The Storm Killer

by Mike Jastrzebski

  “This isn’t about you, Jim. Daddy doesn’t like the fact that I’m a lawyer, do you daddy? Or that I work in New York. He’s got to realize that I’m a big girl now. I’ll decide who I want to associate with.”

  She straightened and tugged on my arm. “Will you walk with me?”

  I felt as if I owed Mr. Rutledge another apology, although I knew he’d never accept it. I let Mary lead me from the dining room.

  We stepped outside to a setting sun and a warm breeze. I took off my jacket and draped it over the back of the swing, then loosened my tie and unbuttoned my collar. I could feel the tension roiling throughout Mary’s body as we began to walk arm and arm around the block. Neither of us spoke as she fought to reign in her emotions.

  The silence hanging between us was tense but comfortable, maybe even intimate. Again, I was filled with regrets, about the past and what might have been.

  It was a neighborhood of artisans and merchants. The lots were small and the turn of the century brick houses looked solid. The sound of children playing in the neighborhood ricocheted off the walls.

  Almost every house had an automobile in the drive or parked in the street. A few were new, but most had seen better years. It reminded me that I was now the owner of a car myself. “I just realized I could have driven to Boston, if I’d wanted to. I mean if Helen left me everything I own her Packard now, right? I’ve never owned a car before.”

  “It’s not technically yours until we finish up with probate,” Mary said. “But since there’s nobody to contest the will, there wouldn’t be anyone to object if you drove it. To be honest though, I’m glad you took the train and didn’t drive.”

  “Me too,” I said. “Talking about the will reminds me. Boyle knows Helen left everything to me.”

  We were coming up to the front of Mary’s parent’s house and she dropped her grip on my arm, grabbed my hand, and started tugging me up the sidewalk. When we climbed up on the porch she pushed me toward the glider and added, “I’ll get us a couple of Cokes and you can tell me how you found out Boyle knows about the will.”

  “I’d rather have a beer,” I said.

  Mary headed for the door. “No booze of any kind. I’m trying to convince my parents you’ve turned over a new leaf, remember?”

  “It’s true.”

  “Then you’ll settle for a Coca-Cola.”

  Before I could argue any further she ducked into the house. I sat down and watched two young boys on bicycles ride by. With my feet planted in front of me I began to rock the swing. I was uncomfortable with the idea of spending the night. Mary’s father had made his feelings clear, and although her mother had been silent on the issue, I was pretty sure she would support her husband. If only things had turned out differently between us.

  Helen and I both attended college in Boston. Mary was Helen’s roommate, and when Helen introduced us I was smitten. The three of us went everywhere, and did everything together.

  In fact, they were both with me the night I discovered hard liquor. It was my twenty-second birthday and we were at a fraternity party. Drinks were frowned upon, but many college men carried a flask to the parties. When word got out that it was my birthday, I was suddenly the toast of the party. It seemed everyone I talked to that evening offered me a sip of whiskey.

  The next morning I woke up with a head the size of a watermelon and a hunger somewhat like I imagined Dracula felt the first night he awoke in his coffin. When I could finally climb out of bed I went off in search of my own flask. That night I got drunk again. I saw less and less of Mary, and three months later she decided I was more in love with my drinking than with her. She was probably right.

  Over the years I’ve learned to control my drinking, or maybe the drinking controls me. I’m not sure any more. Blackouts like the one I experienced the night my sister was killed were not uncommon. More often than not I drank enough to fog my mind and then went home and slept it off. The next day it was off to work, earn a paycheck, and do it again. I was beginning to think it wasn’t a very fruitful life plan.

  The screen door slammed open and snapped me out of my reverie. Mary carried a tray with two bottles of Coca-Cola and a plate of cookies to the table in front of me. When she bent over my heart felt as if someone had reached into my chest and squeezed it. I wondered for a moment if it was possible to have a second chance at first love.

  Mary handed me a sweaty Coke bottle and a cookie, picked up one of each for herself, and joined me on the glider. “I’m ready to listen now,” she said.

  “To how foolish I was to ever let you go?”

  She flushed and looked away. “I want to hear about your visit with the Boston police detective and why you think Boyle’s found out about the will already.

  I started talking. When I came to the part about the copper slamming me around the room she grabbed my arm.

  “You’ve got to be more careful, Jim.”

  “Slater’s on my side, now. He said he’d go to bat for me.”

  Mary laughed. “How long you been a reporter?”

  “Ten years.”

  “And I’ve been a lawyer for five. I’m willing to bet we’ve both learned the same thing about coppers over all those years.”

  “They stick together,” I said. “And they defend each other even when they’re wrong.”

  “Good coppers, bad coppers, it doesn’t matter,” Mary said. “They look out for each other.”

  “Boyle and Slater don’t even know each other. I suspect Slater’s ambition will win out over any loyalty he might feel.”

  “You willing to bet your life on it?” Mary asked.

  “I don’t know what else I can do. I dig for facts and I try to make sense of what I find out. It’s what I know. How I build my stories. I was hoping to put together enough facts so that someone would have to listen to me.”

  “It’s not enough.” Mary reached across me and snatched a cookie from the tray. Her hair smelled like fresh rainwater and a gentle jasmine scent wafted up from her skin.

  I wondered what she’d do if I bent forward and kissed the nape of her neck. I was too chicken to find out. Instead, I grabbed another cookie. I was suddenly tongue-tied.

  Mary gazed up at me with an impish look in her eyes and I thought she must know the effect she was having on me. Something told me she was enjoying it too.

  “We need to go and see Mrs. Quinn and have her sign a deposition stating you are not the person she saw coming out of Helen’s apartment the night she was killed. And you need to keep digging. You can’t depend on Ila Quinn’s testimony to set you free.”

  Mary rested her head on my shoulder, and as if by mutual consent we stopped talking about Helen’s murder and my problems. Maybe it was the night air, or the swarms of lightning bugs dancing across the lawn. Maybe we’d just run out of things to talk about.

  She began to breathe deeply and I could no longer resist. I brushed my lips against the top of her head and Mary snuggled into me while I sat back and counted fireflies and wished I was twenty again.

  CHAPTER TEN

  We arrived back at Grand Central Terminal a little after 5:00 o’clock, Sunday evening. We hadn’t eaten on the train so we walked over to a small German restaurant a block away from the station.

  The restaurant was dark and smoky and smelled of fried sausage, vinegar, and strong tobacco. Most of the dozen tables were already filled. In the corner, next to the kitchen, an old man dressed in lederhosen sat on a stool playing an accordion. Our waiter, also dressed in lederhosen, met us at the door and led us to a table in the back of the room.

  He spoke with a heavy German accent, had a red face and a thick black mustache, and when he smiled the first thing I noticed were his missing front teeth. At his recommendation, we ordered sweet-and-sour pot roast, potato dumplings, and German beer.

  The dark foamy brew was delivered in glass mugs that were so large I wondered if Mary would be able to lift hers. I should have known better. She snatched hers up by the handle and
held it out in front of her with a steady hand.

  “To an interesting weekend.”

  I raised my glass and touched the lip of the mug to hers. “I’m not sure that’s how I’d describe it.”

  Mary laughed, took a healthy swig of her beer, and set the mug on the table. “How would you describe it?”

  “It was one of the most uncomfortable, tension filled evenings, I’ve ever lived through. Your father was not happy you invited me to dinner. I don’t think he appreciated your defending me either.”

  “He’ll get over it. So will you.”

  “You were punishing me, weren’t you?”

  She was saved from answering by the arrival of our food. The waiter’s face lit up when we complimented him on the dumplings, and he hovered over us until we each tried the pot roast. It was a relief when he turned his attention to the needs of a nearby customer.

  After we finished eating Mary went off to the ladies room while I found the phone booth and called a cab.

  Mary and I stood outside and smoked while we waited for our ride. The buildings around us cast long shadows along the street. I caught Mary’s eye and she playfully stuck her tongue out at me.

  When the cab pulled up I opened the door, climbed in after Mary, and rattled off my address.

  “Would you like to come up?” I asked when we reached my building. She shrank back into the seat and looked uneasy.

  “It’s not much I’ll admit, but it’s close to work and it suits my needs.”

  “That’s not it, Jim. Everything’s happening so fast. I’m not sure I’m ready for this yet.”

  “Not ready for what?”

  “You know damn well what I’m talking about. I’ve seen that look before.”

  “I guess this is what happens when you date someone from your past. They’re an open book.”

  She raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips. “Are we dating now?”

  “I’d like to try it again. What do you think?”

  “I’d be willing to take it one date at a time,” she said. “See what happens.”

  “I’ll call you.” Reaching behind me, I found the handle and pushed the door open.

  Mary grabbed my jacket sleeve and gave me a quick kiss on the lips. “You’d better,” she said, and then she reached up with her thumb and wiped a smear of lipstick from my lips.

  I winked at her and slid backwards out of the seat. As soon as my feet hit the ground someone grabbed my arm and pulled me backwards. My head slammed against the roof of the cab and before I could catch my balance the hands spun me around and shoved me back against the car.

  “You’re under arrest, asshole,” Michael Boyle whispered into my ear.

  Mary cried out from the other side of the car and I made a half-hearted effort to push him away. That was a mistake. Boyle brought his arm up and I caught sight of a leather sap just before my head exploded and I lost consciousness.

  I woke up in the back seat of a car that smelled as if someone had heaved up their breakfast and nobody had bothered cleaning it up. I couldn’t focus on my surroundings and my tongue felt as thick as a piece of kielbasa. When I tried to speak all that came out was a strangled groan.

  “You shouldn’t have hit him so hard, Boyle,” a gruff voice said. “Not in front of witnesses.”

  “How was I supposed to know the skirt was his lawyer? Besides, we got him dead to rights on this killing. He’s guilty and we can prove it.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone.” It sounded like gibberish to me, and I began to worry that the clip to my head had done some serious damage.

  The man who’d spoken to Boyle looked back over the seat. “I think he might need a doctor. There’s an awful lot of blood on his face.” It took my brain several moments to register that it was Frank Belcher talking.

  “Where are you taking me?” My tongue was still swollen and my head still throbbed, but I was relieved my words no longer sounded like a series of unintelligible grunts and groans.

  Boyle studied me in the mirror. “He’s all right. He just scraped his mug a little when he fell.”

  “You know damn well she’s going to be at the station right behind us,” Belcher said.

  “I had a little talk with the cab driver before we left,” Boyle said. “Told him if he didn’t want to spend the next six months plucking tickets off his windshield he should get lost on the way over. Should buy us some time.”

  “For what?” I asked.

  They both ignored me and two minutes later we pulled up to the back of police headquarters. Boyle shut off the engine and Belcher jumped out of the car and opened the back passenger door. “Get out,” he said. The sun was almost down now, and the parking lot was not very well lit. I didn’t like what was happening, and I didn’t like what I was hearing.

  “I want to see my lawyer.”

  Boyle opened the other door and slapped his sap against his open palm. “You don’t want me to have to drag you out, Locke.”

  “I think Mike likes slamming you around,” Belcher said. “Might take me awhile to get around the car and pull him off you.”

  I glanced at Belcher and shifted my gaze back to Boyle. A tight little smile played across his lips and I could tell he was itching to hurt me. I slid out through the passenger door. My hands were cuffed behind me and when Belcher grabbed my arm I heard a popping sound in my shoulder. It was followed by a sharp pain that flowed like lightning from my shoulder down to my fingertips.

  “Hey,” I cried out. “Take it easy.”

  “Quit your whining,” Boyle said.

  “Where’s my lawyer?”

  They ignored my question and Boyle led the way through the back door of the station, down a cold concrete hallway and up two flights of stairs. We passed several uniformed coppers who didn’t pay any attention to us.

  The floor they took me to contained a series of interrogation rooms and offices. I’d been here before, as a reporter, not a prisoner. I hadn’t liked the feel or the antiseptic smell of the place then; I liked it even less now.

  At the end of the hall Boyle threw a door open and nodded inside. The room was painted gray and a single light bulb hung above the wooden table which I knew from my previous visits was bolted to the floor.

  Belcher dragged me over to the chair behind the table and pushed me into it. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

  I rattled the cuffs behind my back. “Can I get these off?”

  Belcher reached into his vest pocket and Boyle growled, “Leave him cuffed.”

  “He can’t get out of here Mike.” When Belcher pulled out his cuff key Boyle spun around and stomped out of the room.

  “Thanks,” I said as Belcher removed the handcuffs.

  “Don’t thank me. Your lawyer girlfriend’s going to be pissed enough when she gets here. I want her to know we’re treating you right before we throw you in a cell.”

  I stood and faced him. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “Sit down and shut up.” Belcher shot me a nasty look and left the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

  My shirt was soaked with sweat. I took off my jacket and hung it on the back of the chair. Then I started pacing around the room hoping it would tamp down my anxieties. Boyle had acted like he had something concrete. I knew that was impossible since I was innocent. Boyle wasn’t likely to take it well when I told him Ila Quinn was willing to testify I wasn’t the man she saw outside Helen’s apartment.

  I wondered if I’d ever convince Boyle that the same person who killed Helen murdered Ethel Bloomberg. He had me pegged for Helen’s murder, but I had my own suspect. Hank, Helen’s unknown suitor, topped my list. Unfortunately, I had no real proof. I didn’t even know who the hell Hank was.

  I would never convince Boyle that a killer was targeting young actresses with a specific look about them. Women with long dark hair, blue eyes, and on the verge of stardom seemed to be what this killer was interested in. Maybe with Ila Quinn’s testimony I could convince Belcher. If I could get
him on my side Boyle might come around himself.

  I jumped when the door flew open. Boyle walked in carrying a pad of paper and a chair, which he set down across the table from the chair they’d left me sitting in. Belcher followed him into the room, closed the door, folded his arms, and leaned against it.

  “Sit down,” Boyle said.

  I looked over at Belcher and he licked his lips, refusing to meet my gaze. I didn’t know if he was worried for me, or for himself. I was willing to bet he hadn’t told Boyle about showing me the case file. He was probably afraid I’d rat him out. I would have if I thought it would turn Boyle’s attention away from me.

  “I’d rather stand.”

  Boyle tugged the sap from his back pocket and slapped it against the table top. I flinched at the sound of leather on wood and he smiled. “I said sit down.”

  I did what he asked and he sat down across from me. He wore the same damn smirk on his face he’d shown me earlier. I looked down at my hands and pretended I wasn’t trapped in the middle of a Boris Karloff movie.

  “You like to hurt women?” Boyle asked.

  “Funny,” I said. “I heard the same thing about you.”

  Before I could even think about gloating at my cleverness Boyle snapped the sap against my elbow. “Son of a bitch!” I gritted my teeth against the pain and jumped up. Belcher crossed the room in three quick steps and pushed me back into the chair.

  He dug his fingers into my shoulder blade until I grunted. “Stop being an asshole. We spent all day standing outside that hole-in-the-wall you call home. We’re both tired and more than a little cranky. Now tell us why you did it. And don’t deny it; we’ve got you dead to rights this time.”

  “I told you I didn’t kill Helen.”

  “We ain’t talking about your sister right now, asshole,” Belcher said.

  “Yeah, we don’t have enough evidence to fry you for that one yet,” Boyle said. “But we’ve got you dead to rights on old lady Quinn’s murder, fingerprints and all.”