by Ted Wood
Schmidt sipped his coffee. “It was written on the back of an envelope. Now if the envelope had been addressed to Mr. Manatelli, at the guy’s home address, fine, that mates it look promising. But this was one o’ those junk mail envelopes. Lite, congratulations, you may have won a million bucks.” He shook his head angrily. “Who the hell takes an envelope like that along with him in his car to the lookout on top of Mount Reach, then writes a note on it—just the envelope, not the stuff that was inside—an’ sticks his gun in his mouth?”
“Sure sounds phony. What’d it say?”
Schmidt set down his cup. “It said, and I quote, ‘I can’t face it. I killed three people and framed the nigger cop with the money. But my boss wants the other fifty K. He’ll kill me a worse way than this.’”
“Any idea who his boss is?” Doug asked carefully. “Is it MuchoMucci?”
“We’re checkin’. But the main thing is, you’re clear.”
“Clear?” Doug stood up, setting down his coffee cup very gently as if it were a primed Claymore mine. “You mean all this is over?”
“Yeah,” Schmidt said. “The chief salt me to tell you. Like the only thing I had to do was see that you didn’t have any part of this. Where have you been all day?”
“Right here, in the basement. Making a bookcase for my daughter. Wanna see?”
“Naah. The body was found around four. It was still warm. There were tire tracks of another car on the lookout. He was killed three o’clock, thereabouts. And if s been snowing all afternoon. I just checked, there’s no track outside your place so I know Reid here is on the level when he said he was back at one. But we had to establish that.” He waved his hands, a “what can a guy do” gesture. “Then I have ta take you to see the chief for the press conference.”
“Press conference?” Doug was startled. “What in hell’s that all about?”
Schmidt covered his embarrassment with a show of cop bonhomie. “Well, in case you haven’t checked in the mirror today, you’re still a different color from the rest of the department an’ the chief felt bad about arresting you. Now he wants to put it right. I hope that sits okay with you, Doug.”
“I understand,” Doug said. I could see how angry he was but Schmidt didn’t know him as well as I did.
“Yeah. Well. I wan’ed to say I never liked the charge and this is a happy day for me. For the whole department. I hope you ain’ gonna hold it against us, what happened.”
“No,” Doug said. “I’m sorry about the people who’ve been killed. Always will be. But I’ve got no beef with what happened to me.”
His voice was toneless but Schmidt’s relief was obvious. He stood up and very tentatively stuck out his hand. Doug shook and Schmidt clasped his wrist with his other hand. “Thanks, Doug. You’re a good detective an’ a nice guy. Maybe I can buy you and Reid a drink after.”
“That would be very nice, Captain. Thank you. I’ll tidy up and come on in,” Doug said.
“Great.” Schmidt let go of Doug’s hand and nodded, smiling his bull terrier smile. “I thank you for your professionalism and I’ll tell the chief you’ll be there, when? ’Bout an hour be okay?”
“That’s fine,” Doug said. “I’ll be there, in my best suit for the gentlemen of the press,”
“Great,” Schmidt said again, then, like a good little guest, “Thanks for the coffee. That a Marine recipe?”
“No saltpeter,” I said to break the tension and we all chuckled and he went out.
Doug closed the door and came back to his seat. “They’re grabbin’ at fresh air,” he said. “That note’s phony as a three-dollar bill. Schmidt knows it, we all know it. They’re just using it to clean up three homicides. Four, if you count Manatelli.”
“This isn’t the Kennedy assassination,” I said. “Quit looking for a conspiracy. Manatelli’s gone. Your family’s safe, the town of Chambers is back to normal and you’re golden.”
That finally made him laugh. “Shit. How’d you ever pass the physical? You’re blind, man. I ain’ never gonna be golden.”
I laughed with him, glad of his relief. “Go change and I’ll drive you down there.”
“Golden?” he said and laughed again. He shook his head and went upstairs.
He came down dressed as if he was going to a wedding. Neat suit, white on white shirt and a blue and red tie. I gave him a thumbs up and he laughed. “Kinda wish I had a red hat an’ python boots like a pimp. See what the brass would feel about paradin’ me out in that.”
“It’s all over,” I said. “Why don’t you call Melody and talk to her, then I’ll drive you over. You can sit in the back if you like and I’ll open the door for the cameras.”
“Get outa here.” He waved at me and I left him to telephone while I went and washed up.
When I got back downstairs he was sitting waiting for me. “Melody says to give you her love an’ thanks,” he said.
“How are they all?”
“Glad to be coming home. I spoke to the kids and everyone’s fat an’ happy.” He smiled. “It’s over, Reid.”
“I know. Now let’s get downtown and let the world know.”
The press conference was held in the front office. The chief and Captain Schmidt were center stage with Doug, and Cassidy and Beeman, the uniformed guy on the desk, were beaming in the background, trying to get their pictures on TV. The chief described the suicide and read out Manatelli’s note while the cameras rolled. And then everybody shook hands with Doug and he started to talk. He exonerated the department for arresting him. They had acted on the evidence, he said. It was a reminder to all of them of how hard it is to be sure of a case on the evidence.
I saw Schmidt shuffle his feet a little there and figured he was thinking about the phony suicide note but he said nothing.
Doug didn’t give anything away about his suspicions of money-laundering but he explained that Ms. Lava had been assisting him in his investigations. Manatelli must have been involved and had killed her and staged the evidence. He didn’t know why Grant and the second woman had been killed. Maybe they had found out about the first killing and been killed to shut them up. He said he was deeply saddened by what had happened but glad the case was closed.
The chief was beaming by the time Doug finished and he took a moment to say that he was grateful to Doug for his professionalism in accepting what had happened to him. He repeated his apology to Doug and the fact that Doug was reinstated and the people of Chambers could all rest easy now with the situation back to normal.
The reporters didn’t buy everything he offered. They had questions. What was the investigation Doug was working on? Why had Manatelli been involved? Was the case anything to do with Cat’s Cradle, where Cindy Laver had worked? There were some sharp minds out there and they weren’t gulping down the story the way the chief must have hoped they would.
Then one of them, a woman who had obviously done some digging of her own, asked the sixty-four-dollar question. She had heard that a man who sounded like Manatelli had been seen in Chambers a few times, always with another, younger man who looked as if he might be an associate, maybe a bodyguard. Had anyone seen the man since his boss was killed?
The chief had thought about that one in advance. Yes, he had heard the same stories as they dug into Manatelli’s movements since leaving the airport thirty miles away in his rented car. They were still looking for the man to find out what he could tell them, but there were no doubts, from the forensic evidence, no doubts at all that this had been a suicide.
There was a flutter of questions over this but the chief fielded them and slowly the reporters were satisfied.
A radio man and a TV crew stayed behind to talk to Doug and he answered all their questions. He was impressive, polite and attentive. He wasn’t nervous and I could see that he had won them all over. Then at last they were finished and he shook hands with the interviewers and they left.
Schmidt had been standing close by, a little jealous of the attention Doug was getting, b
ut now he snapped on his smile and took Doug by the arm. “How about that drink?”
“Be great, Captain. If you’re sure you can spare the time.”
“Got all the time in the world tonight,” Schmidt growled playfully. “Three homicides wrapped up an’ a good man outa jail. Hell, we got a mess o’ things to celebrate.”
He held up long enough to call Cassidy to join us. Cassidy was equally cheerful but it looked a little forced, I thought. He covered it with a big laugh. “Morgan can take care of business for a spell. He’s closin’ up files like homicide is goin’ out of style.”
Schmidt led us to his car and when we were seated he said, “Let’s head out to Brewskis. I like the idea of lookin’ at pretty women in tight ski pants. Sound okay to you guys?”
“Great,” Doug said. He was ill at ease but the others hadn’t noticed. Schmidt and Cassidy sat in front and carried the conversation, lots of inside jokes with roars of laughter that sounded mechanical, like the first sputter of a snow vehicle motor starting up. Doug and I chuckled along as indicated but said nothing. It was tense in that car.
We got to Brewskis, which was busy as ever, and Schmidt parked illegally in the fire exit zone beside the door. “So. Let’s get at it,” he said and led us in.
The usual crowd of skiers was having the usual fun. A few of them must have heard the news. I saw them poking one another and pointing Doug out, trying not to be obvious. Schmidt ignored everyone, striding to the bar and using a mix of heartiness and strength to move a guy out so we could all four sit together.
He didn’t check our preferences but ordered Wild Turkey and we toasted Doug and did our best to look like buddies. Carol Henning was on duty at the bar and she shook hands with Doug and took the captain’s joshing and managed a word with me in passing. “Big day for you, Reid.”
“Big day for justice.” A class answer, I thought.
She reached over and covered my left hand with hers. “Glad it worked out the way you wanted.”
“Thanks, Carol.” I raised my glass to her and Schmidt called out, “Hey, that guy’s got a wife and six kids back in Canada. You wanna mind him, Carol.”
“Married guys I can handle, Cap.” She smiled at him and I guessed he’d made the moves on her himself.
After a while the waitress, Cathy, found us a table and Schmidt ordered a bottle which wasn’t bar policy but they’d put us in a corner where we didn’t look too obvious so they obliged. Most bars stretch the rules a little for the police. It helps speed up the response time if you ever need A Cop Quick. Schmidt was pushing the drinking, sloshing whisky into all our glasses as soon as we’d taken a sip. It was the kind of drinking you do when you’re eighteen and out to prove you’re tougher than your old man. I was dogging it as much as possible and Schmidt roared at me to drink up. “That’s the trouble with you goddamn Canucks. You can’t drink.”
Doug had been doing his share of the drinking, not enjoying it any more than me, but glad to be free and glad of the captain’s gesture, recognizing it as part of his rehabilitation into the department. But he was still icy sober undo: the happy face he’d slipped on like a mask for the party. “Reid’s a rye man,” he explained. “Don’t you worry, Cap’n. He’ll be the guy drives us all home.”
“Rye is it?” Cassidy whirled and shouted to the waitress. “Hey, Cathy.”
She came over and he said, “Bring my friend here a double double rye, okay?”
“Sounds dangerous,” I said and looked at her.
“Sure thing, Captain,” she said to Schmidt and returned my gaze, weighing up the order and the spot I was in. I widened my eyes helplessly and she took the hint. I was in the corner, facing the bar, and I watched her give the order and saw Carol filling it. One part rye, one coffee, two water. Right color, but not a killer. It pays to have friends everywhere.
She brought it back and I raised it to her. “Thank you, Cathy. Your health.”
“So down the hatch,” Schmidt ordered and I drank three quarters of it in a gulp.
“Perfect,” I told Cathy. “If you want to repeat the dose when necessary, I’ll be real grateful.”
She grinned at me. “No problem.”
I’d temporarily shut Schmidt down and he eased up on me, feeling the effects of his own bourbon, starting to ramble about cases they were working on and how badly Doug was needed in the detective office. Doug was loosening up and the situation became easier. Until around ten, when Huckmeyer walked in.
Our booth was three or four down from his usual table and as he crossed the room he saw me and his face darkened. He changed direction and came over.
“Captain,” he said to Schmidt who stood up and shook his hand like a lodge brother. Then he shook with Cassidy and finally with Doug. “Congratulations, Detective. I’m glad this business has been cleared up.”
Doug made some reply but Huckmeyer wasn’t listening. He nodded briefly and turned to me. I beat him to the punch, standing up as a gesture of surrender. “It seems I owe you an apology, Mr. Huckmeyer. I hope you’ll excuse my manner earlier today. I was too wrapped up in what I was doing. I know I offended you and I’m very sorry.”
It took the wind out of his sails. He’d been set to throw me out but now he would look too ungracious. He just scowled and said, “I’m not a crook, mister. I want you to know that.”
Surprisingly Cassidy stood up for me. “We all know that, fer Crissakes, Walt. Hell, the guy was in Nam with Doug. They’re buddies. He was makin’ waves. He’s apologized.”
Huckmeyer stood, still looking at me sternly. Then he said, “Okay. I accept the apology.” He stooped and picked up the tab from in front of Schmidt and tore it in half. “Have a good time, gentlemen. You’re my guests tonight.”
We all thanked him and Schmidt prevailed on him to join us. He did, for one drink, a draft beer, and Doug and I took the opportunity to switch along with him. The others went on hammering the Wild Turkey and Cassidy, showing the same surprising tact, got the conversation around to Huckmeyer’s skiing career.
He talked about it, modestly enough, for as long as it took to finish his beer, then excused himself. “I’ve got a young lady to meet. I know a bunch of p’licemen will understand that.”
We did an appropriate amount of joshing and he left us, easing the collar of his turtleneck as if he’d been in a wrestling match.
Schmidt was pretty drunk by now and his meanness was showing through. “You figured that guy was crooked?”
I shrugged. “Just stirring the mud a little, Captain. There wasn’t much else I could do.”
He leaned over the table at me, thrusting at me with his cigar. “I’ve known that kid since he was knee high. He’s a good kid.”
“I agree.” It’s no use arguing with a drunk.
He sneered. “Jesus. You’re chickenshit.” He laughed raggedly. “The big tough ex-Marine an’ you ain’ got the guts t’even argue.”
Doug said, “You’re outa line there, Cap’n.” His voice was low but it had enough force in it to shut Schmidt down. He sat back and blew cigar smoke.
“So tell me about this case you got against young Walt.”
“This ain’t the place. We’re drinkin’ his booze,” Doug said in the same dangerous tone.
“Nowhere better,” Schmidt said. “Kinda cuts out the bullshit, seem’ that we’re his guests an’ all.”
“It’s not a case. It’s an observation,” Doug said. “An, I’d rather not discuss it in public, Captain. If that’s okay.”
“Indulge me.” Schmidt drained his glass and split what was left in the bottle with Cassidy and then drained his glass again.
Doug looked stubborn. “You know what I told the chief, Cap’n. And I don’t want this to turn into a shouting match. We’re drinking this man’s liquor.”
“Talk,” Schmidt growled.
Doug shook his head regretfully but spoke. “Somebody here’s selling the credit card slips for cash. The cash comes from an unnamed source. It looks to me like a
money-laundering operation. And it also looked, given the fact that Manatelli was here, and he wasn’t a skier, that it’s mob money being washed.”
Schmidt spread his hands and made an innocent face. “Well, excuse me, Detective. I guess I’m dumb. I don’t see any crime here. Not at this location anyways.”
“I said that a’ready,” Doug said. “It’s not a case. It’s an observation. I was checking on it.”
“Well, in that case, I’d guess the observation is over,” Schmidt said. “Manatelli ain’ around anymore.”
“You’re right,” Doug said. “Listen. Can I get you another drink?”
“No need,” Schmidt said grandly. “The chief laundry-man is pickin’up the tab.”
“Not for me, thanks, Captain,” I said. “I’m driving home tomorrow and I can’t do that if I’m wearing an ice pack.”
“Yeah. An’ my family’s coming home. I don’ wanna pick ’em up at the airport with a hangover,” Doug said. “Thanks for everything, Cap’n. It’s been great and it’s great to be back at work.”
Schmidt laughed and blustered about what poor drinkers we were but I guess the tension had gotten to him too. He stood up and beckoned to Cathy who came over with her tray. “These guys are crappin’ out,” he said, and dropped a ten-spot and the torn check on her tray. “Mr. Huckmeyer has very kindly made us his guests tonight. That’s for you.”
“Well, thank you, Captain.” She gave us a big smile. “Come back real soon.”
“With you waiting table. Count on it,” Schmidt said and we all chuckled obligingly, even her.
We made a quick trip to Huckmeyer’s table. He was still alone and he looked at his watch when we approached, then rose to meet us. “Can you beat that? She’s stood me up,” he said.
We thanked him for the drinks and he shook hands all around, even with me, and we headed out. I checked them. “Hey, I won’t be coming back here. I want to say goodbye to the women.”
The captain made some crack to Cassidy and they laughed but it wasn’t unfriendly and they kept on going while I turned back to the bar and spoke to Cathy and Carol Henning. “Thanks for fixing my drink. I’m going home tomorrow and that guy wanted us all hammered. You were really on the bit, bailing me out that way.”
