Thin Walls: A Smokey Dalton Novel

by Kris Nelscott

  TWENTY-TWO

  WE MADE OUR PLANS for the next day before they left. I would accompany Laura to Sturdy, but I wouldn’t go inside. Then we’d get her to the airport, and I’d make sure she wasn’t followed when she got on her plane.

  I put the glasses away, stored the bourbon in the cabinet, and checked on Jimmy. He was asleep, hugging his pillow as if it were a lifeline, his cheeks tear-stained.

  I hoped Laura was right. I hoped it would be good for him to have her return, to keep her promises. All I knew now was that the next few weeks would be rougher than I imagined—and not just for Jimmy.

  Her visit had left me restless. I went into my office and stared at the files on the floor. If I thought she would have been safer traveling with me and Jimmy, I would have left these cases with Johnson without hesitation.

  But Laura could disappear into a crowd and go a thousand places without us. With us, she’d be noticed in every city in this country. A few well-placed questions, and she’d be found.

  Besides, it would send the wrong signal to Sturdy. They wouldn’t believe that she had changed her mind. If I stayed here and if McMillan went back to his old life, even for a few weeks, Sturdy would believe the crisis was over.

  And then she would shock them, just like we planned.

  I sighed and moved some papers aside. Then I saw Delevan’s phone number. I had never called him this late. It was worth a try.

  I dialed, then counted the rings on the other end. On the fifth, someone picked up.

  “Yeah?” a sleepy male voice said.

  “Oscar Delevan?” I asked.

  “Yeah? Who is this?” He had a thick Chicago accent.

  I said, “My name is Bill Grimshaw. I’m sorry to call so late, but I’ve been having trouble getting ahold of you.”

  “My company sent me to Thunder Bay for a couple of weeks, and I just got back, thank God. It’s colder than a witch’s patutie up there.”

  I slipped the information about his company and his trip to Canada into my memory to ask him about them later.

  He asked, “What can I do you for?”

  “I’m investigating the death of a man named Louis Foster. Apparently you were one of the last people to see him alive. I’d like to talk with you about that. In person, if possible.”

  “You got the wrong Oscar Delevan,” he said. “I don’t know anybody named Foster.”

  “You only met him once,” I said. “He looked at the house you’re trying to sell.”

  “Oh, jeez. I saw a lot of people about that. House ain’t moving. Neighborhood’s going through a change folks don’t like.”

  I straightened. He thought I was white. “I’ll bring some photos and see if that jogs your memory.”

  “Crap,” he said. “I was gonna suggest doing this on the phone. Guess that rules that out. How soon do you need this?”

  “As soon as possible,” I said. “I’ve been trying to reach you for more than a week.”

  He sighed. “Okay. I’m in the city most days for work. I’m guessing that’s where you are.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it’d be easier to meet at the old house. This new one’s great, but it’s a bitch to find, and it’s a heck of a drive from the Loop.”

  “I don’t mind meeting at your old house,” I said. “In fact, it’s probably better. You won’t have to describe as much. You can just show me what you showed him.”

  “If I can remember,” Delevan said. “This won’t take more than an hour, right?”

  “I would hope not,” I said.

  “Okay. Tomorrow’s my first day back, so I don’t got much time during the day. We’ll have to meet after work—around five. That work for you?”

  “Yes, it does. Let me give you my number in case anything changes between now and then.” Not that I would be home, but he didn’t know that. This was always a good ploy for getting information from an unsuspecting person. “And why don’t you let me have your work number in case I’m running late.”

  “I’m a new muckety-muck at Chicagoland Shipping. Don’t have my personal number yet, since they sent me to the boonies on a test, to see if I had the balls to deal with our Canadian partners. You’ll have to call the switchboard and I don’t got that number here. But tell ’em we have a meeting, and they’ll patch you through.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and hung up.

  I picked up Delevan’s home number and placed it inside Foster’s file. I hoped that whatever Delevan had seen—or whatever he knew—would be worth the effort it had taken to reach him.

  * * *

  Laura set up a meeting at Sturdy for noon, which gave me the morning to go to Rogers Park. I was dressed for the meeting at Sturdy—navy pants that looked like they could be part of a security guard’s uniform, and a long coat that hid my sweater. I wore an old pair of shoes that were so scuffed they were nearly worn through.

  I felt odd going to Mrs. Weisman’s dressed like that, but I knew I would have no time to go home and change.

  Mrs. Weisman’s neighborhood didn’t seem like the street of horrors it had been the Sunday before. There were no haphazardly parked cars, no emergency vehicles, no people in uniform.

  Instead, the houses had that same quiet appeal they’d had when I first visited. They might even have been more appealing since none of them had the ubiquitous Christmas decorations, although many had menorah in the front windows. Some of the ones with artificial lights were already on, casting a glow on the dismal morning.

  Mrs. Weisman’s menorah had only two candlesticks in the eight-branched holder. She had it set in the window of her porch, where it looked more obligatory than festive.

  She had clearly been watching for me, because she opened her front door as I parked. I got out and went up the walk. She was smiling as she wiped her hands on her apron.

  “Mr. Grimshaw,” she said with obvious pleasure. “I have coffee on if you can stay.”

  “I’d love to, but I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of time,” I said. “I have another meeting in the Loop around noon.”

  “I thought that might happen.” She led me through the enclosed porch into the house.

  I looked into the living room. The floor where Saul had nearly been beaten to death was clean, as if no blood had been spilled and nothing ever happened.

  The kitchen was spotless, although there were clearly fewer decorative dishes on the counter than there had been before. The room was warm and comfortable, with no hint of the violence that had ultimately cost a woman her life.

  “My neighbors brought me this table,” Mrs. Weisman said, putting her hand on it. “They cleaned everything up, found a new tablecloth, and even managed to find me some replacement dishes. Still, I sit in here at night and I think I can hear her screaming.”

  “She wouldn’t want you to dwell on it,” I said.

  “But I do,” she said. “I replay that afternoon every day in my head, trying to figure it out different. Sometimes I think it’s all my fault.”

  “It’s not your fault. It’s Owens’ and Mattiotti’s. They have a lot to answer for.”

  “I know. They have attorneys now, but the prosecutor, he’s been calling. He made me take pictures of Saul. He says we have a good case.” She peered up at me. “I don’t suppose you want to testify.”

  How perceptive she was.

  “I’d prefer not to,” I said.

  She nodded. “It’s a shame I never learned your last name, Mr. Grimshaw. Saul can’t remember it either, or how to find you. The police officers never wrote it down. I did promise, though, that the next time I saw you, I’d let you know that the prosecutor would like to speak with you.”

  Then she grinned at me, and I saw an impishness that must have made her irresistible as a young girl.

  “How is Saul?” I asked.

  Her smile faded. “Throwing a pity party, not that I blame him. He has a lot to overcome. But he is up and around. Let me see if he’ll talk to you.”

  She untied h
er apron and hung it on a peg near the sink. Then she opened the door to the upstairs and started to climb, closing the door behind her.

  The stairs creaked and so did the floorboards above. I could hear her footsteps, faint against the wood. But this house was well-made and solid. No voices carried to the kitchen. I had a hunch Mrs. Weisman hadn’t heard Elaine’s screams that afternoon. That might have haunted her even more.

  I shoved my hands in my coat pockets and peered out the kitchen window. A huge garden, covered in mulch and prepared for winter, filled the back yard. A large oak tree, its leaves gone, provided shade on this side of the house.

  After a moment, Mrs. Weisman rejoined me.

  “He doesn’t want to see anyone right now,” she said. “But he told me to give you these.”

  She handed me two manila envelopes brimming with photographs.

  “He has the negatives if you need them,” she said, “although he says you’ll have to get someone else to blow up any area you need. He doesn’t think he’ll use his darkroom again.”

  “You disagree?”

  “I think he can do anything he sets his mind to,” she said. “He’s just not ready to face that yet either.”

  “Do you think he will?” I said.

  “Yes, I do,” she said. “He’s like us, Mr. Grimshaw. He’s a survivor. He just hasn’t realized it yet.”

  * * *

  I made it to the Loop with plenty of time to spare and waited in the lobby for more than an hour while Laura had her meeting upstairs at Sturdy Investments. I got a lot of uncomfortable stares while I read the Chicago Tribune and shot casual glances at the elevators.

  A couple of times, I slid up my left sleeve and looked at my wrist, cupping my hand so that people would think I was checking a watch.

  We had agreed that if Laura thought she was being followed when she left this meeting, she would enter the lobby and yell at me, reminding me I was fired. I had convinced her to make a big scene, which would allow her to get out and meet McMillan, leaving me behind to deal with whoever followed her.

  The three of us would hook up at O’Hare when I was through.

  After the first hour, I got restless. There were only so many times I could read that today was the day the presidential electors cast their ballots. Just once I wished the electors would forget their parties and their mandates and take some initiative. But I knew after the year we’d had, with the assassinations and the disaster at the Democratic National Convention, that this was not the election in which my wish would come true.

  Finally, the elevator door opened and Laura emerged, walking fast. She wore her rich, society-girl outfit—rabbit-fur coat, wool pants, and an expensive sweater. She had on more makeup than I’d ever seen her wear, and her hair had been styled into its fashionable flip, but none of that masked the fury in her eyes.

  My stomach churned. Had I been wrong? Had this ploy backfired in a way I hadn’t expected?

  “Come on, Smoke,” she said quietly as she passed me, just like she was supposed to do if she thought she was in the clear.

  She headed to the wrought-iron doors. I waited until she went through them. No one followed her off the elevator, and no one followed her through the doors.

  I hurried across the lobby and into the crowd. No one seemed to notice her as she ducked into the diner where McMillan waited. I watched for a good five minutes before joining them.

  McMillan was at the counter, paying the bill. Laura stood beside his table, her shiny leather boot tapping against the tile. When she saw me, more color suffused her cheeks.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she said.

  “We’re going out the back,” McMillan said, joining us. He put his hand on Laura’s coat, propelling her toward the kitchen. She let him push her forward, and I followed, still trying to see if anyone was watching us.

  No one seemed to be. The people inside seemed to be mostly city workers on breaks. The crowd walking past the windows was a mixture of business people and holiday shoppers, their heads down against the wind. No one so much as glanced inside.

  I hurried through the kitchen, the smells of fried onions and grilling hamburgers making my stomach growl. McMillan held the back door open for me.

  We went to McMillan’s car and he handed me the keys. I was to drive while he and Laura sat in back, so it would look like they had a chauffeured ride to the airport. That, too, had been my idea when I had seen McMillan’s new black Cadillac.

  I was just backing up when Laura burst out, “I will never do anything like that again. Do you know how humiliating that was?”

  I glanced into the rearview mirror. McMillan’s gaze met mine. Laura’s face was mottled, her lips compressed with fury.

  “They believed me. They believed I couldn’t think for myself. Cronk told me that it was perfectly understandable and Eugene! Eugene put his arm around me and told me not to worry about it, that he’d make sure everything was all right. They even offered to find a new lawyer for me, one who wouldn’t be so power-hungry.”

  Her speech took us to the Expressway. The car handled like a dream. It floated on the pavement. I’d never driven anything so fine.

  “Power-hungry,” McMillan said, a smile in his voice.

  “Don’t laugh,” she said. “It was all I could do to keep up the pretense, not while I was talking to them, but when they all decided to take care of me, to let me know that I was in good hands. I never want to see Cronk smile again.”

  “He won’t,” I said. “Not when you’re done with him.”

  She flounced back in her seat. “I didn’t expect it to be this easy.”

  I had, but I didn’t tell her that. It was always easier to appeal to people’s prejudices. That was why I insisted that I drive the car. People’s prejudices. Laura and McMillan hadn’t thought of that.

  “Just focus on January second,” I said. “Then they’ll understand how wrong they were.”

  “Do you think it’ll work?”

  “They won’t know what hit them,” McMillan said.

  “Oh,” I said, smiling, “I think they’ll have an idea. They’ll remember this past week and be furious at themselves. That’ll make your victory even sweeter, Laura.”

  She sighed. “I hope you’re right.”

  * * *

  I had never been out to O’Hare before, and I was startled at all the newly built luxury hotels that filled the area around the airport. The traffic here was thicker than it had been in the Loop. When I asked about it, McMillan explained that a lot of meetings were held near the airport because of the convenience.

  By the time I’d parked and gone inside, I had trouble finding them. I scanned the lines of passengers, their piles of luggage beside them while they waited to board. A lot of them smoked, making the air inside the terminal blue.

  Laura was at one ticket counter, talking with a dark-haired young man in a blue uniform. McMillan was at the next counter, handing some cash to a middle-aged woman whose hair had been pulled back so severely that it hurt to look at her.

  I had told Laura to buy a ticket under a false name. It was ridiculously easy. All she had to do was pay cash. No one ever asked for identification. But I hadn’t told McMillan to buy a ticket. He had obviously come up with something on his own.

  The initial plan was for Laura to fly to another major city, buy a ticket there under yet a different name, and to do this until she felt comfortable. If she went to Europe, she would have to travel under her own name, but if she bought the ticket in New York or Los Angeles, no one from Chicago would be able to track her down.

  The only luggage she had was an overnight bag. She would buy more clothes along the way.

  McMillan finished first and joined me. He scanned the terminal, as I had done when I first entered, and like me, seemed to see nothing unusual.

  “What were you doing?” I asked.

  He held up two tickets. “My wife and I have to see family in Boston over the holidays.”

  Very clever.
Even if someone who recognized Laura overheard the destination she was buying a ticket for, that person wouldn’t realize she had gone on a different flight with McMillan.

  I tried to remain calm about it. After all, I had been the one who had suggested he go with her. Apparently he had changed his mind.

  Laura joined us, shoving her ticket in her purse. “I don’t think I’ve ever flown into Denver,” she said.

  McMillan smiled at her. “Let us walk you to the gate, Miss—?”

  “Hamilton,” she said. “Debra Hamilton.”

  “Miss Hamilton.” McMillan glanced at me over his shoulder. “Joining us?”

  I decided I might as well. We walked through the terminal, following the gate signs attached to the walls. Even the corridors were wide here, but the air was clearer. Apparently few people smoked as they walked to their planes.

  Halfway to Laura’s gate, McMillan stopped. He patted his pockets like he was looking for something. Laura and I stopped, too. People flowed around us like water around a rock.

  “Here it is!” he said after a moment, and handed Laura a ticket. “I thought we’d lost your ticket, darling.”

  She looked confused.

  “Don’t you remember?” I asked. “You two have family to visit this Christmas.”

  “Actually,” McMillan said, “Suzy’s going to have to go without me. I called the office and the shipment we were expecting arrived a short time ago. I’m going to have to go back.”

  “Oh,” Laura said.

  He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I’ll see you on the second, darling.”

  She frowned at him.

  “You’ll see that she gets to the gate safely, Charles?” he asked me, his eyes twinkling.

  I finally understood his little ploy. “Yes, sir,” I said with complete seriousness.

  Then he put a hand on my shoulder, leaned forward slightly and said softly, “I’ll wait for you in the loading zone outside the baggage area. But I will need the keys.”