Thin Walls: A Smokey Dalton Novel

by Kris Nelscott

  “Miss Laura, there’s no need—”

  “Miss Hathaway,” Laura said. “I am no longer ten and you are no longer my father’s secretary.”

  The secretary leaned back as if she’d been slapped. “I’ll give him the message, Miss Hathaway.”

  “Good.” Laura looked at me. “Let’s go.”

  She led the way toward the hall, but stopped before she entered it. I almost walked into her, stepping aside at the last moment.

  “Henrietta,” she said in a tone I recognized. It was filled with deceptive warmth. “How many years do you have left until retirement?”

  “I’m a fixture here, Miss Hathaway,” the secretary said with a smile. “No one’s ever mentioned retirement to me.”

  “Really?” Laura let the chill back into her voice. “How very odd.”

  Then she continued down the hallway. Some of my worries about her ability to handle herself in the corporate world evaporated at that moment. Maybe she would be able to achieve her goals at Sturdy Investments—if she managed to get through this month without too many troubles.

  By the time we reached the reception area, two white security guards stood next to the door, arms crossed. They hadn’t been in the room before. They glared at Laura, but let her pass. One of them extended an arm as I tried to follow her through the glass doors.

  “What’s your business here?” he said.

  “I’m here with Miss Hathaway,” I said.

  “Sturdy Investments would prefer it if you did not return to this building ever again,” he said so softly I was the only one who could hear him.

  “Well,” I said, “if I worked for Sturdy, then it would have the ability to order me around. I work for Miss Hathaway, and she asked me to accompany her here. You want to take this up with her?”

  Laura was waiting by the bank of elevators, watching, concern on her face.

  “I know only what I’ve been told,” the guard said.

  “Who asked you to speak to me?” I said.

  “I’m not at liberty to say.” The guard hadn’t taken his hand from my arm.

  “Really?” I said, imitating Laura’s tone. “I’d hate to have Miss Hathaway blame the messenger for the message.”

  Then I shrugged off his hand, walked out the door, and joined her.

  “What was that about?” she asked.

  “Tell you outside,” I said as we stepped into the far elevator together.

  * * *

  Drew McMillan was waiting for us in the lobby, leaning against a stone column. When he saw us getting off the elevator, he stood slowly.

  “Well?” he asked Laura as we got close.

  “Nothing,” she said, her irritation showing, “just like we expected. I don’t like these games, Drew.”

  “They’re designed to upset you,” he said. “I warned you about that when you decided to demand the reports.”

  “After going through Daddy’s lawyer like that, I had to do something.” She shook her head. “I hate this.”

  “It’ll be over in January,” McMillan said. Then he turned to me, surprising me. “How did it go?”

  I shrugged. “Fine.”

  “Smokey ended up talking to a security guard,” Laura said. “He won’t tell me why.”

  McMillan raised his eyebrows in an implied question.

  “Sturdy doesn’t seem to like the idea that Laura brought protection.”

  “They said that?” Laura asked.

  I gave her a thin smile. “It’s either that or they don’t want people of color in the office.”

  “Or both,” McMillan said.

  “Or both,” I conceded.

  Laura’s lips thinned. “I’m going to—”

  “You’re going to wait until January,” McMillan said. “If they can intimidate you, they win.”

  “He’s right,” I said, “and from the thumbnail you gave me last night, it sounds like they’re trying every trick in the playbook.”

  Laura glanced at the elevator and shook her head. “You’d think they’d try a real negotiation with me instead of this stuff.”

  “They don’t think you’re the real threat, Laura,” McMillan said. “They think someone else is manipulating you. Me, or maybe Mr. Grimshaw here. This stuff is aimed at us, not you.”

  He was right; the way they sent material to the previous lawyer discounted him, and that little scene upstairs was meant to intimidate me.

  “They’re still underestimating you,” McMillan said to Laura.

  I smiled. “Wait until they realize the magnitude of the mistake they’re making.”

  She gave me the first genuine smile of the morning. “Thanks, Smokey.”

  McMillan glanced at the silver watch on his wrist. “That didn’t take as much time as I expected. I suspect if we hurry, we can still find a table at any restaurant down here. Join us, Grimshaw?”

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I’ve got some pressing work today.”

  “Smokey—.” Laura started, but I shook my head.

  “Sorry,” I said. I probably would have stayed if nothing had happened the day before. But too much had, and I needed to focus on my work, not Laura’s.

  I said my good-byes and slipped through the doors before Laura had a chance to call after me. I hurried down Randolph Street, heading back to the library. As I crossed State, I glanced down at the clock on the Marshall Field building. It wasn’t quite noon. I had nearly three hours to go through the rest of the Defender.

  I intended to make the most of them.

  SIXTEEN

  THREE HOURS LATER, I left the library feeling disconcerted. I found four more possibles in 1967. All were adults, all were left in parks or cemeteries mostly on the South Side, and none had a previous history of violence or gang involvement. I wondered how many I was missing, and wasn’t sure there was any way I could find out.

  The number of deaths disturbed me greatly, as did their randomness. These victims had so little that was obviously in common that I could count the factors on one hand: they were stabbed; they were left in a park or cemetery in a black area of the city; and they were all black. A couple had been left in the same park, but in different areas. I’d have to see police reports and talk to the survivors to know if there were any more factors that the victims shared.

  The sheer number of victims was daunting and so was the amount of work. I hadn’t found a pattern in timing—the killer didn’t seem to strike every three weeks or every Friday—but I couldn’t rule something like that out. I didn’t have enough information.

  And it was clear that the person who was doing these killings would continue until caught, which meant that there would be other victims if I didn’t act quickly.

  But I was one man. I wouldn’t be able to investigate all of these cases, continue to care for Jimmy, and earn a living. I needed help, even though I didn’t want it.

  I had to go to Truman Johnson, the policeman who had discovered the pattern in the first place, and he might have to go to the FBI, since they had been brought in on the cases of the two boys. If he went to the FBI, I had to leave the cases behind.

  I’d never done that before. I’d even wrapped up my cases in Memphis before I left. I’d never abandoned anything in mid-investigation.

  I was also worried that the FBI would shuffle these cases to the bottom of their cold-case file and nothing would ever get resolved. The killer would remain free, and more people would die.

  I couldn’t have that on my conscience and neither, I suspected, could Johnson. I’d have to trust him, something I didn’t do easily with anyone.

  I got home before Jimmy, made some coffee to take off the day’s chill, and then called the precinct, asking for Johnson. The dispatch informed me that Johnson was out on a case, so I left a message asking him to get in touch with me, telling him it was urgent, that I had new information about our unfinished business.

  I knew he would understand.

  Then I tried to call Delevan again. The phone rang ten tim
es. The fact that I couldn’t reach him bothered me, but I didn’t want to drive to Lake Forest to see him, especially after all I’d been through lately. I didn’t really want to venture into white Chicago without a backup.

  Finally, I did a few things I’d forgotten to do the day before. I called the hospital and asked for Saul Epstein’s room. Mrs. Weisman answered, just as I expected she would. Saul was awake, she told me, and in a lot of pain. He had given a statement to the police, and had even identified both Mattiotti and Owens from a photo array. She also said Saul’s spirits were low, and asked me to visit as soon as I could.

  I promised I would.

  Then I called the hospital back and asked for Elaine’s room. As she had predicted, she had been released on Tuesday, leaving with her sister.

  I pulled the phone number out of my wallet and called Elaine’s sister in Detroit. I wanted an update, and I wanted to tell the sister that Elaine would need emotional support as much or more than she would need physical support. I’d been through this with clients in Memphis, and I knew that with attacks like this, the emotional scars were the last to heal.

  On the fifth ring, a woman’s voice answered.

  “Kit Young?” I asked.

  “Who’s askin’?” the woman said.

  I identified myself.

  “Oh,” she said. “You’re the guy who busted in and broke up the fight. Elaine talked about you.”

  “I was wondering how she’s doing.”

  “She seemed okay when I left her on Tuesday. A little down, but you gotta expect that.”

  I leaned against the couch. “You left her?”

  “Yeah. She didn’t want to come back to Detroit. No matter how much we talked, I couldn’t change her mind.”

  I was cold. “The doctors said she couldn’t be alone. She would need help so that her stitches would heal.”

  “She’s got it,” Kit said. “She’s got some friend taking care of her.”

  “Really?” I asked. Elaine had told me she’d be with her sister. “Is she with that friend now?”

  “I suppose so,” Kit said. “I didn’t call her when I got home last night. I was too tired. I was going to do it when the rates went down tonight.”

  “So where’s she staying?” I asked.

  “At home. I left her at her apartment.”

  “Alone?” The coffee churned in my stomach.

  “She said her friend was coming. She said it was all right to leave.” Her sister was beginning to sound defensive.

  “Who? Who’s the friend who’s going to take care of her?” I asked, hoping Kit would list a name I didn’t recognize.

  “I dunno,” Kit said. “I didn’t exactly give her the third degree.”

  Which, she was implying, I was giving her. “I’d like to know who it was. I’d like to know who to talk to about her.”

  “Some guy. Saul something? He was her boyfriend. Guess he got hurt, too, but not as bad.”

  “Not as bad?” I said. “He’s still in the hospital. I just spoke to his grandmother.”

  “I’m sure she said it was this Saul guy who got attacked, too.” Kit sounded confused. “Why would she say that he was taking care of her when he wasn’t?”

  “I don’t know.” I didn’t like the way this was going. “What was her mood like when you left her?”

  “She seemed okay. Pretty upbeat, which surprised me. I thought she’d be more upset.”

  “Upbeat?” That surprised, me.

  “Yeah. She said she loved me, would miss me, and was grateful that I came, wished it was under better circumstances. I wished that, too. We would’ve hugged, but you know.”

  “She was saying good-bye,” I said softly.

  “Of course she was. I was leaving—”

  “Did she always treat you that warmly when you parted?”

  “Hell, no. Elaine and I, we had our disagreements, you know. It was better to keep a couple hundred miles between us. That’s why I wasn’t surprised she decided to stay.”

  That sounded logical, but it didn’t ease the feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Thanks for your time, Kit.”

  “You’ve scared me now, mister. You think she’s all right?”

  “She’s not all right,” I said. “She was beaten, badly injured, and most likely raped. She’s in about as bad shape as a person can be. I only hope she was lying to us both for a good reason.”

  “You think I should’ve stayed,” her sister said defensively.

  “Yeah, I do,” I said and hung up.

  * * *

  First, I called Elaine’s apartment. I let the phone ring so many times that anyone would have picked up the receiver just to stop the annoying sound. When I realized no one was going to pick up, I tried the number again to make certain I had dialed correctly. No one answered that time either.

  I immediately went to Marvella’s apartment to ask her to stay with Jimmy until I got back. Fortunately, she was home.

  Elaine’s apartment was close to Washington Park, in one of the nicer sections of the South Side. Her building was a three-story white brick, indistinguishable from a single-family dwelling unless you looked closely at it and saw the six mailboxes outside.

  Her apartment was on the third floor. I hurried up the wooden stairs—obviously this place had once been a home and these stairs had been part of the grand entry—and knocked. There was no answer.

  Then I tried the knob. It turned, but the deadbolt was locked. I had a couple of choices. I could search for the resident manager, if there was one, or I could open the door myself. First, I felt along the door frame for a key. My fingers encountered only dust. Then I looked under the mat she had placed in front of the door. Still nothing.

  I scanned the hallway, looking for another place that a single woman living alone would hide an extra key. I saw nothing. Then I glanced at the staircase. The knob at the top of the banister hung crookedly.

  I touched it and it swiveled. I twisted it off, and found a key taped to the base. It looked like a dead-bolt key. I took the key out, put the knob back, and tried the key in the door.

  The deadbolt turned.

  I knocked again. “Elaine?” I kept knocking and calling as I pushed the door open. Then I stopped. A familiar smell greeted me, one I had hoped I wouldn’t find here—the smell of feces, mixed with the stale stench of vomit.

  The apartment was cool, almost cold. The baseboard heaters were shut off. It was dark. Curtains on the windows lining the eastern wall were pulled tight. I fumbled for a switch beside the door, found it, and flicked it on.

  The main room was tiny—one large box with the kitchen in the upper corner. A door led into a darkened area, and I could see the edges of two doors, probably the bathroom and a bedroom. An ancient folding couch dominated the middle of the room. A small television set rested on top of a pile of boxes, and a chair was pushed up against the spotless kitchen counter.

  Books were piled on the floor, all in neat stacks, and all away from the baseboard heaters. Most were best-selling novels, but another pile was books like Frantz Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth and political texts. Another pile contained the Kama Sutra and books on free love.

  Several posters were taped to the wall, some of them on free love as well, and one showing a naked woman having sex with a number of unseen partners. All that was showing were their hands, caressing—and covering—parts of her body.

  I left the door open and went farther inside. The apartment had the untouched sense of a place where the owner had been on vacation. The dishes were done, the counters spotless. There wasn’t a drop of water in the sink or a speck of dried food on the stove.

  The smell got worse the deeper into the apartment I went.

  The dark area was too small to be called a hallway. The door to my right led to a tiny bathroom, and the door directly ahead of me led to a single bedroom.

  I pushed that door open all the way. The light from the living room fell across the bottom of a bed and on it, I could see tw
o immobile feet.

  I felt for the light switch here, too, and finally found it. I hesitated for just a moment before turning it on, not sure I wanted to see what was in front of me. Then I hit the switch.

  Elaine lay on top of the bed, which was still neatly made. She was completely naked, her body covered with stitched wounds on almost every visible piece of flesh. The area around her thighs was bruised and she had been shaved, probably for surgical reasons.

  Her head was back, her eyes partially open. Vomit trailed out of her mouth and onto the pillow. Her lips were blue.

  It was so clear that she was dead—and that she had been dead for a while—that I didn’t even have to touch her to see if she was cold.

  I stepped farther inside. Bottles of pills—some prescription painkillers and penicillin, others sleeping pills—were open on the bedside table next to an empty bottle of scotch.

  I stood there for what seemed like forever, wishing I didn’t understand the scene. She had said good-bye to me, too, and I hadn’t heard her, hadn’t understood her. Tell Saul I’m sorry, she had said. It’s my fault—for what? Believing she had the freedom to be with any man she wanted, when she wanted?

  There was no note, which didn’t surprise me. From the look of Elaine’s hands, just opening the bottles had been difficult enough; there was blood on her right hand. The stitches on her palm had pulled free, and the skin still bore the imprint of the pill bottle caps.

  Holding a pen would have been almost impossible. Besides, I think she gave her explanation by remaining naked on top of the covers. She didn’t want to live with that body anymore, not after what had happened to it.

  “Ah, honey,” I whispered, wishing she could hear me. “If only you’d given it a little time.”

  If only she hadn’t let the bastards win.

  SEVENTEEN