Snowjob

by Ted Wood

  He didn’t argue, just repeated his fear. “I’m afraid they will. He’s dead, the town knows what he was like.” He looked at me now out of pale blue eyes. “That’s why I’ve come to see you.”

  “What can I do? I don’t have any powers in this town.”

  “I hear you’re a detective where you come from. Frank Maloney told me.”

  “That’s true,” I said carefully.

  “I want to ask if I can hire your services.” He looked at me with a new keenness, good old Yankee shrewdness, I guessed.

  “To do what?”

  “To clear my boy’s name.” He cleared his throat again. “To clear the family name, I guess.”

  TWELVE

  I looked at him in amazement. “You mean that?”

  “Yes.” He sat there rigidly in his good wool shirt and his buff corduroy slacks, the successful businessman on his day off, his face as keen as a hawk’s. “I’ve discussed this with my wife. She feels the same as me. We’ve both been very disappointed with the way Jack turned out. He was a wonderful boy but he’s never seemed to grow up and get a hold of himself. We both knew he’s got enemies in town, people who would nod and say ‘uh-huh’ if the police made any more accusations against him.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to say I’m ashamed of my own son, but I want his name cleared now that he’s dead.”

  I answered very carefully. “Did you know that I tangled with your son and two of his buddies in Brewskis a couple of nights back and that last night they tried to jump me in the parking lot?”

  “He’s dead,” Grant said quietly. “Whatever bad things he’s done are over now.” I didn’t answer and he added, “We don’t have anyone else to turn to, Mr. Bennett.”

  That gave me an opening. I said, “Surely there’s a private investigator somewhere close by, somebody with the right licenses for this jurisdiction, someone you can trust.”

  “If this was a divorce case or about money and nothing else, I’d say yes. But this is a matter that calls for police skills.”

  Doug came back with a drink for me and I nodded thanks and took it. I was torn. The man was looking to earn his son a nice clean slate to be buried with, only from where I sat it didn’t seem that the guy had earned one. But on the other hand, if I went along with this, I could get a look at Grant’s room, talk about his involvements, maybe get to the bottom of who his contacts were, who had killed him. I doubted that his father would give as much cooperation to the police.

  I settled on diplomacy. “Since I’ve been here, I’ve become friends with Mr. Maloney, your lawyer. I think I should get his opinion on this. I didn’t get on with your son. Maybe if I’d known him better it would have been different, but I need a referee of some kind to guide me here.”

  “That sounds like a fair solution.” Grant set down his glass and stood up. “Talk to Frank. He’s a friend of mine and a fair man. I’ll abide by what he advises you.”

  We shook hands and he thanked Doug for the drink and left. I stayed where I was until Doug had closed the door and come back into the living room. “Weeeeell,” he said with a grin I remembered from boot camp. “You got yourself a job offer.”

  “Hell of an ethical problem,” I said. “I just found a pocketknife, probably belonging to his son, right there in the couch at Cindy Laver’s apartment.”

  That took the smile off his face. “You mean that?”

  I filled him in and he sat, thoughtfully. “Don’t make sense he’d’ve lounged around on the couch if he’d come to kill her. That don’ hold up.”

  “She say anything about being friends with him?”

  “It never came up,” Doug said. “We didn’t talk about much except the case. If we’d been an item, I’d been jealous, stuff like that, maybe it would’ve.”

  “He must have spent time up there with her. Maybe that adds something to the case. Maybe he knew what she was doing for you,” I insisted. “Come on, Doug. How much did you really know about her?”

  “Not a whole hell of a lot,” he said and there was bitterness in his voice. “And the chance is gone now.”

  I switched the subject. “Did you ever use the fire escape to visit her?”

  “I never went there except with her. I didn’t have to sneak around.”

  “But you know where it is?”

  “The kitchen window. I’ve thought about that. The guy who killed her must’ve come in that way.”

  “Maybe not. There’s a separate bell for her apartment. He could have buzzed her and she could’ve come down to let him in.”

  “Yeah,” Doug said. “Or maybe he had a key.” He took a slug of his rye. “If guys like Grant were calling on her, maybe she had all kinds of action.”

  “Maybe he killed her,” I suggested.

  “And just how the hell we gonna find out?”

  “I might do it if I take up his dad’s request. I’d have to tell him ahead of time that I’m not going to do any kind of snowjob. I can promise to dig for facts, let the chips fall where they fall.”

  “Think he’ll go for that?”

  “I’m not sure. But the best thing to do is ring Maloney and ask him. I have to do that much before I get back to Grant.”

  “Go for it,” Doug said. “I don’t think Lieutenant Cassidy will find out as much as you can if you try. He’s too busy acting the big wheel detective.”

  “Can I use the phone?”

  “He’p yourself.” He waved to the kitchen and I went through and phoned.

  Maloney answered on the first ring. “Hi. It’s Reid Bennett. Have you heard what’s been happening?”

  “Yes.” A lawyer’s precise pronunciation. “I’ve got the radio on in the kitchen. There’s nothing more than you told me. Who killed her? Have you any idea?”

  I told him I hadn’t learned anything fresh and then moved on to my main reason for calling, Grant’s offer.

  “How do you feel about that?” he asked.

  “Well, let’s just say I thought Jack was bad news.”

  “He was, no doubt about it. But Paul has a point. The police will use that fact to tidy up the death of Ms. Tate. That’s if they don’t find something that clearly indicates Jack didn’t do it.”

  “Are you implying they might not even look too hard?”

  “Oh, they’ll look hard but if she’s been shot with that gun of Grant’s, they won’t need much persuasion that he did it.”

  “They can’t prove that until they recover the gun.”

  “I’d imagine that whoever killed him probably also killed Ms. Tate. If I’d done that I would have left his gun somewhere close by, at the scene probably, or in his car?”

  “His car was right there, locked, but he had the keys in his pocket when we searched the body. The killer could have taken them and put the gun inside.” He still hadn’t given me a clear indication of what he thought so I put the question again. “Do you think I should do this or not? I mean, Grant senior wants me to whitewash his son.”

  He took a long time answering. Then he said, “I’ll talk to Paul, let him know that you won’t lie for him. You’ll dig out whatever you can, good or bad. Whatever is relevant you’ll share with the police. That’s your only stipulation.” He stopped again. “Did he ask what you’ll charge?”

  “I hadn’t thought about charging him.”

  He chuckled then, a dry little sound. “Take a little free advice from a lawyer. You have to, Reid. Otherwise he’ll think you’re doing this just to clear your buddy. No, I think three hundred a day sounds reasonable. Break it out to an hourly rate if you’ll be splitting your time on checking into Officer Ford’s case. But Paul Grant can afford that and it keeps everything professional.”

  “Thank you for the advice. I wonder if you’d be kind enough to call him, tell him I’ll come over in about an hour. I’d like to go through his son’s things.”

  “Will do,” he said. “Ooops, there’s a car coming into the drive. I think it’s Ella. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

&n
bsp; We hung up and I gave Doug a quick rundown. “Hell, I’d love to come with you,” he said wistfully. “But I gotta sit on my hands.”

  “You can use the time well. Check if Melody left any franks and beans in the larder,” I told him. “We’ll have ourselves a boot camp supper.”

  “You going right over?” he asked.

  “No. I want to take Sam for a run. He’s been cooped up ever since we got here. Won’t take me more than half an hour, then shower and over there on schedule.”

  “I’d like to come with you.” He shook his head. “But that’s not on. I guess I’ll get Angie’s skipping rope out and work out in the basement.”

  I changed into a track suit and running shoes and when I came downstairs, Sam was beside himself with pleasure, squirming and wagging his tail. He knew he’d be along for the run. We set out, running on the left side of the street, clear of the icy sidewalks. The roadway was a little slick but my shoes were designed for bad surfaces so I made good time, clicking off three fast miles with Sam at my heels. On the way I found a piece of open land that wasn’t a park or apparently used for walking and Sam breasted his way into the snow and relieved himself there. Then we made our way back to Doug’s place with the wind in my face and my mind in neutral.

  Like most runs, this one worked its usual magic and I found myself fresher, able to tackle the next stage of the investigation without tension. I showered and put on a good shirt and pants and headed for the Grant place.

  Grant came to the door himself. “I’m grateful for this.”

  “I hope it proves useful to you,” I said. “Does Mrs. Grant know I’m coming?”

  “She’s in the kitchen. Let me take your coat and I’ll introduce you.” He hung up my coat and led the way through a living room that looked as if all the decorating ideas had come from magazines, and out to the kitchen where his wife was making coffee. She was lean, like her husband, fiftyish and pretty but today her face was drawn and lined with tears.

  “This is Mr. Bennett, dear,” Grant said. “Mr. Bennett, my wife Jean.”

  “Mrs. Grant, I’m very sorry about what happened to your son.”

  She tried to smile but it looked painful. “Thank you. Would you like some coffee?”

  “Thank you, ma’am. Black please.”

  “I’ll take Mr. Bennett into the living room,” Grant said. “If the phone rings, I’ll get it”

  She smiled the same flash of pain and turned to the pot. He led me back into the living room. “We’ve had people here all day,” he explained. “First the police, of course. Then friends and well-wishers, the minister. I finally asked him to organize a telephone chain to ask our friends to give us some room until tomorrow. Jean’s mother is coming from Florida in the morning. She’ll be able to help.”

  “They mean well,” I said. Here, in his home, I could share his distress. To me and the other cops involved in the case, young Grant had been another body and I’ve seen my share of them. But the hole he had left in this family would never heal.

  “Where do you want to start?” he asked.

  “First off, did he have any enemies who might have done this?”

  “Lieutenant Cassidy asked the same thing. I’ve been trying to think. Sure he had people mad at him but none who would have killed him.”

  I phrased the next question very carefully. “Was he in any kind of money trouble?” I hoped he wouldn’t see at once that Maloney had told me about the gambling debts.

  “He’s had money trouble in the past, we all have. But I don’t think he had any pressing problems right now.”

  “Okay. Now, he was seen at Cat’s Cradle in the company of someone from the New York area. Did he have dealings with anyone from there, do you know?”

  Now his lean face tightened. “Maloney’s been talking, hasn’t he?”

  I dodged the bullet. “I was with Detective Hinton this morning when he called on Jack’s companions from last night. That information came from one of them.”

  “All right,” he said grimly. “That’s fair enough, I guess. But just so you know I’m not holding back, let me say this.” He set down his coffee, untasted. “My son was a gambler. He got in deep a couple times. I’m not sure who his bookie was but once before he got a call from a slick sonofabitch in a thousand-dollar suit. At the store. Came in here like he owned it. Jack was shaking when he saw the guy come in.”

  “Did you get a good look at him?”

  “As close as I am to you. He said, ‘Nice place you got here. Must be worth a bundle.’ Then he helped himself to something off the counter and I said, ‘Hey, what’s going on?’ and he said, ‘Put it on my tab,’ and walked out.”

  “What was it he took?”

  Grant almost exploded. “What does it matter? He acted like he owned the place. Then Jack told me he owed twenty-seven thousand dollars to the man and if he didn’t pay they were going to break his legs.”

  “So you paid?”

  “Of course I paid.” He got control of himself again and picked up his coffee cup. His hand was trembling.

  “What did the man look like?”

  “Five-six, thereabouts. Good dark suit, even though this was summertime. He’d be around thirty-five, dark, land of a moon face.”

  “Would you recognize him again?”

  “After what he cost me?” His voice was a snarl. “You can count on that.”

  “Did you mention this to the police?”

  “Yes. They want me to go in and look at their picture books. I said I would as soon as I can.”

  “The sooner the better, Mr. Grant. He sounds a lot like the man that was seen with your son yesterday.”

  He sipped his coffee. It seemed to soothe him, “I’m going this evening. Our neighbor will come in and stay with Jean.”

  “Good. It could help. If this is the same man, he’s got organized crime connections. After the threat he made to your son earlier, he’s the prime suspect. And that makes him the prime suspect in the killing of Ms. Tate as well.”

  He sat there, nodding quietly. “That makes sense.”

  “Now there’s one thing that’s more important than it seems. What did he take from your store?”

  “A pocketknife,” Grant said. “The best little knife we sell. Took it right out of the display case.”

  “Could you describe it to me?”

  He frowned. “What’s all this about?”

  “Humor me, please. I need to know.”

  “Okay. It’s a bone-handled pocketknife, made by the Apogee company of Detroit. Retails for twenny-nine ninety-five. Two blades. Got a little shield on the side.”

  “Thank you.” I put down my coffee cup. “Could I take a look at your son’s room now, please?”

  “The police already did,” he said with a touch of anger. “They took away a plastic sack of stuff.”

  “I’d still like to look, if that’s okay?”

  “Sure. Come on.” He led me up the stairs which were wide and lightly painted over the oak, giving a ghostly effect. “I’ve done a lot of work on this place,” he said almost automatically. “It’s kind of a hobby and my wife likes new things.”

  “Your home is beautiful,” I said politely. It was a little too modern for my taste, but the work had been done well. He was an excellent craftsman.

  He opened the door of a room at the head of the stairs. It was big, about fourteen feet square, and had a bathroom attached. “I built this suite for Jack when it got to the point we figured he was going to be at home for keeps. He spent most of his time here.”

  “Very nice,” I said. I stood in the doorway and looked around. There was a bed which had obviously been stripped by the police searchers, a good sound system and a TV set. There was no bookshelf but a couple of copies of Sports Illustrated were lying on the bedside table. There was a small desk under the window.

  “Did the police say what they’d taken?”

  “They emptied his desk,” Grant said flatly. “I don’t know why. Cassidy said
they were going to check to see if any names turned up that they could check on.”

  “A good thing to do,” I said. “But I’d like to look anyway. Do you want to stay?”

  He didn’t answer and I thought for a moment he hadn’t heard. Then he said, “This used to be two rooms. Jack and I gutted them and built this for him. He worked along with me. Did a lot of the finish work himself. He was a craftsman, my son.” He sighed. “No. I don’t guess I need to stay. I’ll be downstairs with Jean when you’re through.”

  He left, closing the door, and I went over to the desk and opened the top drawer. It was empty and I pulled it completely out, turning it over. There was nothing taped underneath. I did the same with each of the other drawers. They were the same. Then I stooped and looked up inside the open space. Nothing had been taped there either. After that I flickered through both magazines to see if anything had been leafed into them. It hadn’t.

  Slowly I searched the whole room. I checked the cistern of the toilet, the bathroom medicine cabinet, the whole space. Then I opened the closet and went through all his clothes. Some of them had the pockets inside out, a sure sign that the police had searched before me. There was nothing in any of the pockets except for a couple of tissues in one jacket. I hadn’t known what I was looking for but I felt flattened by finding nothing at all. So I stood, thinking and looking around the room.

  It was dark outside by now and I went to the window and turned the venetian blind slats down. As I stood there, absently considering everything I knew about Grant, I found myself looking at the trim around the windows, work he had done with his own hands. His father was right. He had been a good carpenter. The work reflected it, no gaps anywhere, smoothly mitered corners on the trim around the windows. I do some carpentry myself, not too bad for an amateur, but this work was streets ahead of mine. Out of some kind of admiration for the dead man’s skill I reached down and tapped the windowsill. And the sound stopped me cold. It was hollow.

  In any work I’ve done, I’ve always put the window directly onto the frame I’ve built underneath. Your new window is always true, and if you get the frame true, you set the glazed section flat on it, leaving about five-eighths play at the top to allow for settling. But this sounded hollow. Slowly I squatted on my heels and looked at it. Under the window-sill was a piece of molding, four inches wide, stretching to within an inch of the end of the sill on both sides. I put my fingernails under the bottom edge and gave it a tentative tug. It slid toward me, revealing a little drawer about three inches deep by almost the thickness of the wall. And it was full of papers.