that?"
"About ten minutes ago, Mrs. Bridges asked if I could help locate you."
I sighed. "Was this right after you learned that Wade had been taken into custody?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Oh, nothing. I suppose I'd better go see her."
He gave me an ironic smile. "I'd appreciate it, Dwyer. I don't like to disappoint the old woman."
I smiled back. "And I thought I had some lousy jobs."
"It's not that bad usually. She only gets upset with me when I clearly fail to live up to the 'Bridges standard,' as she puts it."
I kissed Donna on the cheek and followed Ashton down the hall. At the doorway leading into Mrs. Bridges’ part of the penthouse, the servant took over again.
"I should warn you," he said on the way to her room. His shoes squeaked.
"I don't think you have to."
"You have upset her."
"So has the rest of the world."
He laughed. "At least you have a sense of humor."
"I'm assuming that I get a blindfold and a cigarette."
"Mrs. Bridges doesn't approve of smoking."
He knocked once on her door and then stepped back. Far back. He was no fool.
She was still a kewpie doll. Tonight she wore a powder-blue nightie. She had painted her nails. She was still surrounded by photos of the famous from the first half of the century and by the flowers that covered the odor of her illness. Her blue eyes blazed so intensely they were almost comic. "Young man, you have let me and this theater down very, very seriously."
I couldn't help it. She—or her money or the room or her age or her illness or all those things put together—intimidated me. I said, "I," but that's all I said. I didn't seem to have another word to put with it. She took advantage of my mealy mouth by applying her own words to the silence.
"I wanted you to save the reputation of this theater and you didn't."
"No, I haven't," I said, finding my voice. "Not yet."
"And what's that supposed to mean?"
"Wade didn't kill Reeves."
"You sound awfully certain of that."
"I am."
"And you have evidence of it?"
"No, but I have a lot of facts that point in a lot of different directions other than Wade."
"Such as?"
"Such as Michael Reeves was probably blackmailing somebody."
"Who?"
"Maybe several people."
"I don't want your damn games. I asked you a direct question. Who?"
I let her have it, and with no small degree of relish. "You, for one."
"Me? You're suggesting that Michael Reeves was
blackmailing me?"
I took the envelope from my pocket, the one with her personal logo on it. "I found this in his apartment."
She snatched it from me and looked it over. "You're a liar."
I shook my head. "You said you didn't want any games, Mrs. Bridges. I'm not playing any. I found that envelope in Michael Reeves's apartment. You must have sent it to him."
Her cute little face was fiercer than ever now. "And I'm saying to you that you're a liar."
"There's only one other way that it could have gotten there."
"And how would that be?"
"Sylvia took it there the night of the murder."
I'd gotten the impression that Mrs. Bridges was very good at keeping her face from revealing secrets, but a big, cumbersome secret struggled across her features then. She looked guilty as a little girl with her fingers in Mommy's jewelry box.
"So you know," I said.
"Know what? You're playing games again."
"No games, and you know damn well what I'm talking about."
"Don't speak to me in that tone," she said.
"Then don't try to waste my time."
"Exactly what is it, Mr. Dwyer, that you're accusing me of?"
"I'm not sure yet."
"Well, that's a very impressive piece of detective work."
"All I know for sure is that your daughter went to Michael Reeves's apartment the night he was murdered. Now I'm beginning to believe that she brought him an envelope from you that contained money. That would lead me to suspect that you, directly or indirectly, were paying blackmail to Michael Reeves. And that's exactly what I'm going to tell the police when I leave here, Mrs. Bridges. They'll want to talk to Sylvia."
She reached over and pressed a button. David Ashton's voice came on the intercom. "Yes?"
"David, I want you to give Sylvia that new prescription from Dr. Kern. I want you to give it to her immediately."
"Is something wrong?"
"Don't ask me any of your damn foolish questions. Just give it to her."
"All right, if that's what you want."
She looked triumphant. "Sylvia won't be interviewed by anybody for quite some time, Mr. Dwyer. As a matter of fact, before the night's out I strongly suspect that she'll be in Dr. Kern's clinic. And Dr. Kern can be very persuasive."
"Is that how he kept her from going to prison when she stabbed one of his workers?"
"How did you know about that?"
"You wanted me to look into the case, remember? When you start looking into things, you learn secrets sometimes."
"I want you to leave."
"What was Reeves blackmailing you with?"
"Did you hear what I said? I want you to leave."
"There's an innocent man in jail tonight."
"I'm beginning to wonder if he is innocent. He sounds more and more guilty to me."
"You'd ruin the theater's reputation to save Sylvia, wouldn't you?"
The anger faded. She looked old. "Do you have children?"
"One. A boy."
"Wouldn't you do nearly anything to save him?"
"Of course."
"Then don't be foolish. Of course I'd save Sylvia before I would the theater."
I was suffocating in the flowers. "He was blackmailing you, wasn't he?"
The hand she flung at me scarcely had any strength. "Just leave, Mr. Dwyer, leave now."
On our way back to Donna, the servant said, "I've never seen her so exhausted like this. You must have disturbed her a great deal." He was smiling as he said it. When we reached the other half of the penthouse, Donna explained that David Ashton had had to excuse himself. I knew what that meant. He was busy putting his wife into a form of brain death so that nobody, especially the police, could ask her any questions.
In the car, Donna said, "Dwyer, we've got to get some rest. Think of all we've been through in the last twenty-four hours."
"I'll drop you off."
"Dwyer, you too, all right?"
"I feel fine."
"You look like shit."
"Thanks."
"We're not that young anymore."
"I'm thinking of Stephen," I said.
She was silent. Then she said, "I'm being selfish."
"So I'm not dropping you off?"
"Right," she said, sounding weary. "You're not dropping me off."
Chapter 18
Trueblood Medical Supplies was housed in a small brick building a few hundred yards from a railroad siding. In the rain and fog, the green and red rail yard lights were bright as beacons. A lone switch engine lurched by. As we walked toward the building, the engineer tugged twice on the air horn.
A light shone through a grimy window. I peered in past the metal mesh. A naked overhead bulb lit long, tall rows of supplies on deep wooden shelves. The place appeared clean and orderly and prosperous. I rattled the door knob. I hadn't really expected it to be open. "Let's try the front," I said.
We walked around the corner to where a big glass window read TRUEBLOOD MEDICAL SUPPLIES. From there I could see a small, tidy front office with three gray metal desks from the sixties, a fake red flower in a slender glass vase on each. I tried the front door. Zip. Zero. Nada.
"You still haven't told me—" she started to say.
"—what we're doing here exactly," I finished for her.
"Exactly, smart-ass."
"Well, in prison Lockhart worked in the infirmary. Out of prison he lived at a halfway house, where he had nothing whatsoever to do with medicine. But he had a card from a medical supply house in his wallet."
"Boy, that is weird."
"Now all we have to do is raise somebody and ask him a few questions."
"There isn't anybody in there."
"There should be."
"At this time of night?"
I nodded toward the back. We stood under an overhang. In the moonlight the rain drops looked fat and silver. "You didn't notice the little decal on the door back there?" I said.
"What little decal?"
"It's from the Thornton Security Agency. A bull'seye."
"Uh-huh. I didn't notice it."
"Well, that supposedly means that Thornton keeps a man on the premises every night."
"So there's somebody in there?"
"Yeah, and apparently he's asleep because I sure rattled the hell out of the back door."
Without missing a beat, she said, "Are you hungry?"
"God, I wish you hadn't said that."
"Meaning you are."
"Yeah. Sort of."
"You know what I'm thinking about?"
"Before you tell me what you're thinking about, I'll tell you what I'm thinking about. I'm thinking about my waistline and about how my agent gets on my ass every time he sees me these days. Donna, I've really got to cool it with the food."
"Yeah, I guess that's sensible."
We stood under the overhang some more and watched the fat silver raindrops and our chilled silver breath.
"So why don't you tell me what you were thinking about?" I said.
"It'd probably be better if I didn't."
"Hell, there ain't any calories in mental pictures."
"I was thinking about Denny's." Junk food is her specialty.
"Yeah, what about Denny's?"
"Well, you know that breakfast they serve, with a cheese omelet and hash browns on the side with one of those little containers of Kraft's grape jelly?"
"Yeah."
"That's what I was thinking about. My relatives down South always serve food like that. You're going down there in June with me, right?"
"Right." I liked the South, and I'd heard so much about her relatives that I wanted to meet them. But right now I wanted to go to Denny's and have the food she'd just described.
I was just about to take her hand and lead her around back, whether to the door again or to Denny's I wasn't sure, when the door behind us opened and a chunky woman with a butch haircut and a big Magnum said, "This ain't no place for hanky-pank
y. This is private property."
"Bertha," I said.
She squinted at us with steely blue eyes. In her blue Thornton Security uniform she could easily have been a guy, and when I'd worked with her there had been occasional speculation that she actually was, or had been before the miracle of surgery. She was wide and squat and a good woman in a gruff way.
"Dwyer?"
"Yeah."
"Dwyer, you dipshit, what're you doing out here?"
"Trying to get inside."
"You'd think a former cop would know that B and E is against the law." With a quick practiced glance, she assessed the tall and casually beautiful Donna Harris. "How did you ever talk her into spending time with you?"
"I'm still wondering myself."
She tilted her head toward the inside. "You up for some coffee?"
"Sounds great," Donna said.
Apparently I now had an official spokesperson.
Bertha Lamb led us down a corridor to a tiny lunchroom with a Formica table and a microwave that didn't look big enough to hold a donut. On top of the cabin-style refrigerator sat a Mr. Coffee with a full pot. Bertha poured coffee into "personalized" mugs and handed us each one. I drank from Mona's cup, hoping Mona didn't have gum disease or something. Bertha raised her cup with a heavy competent hand, almost in a toast, and said, "Were you the asshole who was rattling the back door?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Well, I've had a spell of stomach trouble, so I was incapacitated for a while." She nodded to a door that showed the brush strokes of a bad green paint job. The sign read LADIES. "Puts you in a hell of a bind, let me tell you. You can't move but some fool is rattling anyway." She smiled at Donna. "What do you see in this hot dog, anyway?"
"Not much, now that you mention it," Donna said sweetly.
"Now I want you to tell me about this place," I said.
"Trueblood?"
I nodded.
"Started working here last week. The plumbing's bad, their subscription to Time ran out a couple months back so they've just got old issues, they've got a Scanray security system that isn't worth diddly-squat, and one of the secretaries keeps a jumbo package of Switzer's licorice on her desk. Unfortunately, Thornton makes us take a polygraph test every month, so if I so much as took a bite of the stuff, I'd be out of a job."
"You think the place is strictly legal?"
"Huh?"
"I mean, have you noticed anything funny going on? Late-night deliveries, anything like that?"
