by John Lutz
“Talk with Claudia,” Hammersmith advised. He shoved his cigar deep in his mouth and glanced at his watch. “Better do it now, sho we can get down to headquartersh, get your official shtatement.” He blew green smoke, then removed the cigar and looked at it with a nicotine fiend’s tender satisfaction. “You know how it is, somebody gets murdered, red tape, forms to fill out. Inconvenience all around, ‘specially for the victim.”
“Maybe now the department bureaucrats will look on the Virgil Hiller disappearance in another light.”
“I doubt it, Nudge. Politics.”
“There’s a word I don’t like.”
“Like it or not, politics are the stuff of life.”
It was just like Hammersmith to say something like that. And at a time like this. Made Nudger mad. “We both know politics are bullshit.”
“Well, bullshit’s the stuff of life. You and I been in our jobs long enough to realize that, hey?”
Nudger had no answer. He started across the street toward Claudia’s apartment. Behind him Hammersmith said, “I’ll wait for you here, Nudge. Give you a lift downtown.”
Nudger hadn’t planned on riding the bus.
When Claudia let him into the apartment, he couldn’t tell if she was angry or scared. Maybe she couldn’t make up her mind. He decided not to ask about borrowing her car, which still hadn’t been started.
He said, “I’m sorry about all this.”
“Guess you are.”
“Better call the service station about your car,” he said. “You better get out to the school.”
She paced to the window, looked outside at the neighbors still milling about, some of them no doubt staring back at her. “A corpse in your car, Nudger. God. . .”
“Nature of the business,” he said. “You know that.”
She turned to face him, the light at her back streaming golden through her dark hair. He could barely make out her features. This body in the trunk had struck her as serious. She said, “I’m afraid for you.”
“So am I.”
“This about the Virgil Hiller case?”
He said it was. Brought her up to date and told her about Skip Monohan. He wondered if he was doing it so she’d be even more afraid for him. She wasn’t afraid for Biff Archway, whose job cast no danger and who could probably take on the Mafia singlehanded anyway.
Claudia shook her head slowly from side to side and then crossed her arms. He wasn’t sure what that reaction meant. “What happens now?” she asked.
“I drive downtown with Hammersmith, go through the routine.”
She considered that for a moment, standing motionless in the golden sunlight. Dust swirled in the brilliant, slanted beams; Skip Monohan would soon be dust. “Good God,” she said, “you’re not—”
“A suspect? No, not really. They want to make sure I waltz through all the steps, is all. Kinda thing they do as part of the job.”
“Is this the ‘just routine’ we read about in novels and see on TV shows?”
“Depends on the book or the show, I suppose. But there’s no reason for worry. Everybody downtown wants to cover his or her ass. That’s what this seems to be all about.”
“But Monohan’s body was in the trunk of your car.”
“Don’t be an alarmist,” he said, trying not to be alarmed. “It’s only politics.” He remembered what Hammersmith had told him. “You know how it is; politics are the stuff of life.”
“Of death, too.”
Why hadn’t he pointed that out to Hammersmith? She wasn’t cheering him up. “Hammersmith’s waiting outside. I better get going.”
Claudia walked over and placed her palms on his cheeks, scrunching up the flesh around his eyes and staring hard at him with her sexy stern-teacher look. “You be careful for both of us, understand?” She fit her lips against his, let the kiss linger. Warm. Nice.
“I try never to be brave,” he told her, when she stepped away.
“But you have lapses.”
He assured her he’d be careful enough for two, then tromped downstairs to ride to headquarters with Hammersmith.
Chewed a couple of antacid tablets on the way.
23
It was past noon when the machinery of the law finally spat out Nudger. His interrogation had been uncommonly thorough, and most of it had been conducted by Leo Springer. Springer had been his usual nasty self, but at the same time there’d been an odd sort of decorum to his questioning. His insults had been carefully phrased so their impact was more in their tone and timing than in the actual wording. As if he suspected that someone somewhere would be reviewing his actions. Scrutinizing them.
Another odd thing: when the law was done talking with Nudger, he was told they were finished with his car and it would be parked in the City Hall lot across the street. Here was efficiency without precedent. And, so far, without explanation.
A small-time drug dealer had been killed and then dumped in Nudger’s car trunk, and everyone was tiptoeing. Moving carefully along dotted lines.
Except for Nudger, who seemed to blunder into one dilemma after another.
He staggered out of police headquarters into a day that had turned cool. A steady drizzle was drifting down from an iron gray sky that seemed to hover ten feet above the tops of buildings.
Exhausted, he assured himself he wouldn’t melt in the rain and didn’t bother running to his car. The drizzle felt like cold pinpricks on his face and the back of his neck. The nasty wet stuff might soon turn into snow. Nudger could remember St. Louis September snowfalls that had brought the city to a white and silent halt. On the other hand, it might be ninety degrees by tomorrow morning. If you don’t like the weather, give it a minute or two and it might change.
Tucked beneath one of the Granada’s windshield wipers was a soggy slip of white paper. As was often the case, the left hand of the law hadn’t known what the right hand was doing. The right hand had written a citation because the left hand had steered the Granada to an unauthorized parking space.
Nudger thought briefly about going back inside and having the ticket taken care of, then figured the hell with it and stuck it beneath a wiper of the car next to his. Big new Cadillac, not quite a block long. Maybe the mayor’s car.
Nudger drove north to Market Street, then headed west. Before leaving the police station, he’d phoned the county library and was told this was Adelaide Lacy’s day off. Another phone call revealed that she’d followed the advice of her car’s bumper sticker and was home reading a book. Said she was, anyway. She was waiting for Nudger now, at her apartment.
She could wait a while longer; she’d told him she liked to curl up at home on rainy days and had no plans. Librarian talk.
Nudger found a parking spot on Market across from Union Station and fed all his loose change to the meter. He went inside and had a Super Slinger for lunch at Hodge’s Chili Parlor, a spicy concoction of tortilla, eggs, and hot chili, topped with a tamale. He loved the things, and since his stomach was already twisted and bleeding, he figured the taste would be worth the pain.
That was because the taste came first.
He’d finished his roll of antacid tablets by the time he knocked on Adelaide’s door. Even chomped and swallowed a linty stray tablet he’d found hidden in the depths of his sport coat pocket. His stomach seemed to have converted it all to acid.
When she opened the door, Adelaide said, “You look shorter.”
Nudger realized he was slightly bent over from abdominal pain. His stomach and his still-aching groin were working in concert to make him suffer. Doing a bang-up job.
He caught the title of the book she was holding with one finger inserted between the pages to keep her place: The Single Woman’s Manual of Personal Growth. He said, “Maybe you’re taller than last time we met.”
She lowered her blue eyes to glance at the book, got his meaning, and smiled. Invited him in with a sideways tilt of her head. She’d applied the slightest tint of violet eye shadow to her eyelids. For him?
Or maybe it was makeup left over from yesterday, when she’d spruced up for Voltaire, Hemingway, and The Reader’s Guide to Periodical Literature.
She shuffled to the side to make room for him to pass; he brushed her shoulder as he entered. She smelled faintly perfumed and soapy, as if she’d just showered and washed her hair.
The apartment was clean and neatly furnished. It even smelled clean, like its occupant, as if there might be an air purifier toiling away somewhere out of sight. There were brassframed museum prints of no particular style or period on the walls; here a Picasso, there a Manet. A small oak bookcase with glass doors squatted over by the window, crammed with paperbacks. Not a big place, but comfortable.
Looks deceived. Nudger lowered himself into the chair and found it unyielding. No way to settle into it. His stomach didn’t approve of him sitting down.
“I was about to get myself a cup of tea,” Adelaide said. “Want one?”
“Glass of milk, if it’s not too much trouble.” There was conflicting medical opinion about the effects of milk on a nervous stomach. The white stuff seemed to help Nudger, especially when it was warmed, so he drank plenty of it. He couldn’t remember seeing a nervous cow, and they had two stomachs.
Adelaide looked surprised, but she said milk was less trouble than tea and then turned and walked through the adjacent dining room into what Nudger assumed was the kitchen.
A microwave oven emitted a series of high-pitched beeps in the kitchen. Sounded like a kid learning to play some of the electronic crap that passed these days for musical instruments. Nudger had possessed an extensive collection of old jazz recordings before he’d sold most of it a few years ago to pay his rent and his back alimony to Eileen. Music by musicians, not technicians.
Adelaide soon returned carrying a white cup and a short, wide glass of milk. She had a smooth, sensual walk and the milk didn’t slosh in the glass. She was wearing brown slacks, tighter than they should have been at the crotch, and a light beige sweater. Her blond hair was pinned back, but not as severely as she wore it in the library. Nudger remembered what Jack Palp had said about Hiller running away with the wrong sister.
When she handed him the glass he was surprised to find that it was warm.
“I remembered your stomach problems,” she said. “I can get you cold milk if you’d prefer.”
“Nope,” he told her, “this is great. Exactly what I need.” He sipped the milk and his stomach immediately calmed, as if signaling him that this was what it had been waiting for, only he’d been so dumb as to send down a Super Slinger instead.
Adelaide switched on a floor lamp to shoo away any outside gloom that might have crept in. Then she sat down in a corner of the sofa, curling her legs beneath her. She was wearing brown sandals without socks, had nice ankles. She placed her steaming cup on the broad sofa arm and waited.
Nudger said, “Your sister ever mention a guy name of Skip Monohan? ”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
He told her why.
For a minute or so afterward, Adelaide swirled her tea around in her cup, staring into the miniature whirlpool. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised Mary was—is—on drugs. She’s been under stress for years. The kind of deep down, repressed stress that isn’t visible to other people but that tears away at your insides.”
“The rape?”
“What it did to her. She couldn’t trust people after that. And she was too sensitive to what they thought about her. She imagined things.”
“What kinds of things?”
“Oh, sometimes that people were staring at her. Looking down their noses. What happened left her permanently soiled—in her mind, anyway. And suspicious.” Adelaide unconsciously floated a hand up to the side of her head and mussed her hair over one ear. She was wearing earrings, Nudger noticed. Dangling trinkets that looked like tiny silver seashells. She shook her head and the shells swung on their delicate silver chains and sent patterns of reflected lamplight dancing over her shoulders. “For God’s sake! The idea of Mary becoming romantically involved and running away with Virgil Hiller is so ludicrous.”
“The police don’t think so. Not officially, anyway.” Nudger tilted back his head and drained his glass of milk. Wiped away a white mustache. Reminded him of when he was a twelve-year-old kid. Where were the Oreo cookies? “This where Arnie Kyle sat when he came to visit you?”
“No. As I recall, Paul Dobbs sat there. Mr. Kyle sat on the sofa, where I’m sitting. Is it important?”
“I expect not. I’m just curious.”
“Dobbs sat on the sofa on his first visit, when he showed me the photograph. I remember because he spilled some of his tea on the cushion.” Apparently tea was her standard fare for visitors. Kind of genteel. “Next visit—when Mr. Kyle was here—he sat in that chair. He and Mr. Kyle both had tea, but Mr. Kyle didn’t touch his.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call him ‘mister.’ He doesn’t deserve your respect. He probably has something to do with your sister’s disappearance.”
“Do you think so? He seemed concerned about her when he was here. Strange to say that, I know, but that’s the impression he gave.”
“He’s an expert at giving whatever impression the occasion calls for. Was Jack Palp with him?”
“The man you think killed Skip Monohan?”
“Uh-huh.”
“No. Not here in my apartment. But Mr.—I mean Kyle said there was someone waiting for him outside.”
Nudger rotated his empty glass slowly between his palms. “Adelaide, you think Mary might have had any other secrets?”
“Such as?” She sounded remotely offended.
“A neighbor said there was a butchy-looking woman who visited her frequently.”
“Butchy?” Her face reddened. “Oh.” She shifted position on the sofa so that one of her legs came out from under her. Barely touched a toe on the rug. “I’m sure Mary isn’t—that way. But I couldn’t blame her, after what happened. I mean, it left her with this deep distrust, this fear and dislike of men. But honestly, I can’t imagine her with another woman. That’s so bizarre. On the other hand, I can’t imagine her with a man. I guess what I’m saying is that I don’t want to believe it. After all, she’s my sister. But anything’s possible.”
Nudger had known that. Every day seemed to offer proof. The world was like a kaleidoscope given a fresh shake each morning.
“That would make it highly unlikely she’d be with Virgil Hiller,” Adelaide observed.
“Make it less likely. But the idea isn’t to prove she’s not with Hiller. We want to find her.”
“You will, Nudger. Don’t be discouraged.” Here she was bucking him up. Not what he’d anticipated. He sure could inspire a client to have confidence in him. How difficult was it, he wondered, to break into sales or management at one of the big corporations in town?
He said, “It only seems to be getting more complicated.”
“Something will happen soon.”
It already had, Nudger reflected. To Skip Monohan.
He thanked Adelaide for the milk and stood up.
She stood also, balancing her cup again on the sofa arm, and moved to show him out. He’d been worried about upsetting her, but she sent him on his way with a beautiful reassuring smile.
It was tough to read either of the Lacy sisters.
The rain had stopped when Nudger parked across the street from his office. He saw half a dozen bicycles leaning on their kickstands outside the doughnut shop. Through the steamy window he could see Danny busy behind the counter, waiting on the bikes’ prepubescent riders. Introducing them to Dunker Delites. Kids might bend a few spokes when they rode away.
Without interrupting Danny, Nudger opened the street door to the office and climbed the creaking wooden stairs. Unlocked the office door and pushed it open. Stepped inside and was hit immediately with the sensation that he wasn’t alone.
A voice said, “Who did your office? Salvation Army?”
The man who
’d spoken was leaning casually with one hand on Nudger’s desk, the other in the pocket of his expensive gray suitcoat. He was about fifty, average size, had neat, straight salt-and-pepper hair combed straight back, and oversized glasses with droopy silver frames that lent him a sad yet alert expression. His mouth was the kind that was always turned down at the corners, above a jutting chin so deeply dimpled you could lose a fingertip in it.
Nudger recognized him from newspaper photos and occasional local TV coverage.
Arnie Kyle.
24
Nudger involuntarily glanced around the gloomy office.
Not moving, Kyle read his mind and smiled. “He’s outside waiting in the car, Nudger. Jack makes a strong impression, doesn’t he?”
Nudger said, “Kind of guy people remember, all right.” He walked over to the window and looked down. Snow hadn’t fallen. In fact, the rain had stopped. A big black Lincoln was parked on the other side of Manchester. They’d figured Nudger would check the street; the driver-side tinted window was rolled down so he could clearly see Palp sitting in the car, drumming his fingers on top of the steering wheel and staring straight ahead. He was wearing a dark tie with his black undertaker’s suit. Maybe he’d read somewhere the ominous look was in.
Then Nudger saw something else that disturbed him. Half a block up the street another car was parked. Another driver sat, staring toward the office. Tad Beal in his ancient gray Plymouth.
Damn! The last thing Nudger wanted was for Tad to barge into the office and try to get adult and tough with Kyle and Palp around. Teen World would be over and he’d grow up in a hurry, stay alive if he was lucky.
“Jack’s a patient guy,” Kyle said behind Nudger. “He’d wait out there all day, just like a well-trained Doberman. But if I was to press the button on the little sender I got in my pocket, the beeper on Jack’s belt’d go off and he’d be up here on the run and primed for action. Something for you to remember.”
