“Sorry, Jim. I’ve got an appointment this afternoon. We do need to talk, though. How about lunch tomorrow?”
I couldn’t help noticing she didn’t wear a ring. “Maybe we could make it dinner?”
“This is business,” she said, “Not pleasure.”
“Business?”
“Yes, business.” Mary glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to go. Can you meet me at the Claremont Inn? Say noon? I can explain everything then.”
“Sure,” I said.
Mary gave me another quick hug. Her breath was warm against my cheek, her body soft and full. I was disappointed when she pulled away and hurried off without another word. I waited until she climbed into her Chevrolet before turning my attention to the remaining mourners.
After all of Helen’s friends left I drifted over to the gravesite. Looking down one last time at the casket I whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Ed let me mourn alone for several minutes before joining me. “We should go.” he said.
As I followed him across the wet lawn to where his Ford was parked I fought the urge to run to Helen and tell her once again how sorry I was. I was glad Ed was there to drive me home.
Ed and I shared a dorm room our freshmen year in college. We were about as different as two men could be, but something clicked between us from the start and we’ve watched each other’s back since then.
I’m six-two, a little thinner than I like, and have been called handsome by more than one woman. Besides women, my biggest vice is drinking. Although I like to think of myself as a law abiding citizen, I’ve never hesitated to skate across the gray lines between right and wrong when it meant scooping a story.
Ed on the other hand was short and stocky. Muscular, not fat. He’d started losing his hair before we met. He once knocked a guy from his bar stool for referring to him as short and bald. Ed never cared much for hooch. He’d quit college after his freshman year and gone to work at his father’s speakeasy. Except for an occasional cigar, he didn’t smoke, and he often bragged he’d never paid to get laid. Ed equated success with the amount of money he had in the bank. He had half-a-dozen cops on his pad and kept a roll of cash in his safe in case he needed to bribe a judge or a politician. I knew of at least one man he’d killed, and I’d heard rumors of two others. In the movies they’d call Ed a bad man. I called him friend.
“You gonna be okay?” he asked.
“Define okay.”
He didn’t even try, and I leaned back in my seat. The rain was now coming down in a steady drizzle. The constant drumming on the roof mixed with the swish of the wiper blades soothed my nerves. It was almost hypnotic. As we passed through Green-Wood’s gothic brownstone gateway I pressed my forehead against the cool window and thought about the last time I saw Helen.
A late season snowstorm had driven most people off the streets and I found the experience of walking alone along West 57th Street somewhat unsettling. I was on my way home from covering a double murder when I’d stopped in at the Schrafft’s Restaurant to call in my story.
Helen was sitting at the bar with her back to the door. She was the only customer in the place and she swiveled around in her chair when she heard me enter. The two-tone brown dress she wore looked good on her. Her hat was sitting on the counter next to her purse. She’d cut her hair since the last time I saw her, and it looked like she’d lost some weight as well.
When she recognized me, she swung back toward the bar and took a hefty slug of her drink. With trepidation I crossed the restaurant and took the stool next to her. “Give me a Rheingold,” I told the bartender. “And another drink for the lady.”
Helen placed the palm of her hand over the glass. “Nothing for me.”
I waited until the bartender set the beer in front of me, then I slipped out of my coat and handed it to him along with my hat.
“How are you doing, Helen?”
She stiffened her body and refused to look at me. I figured it was a good sign she didn’t get up and leave. Instead, she reached into her purse and took out her lighter and a pack of cigarettes. I was surprised that Helen had switched to Chesterfields. I wondered what else had changed in her life since we’d last spoken six months earlier.
Helen slid a cigarette out of the pack and tapped it on her wrist. Without thinking, I took my lighter from my pocket and offered her a light. She threw me a nasty look and lit her own cigarette. Keeping her head down, she shoved everything back into her purse.
The bartender brought over an ashtray and pointed at her empty glass. “Sure you don’t want another?” he asked.
“I’m sure.”
“You can’t ignore me forever,” I said.
Two thin lines of smoke escaped from her nostrils. “I can try.”
“I don’t want it to be like this between us,” I said. “We used to be close.”
“That was before you killed my husband.”
Helen took another drag from her cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke into my face. I sat there and took it. We both knew I deserved it.
After a short silence, I said, “It’s been six months, Helen. I’m sorry about Charles. It’s not like I pulled the trigger.”
“You might as well have.” She slid off the stool and motioned to the bartender. When he ran up with her coat she let him slip it over her shoulders. She left me sitting there, feeling abandoned.
Now Helen was gone and there would never be another chance encounter. With a sigh I looked out the car window toward the East River. Placing my thumb and forefinger against the bridge of my nose I squeezed, hoping the pressure would ease the pain building in my forehead. It only made it worse. By the time we pulled onto the Brooklyn Bridge my head was playing host to a full blown headache. I dropped my hands into my lap and shifted in the seat so I could look at Ed.
“I need a favor,” I said.
During prohibition Ed’s father owned several speakeasies. When his father was shot in 1927, Ed took over the business. With the end of prohibition, he’d gone legit and opened a legal club.
We never discussed his illegal activities, but I knew he still kept a list of coppers who were on the take, then and now.
“Go ahead.”
“You know a detective name of Boyle?”
“My dad did a little business with him. Before he made detective.”
“He’s investigating Helen’s murder.”
Traffic was bumper to bumper and we came to a stop before reaching the end of the bridge. I told him about seeing Boyle at the funeral talking to Greeley and about what Boyle said at my apartment. “I think he’s trying to pin Helen’s murder on me.”
Ed glanced my way then shifted his attention back to the road while the car in front of him inched forward. “You sure you’re not imagining this?”
“I’m telling you—he thinks I killed her.”
“You’d never hurt Helen.”
“Otis seems to think Boyle’s capable of making the evidence fit his investigation.”
“I’ve heard the rumors. What do you want me to do?”
“I need you to set it up so I can see the case file on Helen’s murder.”
The taillights on the car in front of us flashed on and Ed slammed on the brakes.
“That’s not a good idea, Jim.”
“I need you to do this for me.”
“There’ll be pictures.”
“I’ve seen case files before.”
“This is Helen for Christ’s sake. Think about what you’re asking.”
“I’ve done nothing but think about it.”
“You just looking for a story, Jim?”
“I don’t give a god damn about the story.”
“So why do you need to see the file?”
“I want to get the son-of-a-bitch who killed my sister. If I end up in jail her killer gets away with murder.” I leaned forward so Ed could see the determination in my face. “I’m gonna do this with or without you.”
Ed drummed his fingers on the steering wheel
. When he finally spoke his voice carried an air of resignation. “I’ll see what I can do.”
It was enough for me. We’d been friends long enough for me to know he’d find a way to deliver.
“How long will it take to set something up?” I asked.
“Stop by my place tonight, around seven. I know just the man you need to talk to.”
“I’ll be there.”
CHAPTER THREE
I wasn’t sure Ed’s place, the Coaster Club, was the ideal location to meet. I hadn’t touched a drink since the morning I found out about Helen. After the realization that she was really dead settled over me, I’d promised myself I wouldn’t have another drink until her murderer was behind bars. The past four days had been tougher than I’d expected. As I walked from my apartment to the club, I was filled with escalating doubts about how well my resolve would hold up once I arrived at the club and was surrounded by a platoon of whiskey bottles.
The Coaster Club was originally located on Twenty-Fifth Street, a few blocks off Broadway in an old brownstone Ed’s father, Teddy, inherited from Ed’s grandmother. Although Ed’s grandfather had managed to gamble away the family fortune by the time of his death in 1915, he somehow held onto the family home. Ed’s grandmother died there on January 27, 1920 and the brownstone went to Teddy. Prohibition took effect two days later.
The brownstone sat right in the center of what would become the city’s speakeasy district. Teddy Granger spent the next three months remodeling the downstairs of his childhood home into one of those speaks and the Coaster Club was born.
Seven years later, Teddy Granger was gunned down on the street outside of his club. At the time, word on the street was that Teddy didn’t believe in banks. It was rumored he kept his money in an apartment above the Coaster Club. The police declared Teddy’s murder to be the unfortunate result of a botched robbery. Witnesses saw a local hoodlum by the name of Spider Haynes running away from the body.
Spider Haynes’ body was found down by the docks three days later. He’d been worked over with a baseball bat. Spider’s killer broke both his legs and his right arm before staving in his skull. There were no witnesses and the coppers never found Spider’s killer. Ed was questioned and released. There was never any doubt in my mind that it was Ed who gave the little weasel what he had coming to him.
Ed took over the business and ran it until the Volstead Act was repealed thirteen years later. At that time, he relocated the Coaster Club to a new building about a mile away from its former home and went legit.
I was still a couple of blocks from the club when it started to rain, and by the time I arrived it was pouring. I took off my hat and coat, shook off the water, and handed them to the pretty blonde girl working the hatcheck stand. She wore a blue gown that matched her eyes and she smiled at me as if she had been waiting all night for me to walk through the door. Maybe she had.
As she took my hat and coat she said, “Sorry to hear about your sister, Jim.”
“Thanks.” I tried to recall her name, but it wouldn’t come to me.
“I’ve been watching for you. Mister Granger said to tell you to go on back to his office when you got here.”
I took my claim check and headed for the bar. A knockout girl I didn’t know was banging out a pretty decent version of I Only Have Eyes for You on the baby grand up on the stage. Smoke hovered above the tables, and my nose quivered at the scent of strong perfume from someone nearby.
There were about a hundred customers seated in the dining room. Tuxedo clad waiters ran about trying to keep them all happy while Eve, a tall striking redhead with sculpted legs and full pouty lips, wandered between the tables selling cigarettes and cigars.
Joe Marks stood behind the twenty-foot mahogany bar keeping an eye on the three bartenders who were working that night. In his younger days Joe boxed professionally. A glass jaw and a tendency to drop his right after a couple of rounds kept him out of serious contention. He’d started tending bar at the original Coaster Club. Now he ran the place for Ed. Built like a gorilla, Joe rarely smiled. He shaved his head to hide the fact that his hair was almost gray.
When Joe saw me he reached for a bottle of Johnny Walker. I waved him off. “Just a cup of coffee,” I said. “If it’s fresh.”
Joe raised an eyebrow. “Ed’s waiting for you in the back. I’ll put on a pot. Bring you a cup when it’s done.”
I walked past the bar to Ed’s office, gave the door a quick rap, and walked in without waiting to be invited.
Ed sat on the leather swivel chair behind his desk. A large painting of four nude women playing cards hung on the wall behind his chair. A customer left it as collateral for a bar tab years earlier. When the man failed to return Ed decided to display the painting in a prominent area as a reminder of the pitfalls of extending credit. An empty correspondence basket, along with a dictionary and a clean, crystal ashtray were all that sat on the desk.
Someone had hauled a couple of chairs in from the dining room and set one on either side of the desk. Michael Boyle’s partner sat on the chair to Ed’s right. He frowned when he looked over his shoulder and saw me.
The man wore a navy blue suit like the one he’d worn when he came to my room. I was tempted to ask him if he wore the same suit every day. Maybe he had three or four identical cheap suits at home. Since I knew very few coppers with a sense of humor, I held back my comments.
“You’ve met Frank Belcher.” Ed said. I wasn’t sure if he was asking a question or stating a fact.
Belcher stood. “You didn’t tell me I was doing a favor for this joker.”
“Now you know,” Ed said.
I crossed the room and held out my hand. I might as well have been offering him a rattlesnake.
Belcher stood and leaned into me. “Boyle’s got you pegged for your sister’s murder, Locke. I don’t know if you’re guilty or not. I don’t like being pushed around by your friend either.”
I glanced at Ed. He spread his open hands out in front of him. “You said you wanted to see Helen’s case file. Belcher here owes me a favor.”
Blood rushed to Belcher’s face. I saw the anger creep into his eyes and when he spun around, I half expected him to throw himself across the desk at Ed. Instead, he rested his knuckles on the surface, leaned forward and spoke in a clipped staccato tone.
“This is the last time, Granger. After Locke reads the file we’re even. You’ve been holding one little indiscretion over my head for ten years. No more. After today we’re even.”
Belcher waited until Ed nodded his agreement. “One more thing. If I find out Boyle’s right and this sorry son of a bitch killed his sister, I’m gonna bring him in myself.”
Ed pushed himself away from the desk. “Come on Frank, I’ll buy you a drink while Jim goes over the file.”
“I’ll buy my own drinks, Granger,” Belcher said. “I don’t ever want to owe you again.”
Belcher looked at his watch as he passed me. “You’ve got one hour. And I meant what I said. If I find out you offed your sister, you won’t have to worry about Boyle.”
After the door closed I turned to Ed. “What have you got on him?”
“I promised I’d keep it to myself.”
Ed snatched up the file before I could grab it. “You sure you want to do this?”
It was a question I’d been asking myself since approaching him. I felt none of the excitement that usually motivated me when I started working on a story. Instead, my insides were quivering. I realized I was dreading what I was about to do. This was no stranger who had been killed. It was Helen.
Sliding my notebook and pen from my shirt pocket, I tossed them on the desk. “Don’t want to do it, Ed. Need to.”
I was beginning to understand how all the victims I’d interviewed over the years felt. The last couple of days had been touch and go as I dodged reporters. I’d even steered clear of Allen Cummings from the Daily Post. Otis was going to blow his top about that. I didn’t care. I didn’t want to talk to any
of them. All I cared about was finding Helen’s killer.
I wouldn’t fail her again. I owed it to her to make sure the bastard who killed her got a one way ticket to Sing-Sing. I was looking forward to watching the bastard when he had his intimate encounter with Old Sparky.
Ed set the file onto the desk and pushed it toward me.
“For the record, I think this is a big mistake. I’ll be at the bar if you need me.”
After he left the room I lit a cigarette and turned to the file. Inside, there was an envelope filled with photographs. I shoved it aside. I’d gone through dozens of police files over the years. I’d examined stacks of crime scene photos. This was different. Although my eyes kept straying to the envelope, I knew I wouldn’t be able to look at Helen’s body in the same way I looked at other victims.
I dragged out the pages of notes. Some were hand written, some were typed. It didn’t take me long to figure out that the scrawling hand written pages belonged to Boyle while the neat, typed pages had been placed there by Belcher. I picked up the first sheet; it was one of Boyle’s. He’d scribbled Mrs. Ila Quinn, across the top in large block letters. I sat down and started reading.
The witness stated she fell asleep on the sofa while reading. She woke up around 3 A. M. when she heard two people arguing across the hall. Witness went on to say that when the shouting stopped she thought she heard a scream. I asked the witness why she didn’t call the police. She said she stood at the door for five minutes and didn’t hear anything. Thought she might a made a mistake. After that she couldn’t fall back to sleep. She started reading again. Maybe twenty minutes later she heard the door across the hall open. When she ran back to the peephole she saw a man leaving the apartment. The man was maybe six-feet tall and wearing a trench coat. She couldn’t identify him. The coat’s lapels were pulled up around the man’s face and his hat was pulled down over his eyes. She swears there was blood on the coat so she called the police.
I asked the witness if she saw anything else she might consider suspicious or out of the ordinary that evening. She told me that around dinnertime she looked out her window and thought she saw the victim’s brother, Jim Locke, standing on the street corner. I asked why that was unusual and the witness said the victim and her brother were not on speaking terms. To the best of her knowledge the brother had not visited his sister in over a year.
The Storm Killer Page 2
