The Fifth Script: The Lacey Lockington Series - Book One

by Ross H. Spencer

  Lockington brushed him to one side, stepping in. He said, “You happen to have a Repentino-Morté Black Mamba Mark III?”

  The Polack said, “How many you want?”

  “One should suffice.”

  “You got four-hundred-ninety-five dollars plus tax?”

  Lockington said, “I got a check book.”

  “So do a whole bunch of con artists.”

  “I could show you my balance page.”

  “What’s your balance?”

  “One-thousand-seven dollars and change.”

  The Polack shrugged. “Any sonafabitch who got only a grand just got to be an honest man.” He slammed the steel door, locking it, heading for the counter.

  Lockington said, “You got a small machinist’s file?”

  “For a sawbuck, sure, I got a small machinist’s file. What you want with a goddam machinist’s file?”

  “I’m gonna file notches in the handle of my brand-new Repentino-Morté Black Mamba Mark III.”

  “What for? You ain’t shot nobody with it yet.”

  “The day is young.”

  The Polack grinned, plunking a slender, oblong mahogany box on the glass counter top, popping a brass latch, flipping the lid. The Repentino-Morté glittered coldly on its bed of red velvet, a rhapsody in blue steel. The Polack shoved an Illinois firearms form at him. “You’re a cop—just sign it and I’ll fill it in later.”

  Lockington found his ballpoint and signed it.

  The Polack said, “You want me to load this thing?”

  Lockington said, “Why not? It don’t make no noise if it ain’t loaded.”

  The Polack ejected the clip and got busy. He said, “What happened—you wear your .38 out?”

  “Naw, I left it in the car—too much trouble to go back and get it.”

  43

  Lockington came down the vestibule stairway from the gunshop, entering the agency office to place the Repentino-Morté box on the desk. Moose Katzenbach was seated in the client’s chair, glancing up, folding his copy of the Chicago Morning Sentinel. He said, “I just finished reading Stella on State Street. Guess what?”

  “Guessing what is for suckers.”

  “Well, Stella Starbright says that the Salvation Army is a neo-Nazi organization with plans that would make your fucking blood run cold.”

  Lockington said, “Jesus, I wonder who cranked that one up.”

  Moose said, “What’s in the pretty box?”

  “Either a five-hundred-dollar insurance policy, or a five-hundred-dollar mistake.”

  Moose opened the box and his eyes bulged. “Holy Christ, it’s a Black Mamba, ain’t it? Five hundred fish—wish I could afford one!”

  Lockington said, “The feeling’s mutual. Did Grayson have fifty bucks’ worth?”

  “I don’t know if it’s worth fifty, but you were looking for a parallel and you just got one.”

  Lockington sprawled in the swivel chair, putting a match to a crumpled Marlboro. He said, “Hit me easy, I got a bad case of bursitis.”

  “Eleanor Fisher and Connie Carruthers were adopted kids.”

  Lockington nodded. He said, “It’s worth fifty.”

  Moose dragged out his dilapidated paper notebook. “Father unknown in both cases.”

  Lockington said, “Same mother.”

  “Yeah, same mother—woman named Mabel Hammerschmidt. You already knew that?”

  “I didn’t know her name was Mabel Hammerschmidt.”

  “‘Mabel Hammerschmidt’ don’t mean nothing to me.”

  “No, because that was probably her real name.”

  “Well, sure, what else? You think maybe she had two names?”

  “If she’s who she could be, she could have had a dozen names.”

  “Yeah, and if she’s who she could be, one of ’em might be Rebecca of fucking Sunnybrook Farm! What’s that supposed to mean—‘If she’s who she could be’?”

  The phone rang and Lockington said, “That’ll be Duke, probably.” It wasn’t Duke, it was a woman. She said, “Classic Investigations?”

  Lockington said, “Yes, ma’am, may I be of service?”

  “Say, are you the guy what was here at 814 North Michigan Avenue half an hour ago?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, Mr. Lockington, this is Ada Phelps.”

  “Yes, Ada. Do you have something of interest?”

  “Yeah—you’re being tailed!”

  “Is that right?”

  “You bet! I ran up the ramp to wave so-long, and there was this car parked down the block, headed south. The moment you hit the street, it came outta the chute, peeling rubber! It closed in tight behind you! You didn’t see it?”

  “If I did, I forgot it.”

  “Uh–huh, well, you see, I read all these private detective novels, and I’m hep—I know the signs!”

  “Yes, you may have mentioned that. Man or woman driver?”

  “Man—I didn’t get a good look at him, but he was in a new white Buick Regal. You turned west on Chicago Avenue, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, he was right on your bumper, and I got his license number!”

  “Good girl!” He was hoping that Ada Phelps wouldn’t become a problem, at the moment there wasn’t room for a 200 pound groupie, but he’d humor her and clear the line for Duke’s call. He jotted the license number she gave him on the desk pad, thanked her, promised to take her to dinner one of these evenings, and hung up, continuing to scribble, tearing the sheet from the pad, pushing it across the desk to Moose, following it with five ten-dollar bills. He said, “Have Grayson run these through the grinder.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday—there may be a crack in the kettle! And for kicks, check out that license number. Incidentally, Buck Curtin’s still out there.”

  “Think he’ll fuck up the detail?”

  “Probably not—it’s me he’s keeping tabs on.”

  “Okay if I grab a sandwich?”

  “Make it on the fly—you better stay out of that Greek joint across the street—it may be in a bind with the Health Department.”

  44

  Lockington opened his Thursday afternoon think session by throwing LAON out of the ball game. LAON, if there was such an outfit, came across as a group of foaming-at-the-mouth crusaders, and LAON would have killed and bragged about it, because if there is anything a foaming-at-the-mouth crusader can stand a lot of, it’s attention. And if Chicago’s media had ignored the story, LAON would have passed out handbills or thrown leaflets from a blimp. It hadn’t happened. Somebody was pulling Erika Elwood’s lovely leg.

  It was Lockington’s first brush with anything resembling a serial murders case but, inexperienced as he was in such matters, he knew that there are just two types of chain killers—those that have motives, and those that don’t, and he knew that the trick to apprehending either lies in being able to determine which is which. The Stella Starbright murders weren’t of the thrill kill variety—they reeked of motive. On the average, premeditated murder motives amount to three—revenge, lust, and a yen for profit. So, if it was revenge, what was being avenged? And do you square an old grievance with a big city newspaper by killing its ex-columnists and its chief attorney? More than likely, you plant a bomb in its press room. Lockington crossed revenge from the motive list.

  The lust angle was porous. Had Eleanor Fisher and Connie Carruthers jilted the same man? Erika Elwood had intimated that Gordon Fisher was ambisextrous—did that indicate that one of Fisher’s pansy suitors had eliminated Fisher’s wife and a woman with whom he may have passed the time of day, then knocked off Fisher for good measure? Lockington shook his head. No way. Lust was out.

  The motive was money—it had to be. Somewhere, somebody entertained serious designs on Max Jarvis’s fifty million dollar bank account, and—the telephone rang, scrambling Lockington’s thoughts. He glanced at his watch. The time was 1:55. The voice on the other end of the line was familiar.

&n
bsp; “Dammit, Lacey, where the hell were you last night? I tried to call you clear up until midnight!”

  “Well, Duke, I was at the residence of our new client.”

  “That late?”

  “And then some.”

  “So you managed to get in touch with Fisher.”

  “No, Fisher needs more than Classic Investigations. Fisher’s dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “If you trust coroners. He got blown away in an Evanston motel room.”

  “But, why—who—what the hell?”

  “Would you believe that Buck Curtin is looking for the same answers?”

  “Curtin got you tagged for the Fisher business?”

  “Curtin got me tagged for everything but the fucking Boxer Rebellion, and he ain’t all that sure about the Boxer Rebellion.”

  Denny’s sigh drifted over the line. He said, “Well, don’t sweat it—that’s just one less shyster, and you got an alibi—you do, don’t you?”

  “Yeah—our new client.”

  “Which is who?”

  “Which is Erika Elwood.”

  Denny chuckled. “Sure, she is. By the way, who’s Stella Starbright picking on now?”

  “The Salvation Army, they tell me.”

  “Why not—who else is left? Seriously, partner, who are we working for?”

  “Seriously—Erika Elwood—at five-hundred per day. You’re to bill the Sentinel.”

  “I’ll be damned! Enlighten me!”

  “I’m her bodyguard.”

  “Protecting her from what?”

  “LAON, presumably.”

  “LAON exists?”

  “I doubt it, but she’s convinced.”

  “LAON got Fisher?”

  “She thinks it did—Fisher was a Commie lawyer handling the legal affairs of a radically liberal news publication, which might have made him eligible.”

  “Yeah, could be. What do your duties amount to?”

  “I pick her up at the Sentinel Building, drive her home, spend the night, drive her back to work in the—”

  “Wait a minute—spend the night?”

  “Yep.”

  “Hot damn! You see her butterfly tattoo?”

  “She don’t got no butterfly tattoo.”

  Denny laughed boisterously. “Way to go, Lacey!”

  Over the wire, Lockington heard a clock chime twice. He winced, and filed that into the recesses of his crowded memory. Denny was saying, “Where should I call you this evening—or should I?”

  “Uhh-h-h, under the circumstances, maybe you shouldn’t. If anything pops, I’ll call you—how’s that?”

  A smile crept into Denny’s voice. “Well, you can try, but they’re throwing a polka party at the corner gin mill tonight, and the pickings are mighty good in Cleveland, partner!” The line went dead and Lockington folded his arms on the desk, resting his chin on them, the position lending him the appearance of an aging jungle cat. The speed of foot had faded, but the hunter’s gleam was bright in the narrowed eyes.

  He took Erika Elwood’s Repentino-Morté from his jacket pocket, cocking it, studying the expensive weapon, whistling tunelessly. He’d neglected to ask Duke Denny how he’d made out at the lawyer’s office.

  45

  At 3:30 the agency office was stuffy and Lockington dragged a dusty electric fan from a closet shelf, placing it on a desk corner, plugging it in, throwing the switch. It didn’t work. Lockington unplugged the device, lowered it gently to the floor, stepped back, and kicked it across the room. He retrieved it to repeat the ritual. It still didn’t work. He shrugged a fatalistic shrug. Lockington’s fatalistic shrugs differed slightly from his philosophic shrugs, but so slightly as to have been undetectable to all save veteran philosophers.

  He sauntered to the vestibule, peering out. Lieutenant Buck Curtin was seated at the wheel of a black Ford sedan. Lockington’s smile was thin. A silent battle in a war of nerves. He watched amazed as Curtin lit a cigarette. It was the very first time he’d seen Curtin light one of his own cigarettes. Lockington ambled back to the desk, getting there in time to pick up the telephone on its first ring. Moose Katzenbach said, “Whaddaya say, Nostradamus?”

  Lockington said, “Watch your fucking language.”

  Moose said, “You got hold of something, Lacey—two more cookie cutter cases—both kids adopted—no father of record.”

  “Both Mabel Hammerschmidt’s?”

  “Right—four for four. Old Mabel must have been been having babies and selling ’em.”

  “In a sense, yes. Anything on that license number?”

  “Yeah, white Buick Regal, owned by Traveler’s Car Rental on Touhy Avenue in Park Ridge.”

  Lockington nodded. He said, “Rented by a guy named Herzog?”

  There was a lengthy silence before Moose Katzenbach said, “Hey, look, Lacey, if you already know these goddam things, why blow a bunch of money and run my wheels off?”

  “I don’t know ’em, Moose—I’m just guessing.”

  “Uh-huh, well, if I could guess like that, I’d be at Arlington Park.”

  “Moose, with the kind of money that’s involved in this mess, you could buy Arlington Park.”

  “So, it’s going on four o’clock. Where do I go from here?”

  “Get back to Grayson and—”

  “I can’t get back to Grayson—he left early—doctor’s appointment.”

  “He got the clap?”

  “I’m a sonofabitch—Lacey, you’re really a genius!”

  “Okay, knock it off for the day. Come by City Hall first thing in the morning. I’m still looking for something on Fisher and I’ll want to know if a guy named Herzog got himself married lately.”

  “Fisher came up blank. How far back is ‘lately’?”

  “Within the last year.”

  “Hell, I forgot to get Herzog’s first name from Traveler’s Car Rental!”

  “Doesn’t matter. How many Herzogs can there be?”

  “Maybe a million—the Mexicans are overrunning the country!”

  “‘Herzog’ isn’t Mex, it’s German.” Lockington hung up. It was 3:42. He put on his hat, locked the office, and went up the vestibule steps to the Polack’s gun shop. He said, “Gotta use your back door again.”

  The Polack said, “Piss on you, Lacey—I got better things to do than let you in and outta that fucking back door!”

  Lockington slapped him on the shoulder. They’d always gotten along in roughhouse fashion. “Last time, Stash—Scout’s honor!”

  The Polack scowled, taking out his keys. He said, “’Scout’s honor,’ huh? Hey, did you read the Stella Starbright column yesterday morning? Stella says them Boy Scouts ain’t all they’re cracked up to be! She says they’re probably involved in drug trafficking.” He unlocked the door, swinging it open. He said, “A guy on my block got a kid who’s a Boy Scout—I better call him—maybe he don’t know.”

  Lockington shook his head. He snapped, “No time for that! Call the F.B.I.!”

  46

  He’d swung the Pontiac sharply into the parking lot of The Viking Restaurant on Roosevelt Road in Winfield. She’d spun to stare at him. “Are we being followed?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, yet.”

  “Then why are we stopping here?”

  “Late bulletin. I’m buying dinner.”

  She’d telegraphed her acceptance, her hands going to her hair, the certain gesture of a woman about to enter a public place. She’d said, “That’d be nice of you.”

  They’d taken a dim half-circular booth to the left of the entrance. He’d had five vodka martinis in rapid-fire order. She’d kept pace with that many old fashioneds. They’d spent a nearly silent hour, studying each other. Then she’d said, “Won’t all those martinis dull your reflexes?”

  He’d said, “Something wrong with dull reflexes?”

  “Well, no—but if anything were to happen tonight—LAON, or whoever
—”

  “Nothing’s going to happen tonight—LAON or anybody.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Positive.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s going to happen later, if it happens at all.”

  “‘If it happens at all’? I don’t follow.”

  “Is there easy access to Max Jarvis—I mean, can people just walk into his office and talk to him?”

  “They can request an audience, but it’s like getting in to see the Pope.”

  “Does he have a bodyguard?”

  “Two.”

  “Good ones?”

  “Ex-Green Berets, I understand—they look tough, if that’s what you mean.”

  “That’s what I mean. Then he’s probably okay.”

  “Max is in danger?”

  “Let me put it this way—as long as Jarvis is okay, you’re okay.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Long story.”

  “Will you have your own gun soon?”

  He’d tapped his shoulder holster. “I have it now—picked it up today. Why do you ask?”

  “Nothing, except that you’re probably a better shot with your own gun than with mine.”

  “Not necessarily—most of ’em shoot where you point ’em.”

  She’d shuddered a delicate little shudder. “Oh, golly, it’s hard to believe that all this has happened in such a short time.”

  “What’s ‘a short time’?”

  “Well, what’s it been—a week?”

  “No, this show has been on the road longer than a week. It dates back to February, probably beyond that.”

  “Really—that long? Lacey, I’m afraid!”

  “So am I.”

  “I don’t believe that—you seem so very much in control.”

  “I am in control—that’s my problem.”

  “You’re worried about me?”

  “No, not about you—not at all.”

  “That’s encouraging, but—you’re afraid—of whom—of what?”

  “Of how it’s going to end.”