Thin Walls: A Smokey Dalton Novel

by Kris Nelscott

  “I know,” I said. “And with luck, the evidence you get today will help you convict in the other crimes. You won’t need me.”

  He frowned, his hands on his hips. “Someday, you’re gonna have to tell me exactly what it is you and the kid are afraid of.”

  “Someday,” I said, making no real promise.

  “You know,” he said, “it would be better if I were the one pretending to house-hunt. We could have a few of my people back me up and then we wouldn’t have to worry about you.”

  I shook my head. “Jane Sarton is expecting me. I don’t think she would know what to do if you showed up.”

  “We could wait,” he said in a tone that acknowledged how impossible that would be.

  So far, my meeting with Johnson had gone better than I expected. I thought he might leave without considering the plan at all. I was also worried he might see the gun I had stashed in the waistband of my pants. I covered everything with a bulky sweater, but if a gun was visible, an observant cop would notice.

  And Johnson was an observant cop.

  “Of course, there’s a whole other matter you haven’t thought of,” he said.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  Then someone knocked on the door, and it opened without waiting for anyone to answer. Sinkovich came in, his cheeks red from the cold, his hair looking as if he’d been running his hands through it.

  “You didn’t tell me I was supposed to pick up a goddamn cripple,” he said, pushing the door closed.

  I put a finger to my lips warning him to speak softly. Marvella wasn’t home, but I didn’t know if anyone else was, and loud voices carried in this building.

  “Where’s Saul?” I asked.

  “In the car. Jesus, Grimshaw, you can hear him breathe. And how’s he supposed to take pictures without a fucking eye?”

  “Your journalist is blind?” Johnson asked.

  “No,” I said. “He’s well-known, and he’s already got pictures. He’s just here to observe.”

  “Well, he brought a camera that weighs more than my kid,” Sinkovich said. “Seems to think he can take pictures, even though he moans whenever he holds the damn thing.”

  “We’ll find someone else,” Johnson said.

  “No, we won’t.” I kept my voice even. I had everything planned, right down the last detail. I even had Franklin picking up the children this afternoon in case something went wrong. I wasn’t going to let these two screw me up.

  “Okay, I’ll find someone else.” Johnson glared at Sinkovich. “Besides, I already made it clear to you, Grimshaw, I’m not working with this son of a bitch.”

  “Yes, you are,” I said.

  “We can’t trust him.”

  “You know, I should bust your face for that,” Sinkovich said. “I put myself on the line here—”

  “Nobody’s busting anyone’s face,” I said. “I trust Jack. He won’t tell anyone what’s going on.”

  “Then you work with him,” Johnson said. “Because I won’t.”

  “Fine,” I said. “You’re the expendable one in this sting anyway.”

  Johnson froze. “What?”

  I shrugged. “Sinkovich and Saul Epstein can sit in a car in that neighborhood all day and no one will ask them questions. If you so much as drive through, someone’s going to notice you.”

  “So what were you going to have me do, hide in the trunk?” Johnson asked.

  “No,” I said. “You could do one of two things. You could sit in a squad a few blocks away and let Sinkovich radio you when we need you. Or you could stay low in the back seat, and wait until they get the signal.”

  “You didn’t tell me that part of the plan,” Johnson said.

  “I had a hunch you wouldn’t like it.”

  “Well, you were right.” He headed for the door. “Good luck.”

  “You know—” Sinkovich barred Johnson’s way to the door. “—I know some colored cops who got white friends in high places. Maybe you should listen to this guy, Grimshaw. Maybe someone already tipped off your target, and maybe it wasn’t me.”

  “It couldn’t have been either of you,” I said, “since I didn’t tell Johnson anything before he came here.”

  “Maybe that’s why he’s in such a hurry to leave.” Sinkovich raised his eyebrows at me. “That what’s going on, Truman?”

  “You’re a fucking son of a bitch,” Johnson said.

  “Yeah?” Sinkovich said. “Your point?”

  “My point is no one can warn Grimshaw’s target because he forgot one thing. This sting is set up wrong.”

  “Oh?” I said.

  “You already met with Delevan. He knows you’re not interested in the house.”

  “Yes,” I said. “So?”

  “So, he was there that afternoon. You’re basing all of this on what he said, on his version. There weren’t any killings that we can find between the end of November and yesterday. During that time, you said, he was out of town. Seems to me he’s a logical suspect, and he won’t even be there today.”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  Johnson frowned. So did Sinkovich. I wondered what would happen if I told them that they had identical expressions on their faces.

  “I’m wagering that this sting comes to nothing. I’ll meet with Sarton, she’ll introduce me to Hucke, who’ll take me to the neighborhood association, and they’ll say that no one saw Foster that day. That leaves Delevan as our main suspect. If that happens, you guys can figure out a way to finagle the warrants and search his houses for evidence.”

  Sinkovich’s frown turned into a grin. “He was ahead of you, Johnson.”

  Johnson’s gaze remained steady on mine. “I get the sense he often is.”

  There was another faint knock on my door. Johnson pulled it open, but I couldn’t see who was there.

  “Is Bill Grimshaw here?” The voice was weak and tired, but I still recognized it.

  “Saul! Jack said you were staying in the car.” I stepped around Johnson so that Epstein could see me. He was leaning against the doorjamb, his face chalky. He wore a single eyepatch over his left eye and partially covered it with a stocking cap.

  Sinkovich was right. Epstein’s broken nose still whistled when he breathed.

  “Come on in and sit down,” I said.

  Epstein waved a hand. “I thought we were going soon.”

  “We would be if these two would stop fighting,” I said.

  Johnson shook his head.

  “They don’t like your plan?” Epstein asked.

  “They don’t like each other.”

  Epstein gave them both a withering look. “If I can get out of bed today, you guys can play nice for a few hours.”

  “Come on,” I said, putting my coat on. “Let’s move. I’ve got to meet Jane Sarton at one, and you all have to be in position before that.”

  Sinkovich headed out the door before me, extending a hand to help Epstein, who ignored him. Johnson watched them go, and from the look on his face, I was certain he would back out.

  After a moment, he said, “Ah, what the hell,” and followed.

  I closed the door behind us all and prayed that this idea would work.

  THIRTY

  WHEN I GOT to Delevan’s house, Jane Sarton was waiting for me on the porch. She wore a long white cape over a pair of black pants, and her boots, while stylish, couldn’t be keeping her feet warm. She rubbed her gloved hands together, and if I hadn’t met her before, I would merely have thought that she was impatient. But to me, it was clear that she was nervous.

  I wasn’t. I was ready to do this.

  The weather wasn’t cooperating. Even though I had chosen the lightest part of a winter day, it still felt like twilight. The combination of spitting rain and melting snow had continued throughout the night, making the roads slick and the visibility poor.

  As a result, Sinkovich’s car was parked closer than I liked. I’d noticed him and Epstein inside as I passed, looking as if they were waiting for
someone at a nearby corner. I couldn’t see Johnson, who had opted to wait in the back seat.

  They had binoculars and Epstein’s camera. They were supposed to keep me in sight at all times.

  Before they took off, I’d managed to pull Epstein aside and ask him to keep me out of any photographs he took. He had looked surprised, but he promised to try.

  I slammed my car door loudly and hurried up the walk. Jane Sarton smiled when she saw me, throwing the porch door open and gliding down the stairs like a debutante.

  “Mr. Grimshaw,” she said, her clipped Chicago accent even more pronounced. “It’s so good to see you. You haven’t changed your mind, have you?”

  For a moment, I didn’t know what she was talking about, and then I realized she was playing her part even when we were alone. I supposed this would work better than waiting until someone was around. If she stayed in character the entire time, there was less chance of screwing up the possible sting.

  “Mrs. Sarton,” I said, carefully avoiding her outstretched hands, as any black man would do in this situation. “I just want to see the place one last time.”

  “Well,” she said, speaking so loudly I was certain they could hear her in Memphis. “If you’re truly interested, then I think you should meet the neighbors.”

  “I’m sure I will,” I said, leading her up the walk. I did not match the volume of her tone.

  “No, no,” she said. “I’ve learned when I’ve shown this house that the neighbors like to be involved. I’ve arranged a meeting with the neighborhood association. They all took a late lunch so that they could meet you. Mr. Hucke will be here to take you to the meeting shortly.”

  So she had reached Hucke. I was pleased. I was afraid we might just have to drop in on him, and I wasn’t certain if surprise would allow my plan to work.

  “Thank you,” I said softly, while looking impatient in case anyone besides my team was watching. “May we go inside?”

  I said that last a bit louder.

  “Of course,” she said, and scurried up the steps ahead of me, leaving a trail of Emeraude behind her. She unlocked the lockbox, removed the key, and opened the house. This was also part of my plan. If Delevan was our suspect and he killed his victims in this house, there might be obvious evidence.

  The house had the musty odor of a place that had been uninhabited for some time. I sniffed carefully, trying to catch any foul odors that might remain, but there seemed to be nothing suspicious.

  The main room was small, and the hardwood floor was dusty. There were patterns on the wood showing where Delevan’s furniture used to be. An end table still sat in the corner, with a phone on top of it. As I passed by, I picked up the receiver to see if the phone still worked.

  It did not.

  The rest of the house was as empty. The faucet in the kitchen leaked, leaving a trail of rusty water down the side of the porcelain sink, and the second bathroom was as small as the one in my apartment. But the bedrooms were large and the small living room had charm. There was a garden in the back that looked like it hadn’t been touched in years, but it had possibilities.

  I was beginning to understand why Louis Foster thought this place would be the perfect gift for his wife.

  When we finished our mock tour, we went back to the porch. Jane gave me her sales pitch, which was probably quite effective. I wasn’t listening. I was pretending to look at the outside of the building, but I was really watching the street.

  No one had bothered Sinkovich’s car, and I thought I saw the flash of a lens. There were a few other cars parked along the street, and Sinkovich’s seemed to blend in. The neighborhood was cheerier in the daylight, the houses neater and less threatening. But it was hard to forget how unfriendly this place had felt after dark.

  “There he is,” Jane said, and I turned slightly to see a man walking up the sidewalk. He was balding, with a square shape that seemed somehow familiar. It took me a moment to place him.

  It was the guy from the grocery store, the one I’d seen behind the meat counter. The one who had actually tried to be helpful.

  Fortunately I saw him before he saw me. I had time to make certain the surprise did not register on my face. I kept my expression carefully neutral as he came up the walk. I was going to pretend I hadn’t seen him before and see if he played along.

  When he saw me, he gave me a wide, friendly smile, and my pretense at neutrality disappeared. This time, I let my shock show. I couldn’t remember when a white man had smiled at me that way before.

  I nodded to him as he came toward me, hand extended.

  “Grimshaw is it?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said, extending my hand. He grabbed it hard enough for me to feel the strength in his fingers, but not in any threatening way.

  “I’m Rudy Hucke. Nice to meet you.” He gave Jane Sarton a friendly smile. “Mrs. Sarton. Nice to meet you face-to-face as well.”

  She smiled and shot me a nervous glance, apparently not quite sure what she was supposed to do next.

  “I’m going to take Mr. Grimshaw with me,” Hucke said. “You’re welcome to come, of course, but I have a hunch this’ll be boring for you. Do you two need to finish up some business before we go?”

  “No,” I said. “We’re fine.”

  Then, because I was playing a role, I put my hand on her shoulder, leaned in, and kissed her cheek, the way I’d seen white people do with female business acquaintances. I figured that little gesture would be enough to anger the calmest bigot. “Thanks, Mrs. Sarton. You’ve been wonderful. I’ll call you.”

  She blushed to the edges of her wig. “Mr. Grimshaw, Mr. Hucke.”

  Then she hurried down the walk, nearly tripping in her high-heeled boots.

  Hucke watched her go and, as he turned to me, I expected to see a change. Maybe his eyes would be colder, or his manner a bit forced. But when his gaze met mine, nothing was different.

  “We’re holding the meeting at my place,” he said. “It’s just a few doors down. Everyone’s taking a late lunch.”

  The same words Jane Sarton had used. She was getting into her car, an old sedan that was covered in road grime. Something pinged at my memory, something Delevan had said about Foster.

  He trusted me.

  “Ready?” Hucke asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You’ll like this place,” Hucke said as he led me down the stairs. “The house is great. I used to help Oscar work on it. He loved it but he got a promotion and they moved him to Lake Forest.”

  “Must have been quite a promotion,” I said. We sounded like possible friends. I had never had an off-the-cuff conversation with a white man like this, at least not this fast.

  It threw me off balance, made me feel as if the world had tilted slightly. And I was surprised at my response to his friendly smile. It had warmed me, even though I was on alert.

  How would it have felt to someone unprepared, someone like Louis Foster?

  Probably like he’d walked into the one place where he could coexist with whites, where he and his wife could be happy for the first time in years.

  He’d let his guard drop.

  “What do you do, Mr. Grimshaw?” Hucke stepped over a root growing up through the sidewalk. We were closer to Sinkovich’s car, and I had to work not to look at the men sitting in it.

  “I’m a lawyer,” I said, launching into the lies I had prepared in case the association meeting was just that—a sounding board for new neighbors.

  “I thought you sounded educated.”

  There it was. The hint of bigotry, couched in such nice language.

  But before I could react, he said, “Most folks here don’t have much education. We’re mostly blue-collar people.”

  And I found myself wondering if I was overreacting again.

  “Well,” I said, deciding to have the conversation I would have had if I were really thinking of buying the house, “if I had a blue-collar job, I wouldn’t be able to afford to live here.”

  �
�No, I suppose not.” Hucke’s tone didn’t vary. It was consistently friendly and interested. “I understand that black salaries are significantly lower than white salaries, especially in Chicago. I’m not quite sure what we can do about it.”

  His side of the conversation seemed genuine enough, and his use of the word “black” didn’t sound forced.

  “It’ll just have to change company to company, I guess,” I said.

  “I take it money’s not an issue for you, though?” He turned onto his sidewalk and kicked at some dried leaves as he went by.

  “No, it’s not,” I said. “My business is doing very well.”

  “You own your own business?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “That’s impressive.” He mounted the red steps and opened his front door. “Anyone here?”

  No one answered.

  He turned toward me and smiled. “I told people to go in without me if I wasn’t here. Guess no one else has arrived yet.”

  Then he went inside. I followed. This house was smaller than the Delevan house and smelled of furniture polish. The wood floors shone.

  It was hot inside. I felt sweat bead on my forehead as I surveyed the room.

  Hucke had rearranged the furniture for a meeting. Several kitchen chairs sat between the armchair and the couch. He had placed coasters on the coffee table in front of each seat.

  He took his jacket off and hung it on a peg beside the door.

  “Take off your coat and make yourself to home,” he said. “I’ll go crank the heat down and see if I can find us something to drink. Want a beer?”

  “It’s a little early for me,” I said. “Maybe some water would be nice.”

  “All right.” He started for the kitchen. I turned, shrugged my coat off my shoulders, and started to slide my arms through the sleeves.

  Suddenly, my coat twisted, trapping my arms behind my back. I tried to pull away, but couldn’t. Hucke was beside me, the friendly look gone from his face. His eyes were as cold as I had expected earlier, maybe even colder, deader.

  He was holding my coat with one hand. With the other, he held a knife and he was jamming it straight at my heart.