The Fruitcake Murders

by Collins, Ace;

  “Drop it,” the investigator ordered. Initially, the shooter struggled to pull his weapon away from Garner, but he lacked the war vet’s strength. Growing tired of the game of tug-of-war, the investigator cracked, “If you want to live to see Christmas, drop that gun, step back, and hold your place until I get off the ground. Then we’re going to have a little talk.”

  “A talk?” the man whispered.

  “Yeah,” Garner assured him, “unless you want to make it more than that. That’s your choice.”

  A second later, the weapon landed in the snow. When it did, the investigator kicked his size eleven right wing tip into the other man’s gut, driving him into the overflowing trash cans. By the time the failed assassin pulled himself up, the investigator was towering over him. Even in the dim light, it was clear the prey was nothing more than a short, thin teenager.

  “You shave yet, boy?” Garner asked.

  “I’m older than I look,” he spat as he tried to brush some coffee grounds off his brown jacket.

  “Well,” the investigator noted, “if you keep up this line of work you’re not going to get much older.” Though he knew better, Garner was now feeling his oats and opted to make his point by spewing out a bit of overused radio crime show dialogue. “Listen punk, the only reason you aren’t dead now is that it’s the holidays and I hate killing people at Christmas.”

  The young man shrugged, “You might as well, I ain’t got nothing to live for.”

  “Listen, kid,” Garner asked. “What’s this all about? Are you short on holiday cash? You looking for a loan?”

  “Just doing a job,” came the shaky reply.

  “You new at this?” Garner asked.

  “I’ve done a few,” the man assured him.

  “Where?”

  “Cleveland, Newark.”

  “Let me explain something to you,” Garner snarled, “a hit man who fails in a hit dies. So, you are nowhere near a veteran or you would have dropped a kill shot into me the first time you squeezed the trigger. Let me tell you something else someone in your profession should know. You were too far away when you pulled the trigger to have any experience at this and you’re using a twenty-two. That, my friend, is not a hit man’s choice of weapons. Now how old are you?”

  “Twenty.”

  The investigator shook his head, “You’re not a day over seventeen, and you’ve never killed anyone in Cleveland or Newark or anywhere else. Admit it!”

  “Maybe,” he answered. “But if that news got out, I wouldn’t have been hired for this job. I had to look like a pro. So I had a friend play me up big.”

  “You got a record?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Memphis.”

  “Okay, here’s my Christmas present to you. I’m letting you continue to breathe, but you have to do me a favor.”

  “What’s that?” the kid asked, his voice unsteady.

  “Who hired you? And don’t make up a name or I might change my mind about giving you a pass.”

  There was no hesitation. “A guy named Dominick. He wanted to give his boss a special present and was looking for outside talent to deliver. He told me if I pulled this off, he could get me a sweet job. I was supposed to stop your heart. I didn’t know you, I was hungry, and I’m tired of being a loser, so I talked my way into it.”

  Garner grinned. Dominick Gigabbo was a one of Delono’s boys. The investigator met him a couple of times when he’d first rolled into town and was setting up the job with the crime boss.

  Sticking his gun in the kid’s face, Garner barked, “Before you get out of town, you make sure Dominick gets this message and gives it to his boss.” The investigator paused, reached forward, grabbed the kid by the collar, and yanked him closer to the weapon. “You listening?”

  “Yeah.”

  “This move cost Delono dearly. If he doesn’t take his sights off me, I’ll make sure this Christmas is his last. Either he backs off or the final present he gives anyone will be that car he bought for his wife. You got that?”

  “Yeah.”

  Garner relaxed his grip and stepped back. The kid took a deep breath and started to make a move to pick up his gun.

  “Don’t try it,” the investigator warned. “You just turn around and walk down this alley. And kid, forget you ever bought that weapon and don’t buy another one.”

  The shooter nodded, spun, and took five slow steps before breaking out into a full gallop. Once he had turned the corner and was out of sight, Garner reached down, picked up the twenty-two, dropped it into his pocket, slipped his own gun back into his waistband, and casually continued his trek to his hotel assured that his warning would be shared. But sharing was only a part of the equation. Would Delono listen? Likely not, so Garner probably wouldn’t be safe until the crime boss was either dead or behind bars. Now that was a very sobering thought to consider two days before Christmas.

  38

  Monday, December 23, 1946

  8:25 P.M.

  Tiffany was the first to arrive at Randolph and State Street. The scene stretching before the woman looked like something staged for a Hollywood Christmas movie. Music was blaring from loudspeakers, traffic was bumper to bumper, and the sidewalk was bustling with thousands urgently trying to find a few more items to stick under the tree and into stockings. Yet, on this night, the reporter had eyes for only one element of this festive holiday parade. Dressed in a long, gray coat and red slacks, her head covered by a dark green hat, Tiffany stood in front of a dime store window watching a lone Santa ring his bell on the corner across the street.

  “Did you have a good day?” Bret Garner asked as he waltzed up Randolph and took a place beside her. After pulling his coat collar up to cover a bit more of his neck, he added, “And by the way, you look kind of like an elf in that get up.” When she shot him a cold stare, he amended his observation. “A cute elf. In fact, you are the best-looking elf I’ve ever seen.”

  She leaned close and noted, “I think,” she drew the word out a bit, “you’re off to another rocky start. You might want to . . .” she smiled before saying, “think before opening your mouth.”

  Feeling like a little kid caught with his hand in a cookie jar, Garner grumbled, “I’ll make a note of that.”

  “Now,” the woman continued. “Since we last spoke I’ve managed to find out a bit more about Velma. By tomorrow, I should know if she is still alive, and, if she is, I will have a way to contact her. How about you? Did your day offer any excitement?”

  He shrugged, “Not really. I spent most of my time shopping,” he paused, “actually mainly window shopping. Then I cleaned up and came over to meet you. I see our favorite cop is late.”

  “He’s always late,” she cracked. “Just in case he doesn’t get here in time, where is your car?”

  “Across the street,” he answered, “about a quarter of the block back. It’s parked in front of a drug store. If we need it, I have a full tank of gas and it’s ready to go.”

  “Never mind,” Tiffany said. “I see Lane’s old Ford. He’s parking it about forty feet behind the Santa. Let’s head on over there. It’s bound to be warmer in the sedan than standing out here in the wind. Besides, I wouldn’t want to have some random kid come up and ask me about working at the North Pole. Elf, indeed . . .”

  The pair waited for the light to change and the bell to ring before hurrying over to the gray sedan. Garner quickly rounded the car and piled into the front seat, forcing Tiffany to open the rear door and slide in the back.

  “How long do you figure we’ll have to wait?” the cop asked.

  “Hello to you, too, Lane,” the woman said. “I hope you had a good day. And, thanks, I’m fine.”

  “Sorry,” the cop quickly replied, “I guess I’m a bit focused.”

  The woman checked her watch. “Based on what I’ve been told, the car comes by here at fifteen until nine to pick up the money. So not long at all. And about you being focused . . .”r />
  “Let’s not go there,” Lane suggested. “I struck out on the woman. What about you?”

  “Got a couple of leads,” Tiffany admitted. “It will be tomorrow before I find out if they take me anywhere. I’ll let you know.”

  “Yeah,” the cop shot back. “I’m sure you will.”

  “Nice weather we’re having,” Garner noted.

  Lane looked toward the other man and frowned. “It suddenly got a bit frosty in here.”

  “Maybe we need to turn the heat up,” the woman suggested.

  “It’s fine,” Lane grimly assured her.

  For the next few minutes, the trio opted to remain mute. The silence might have continued for hours if the investigator hadn’t picked up on something.

  “He’s early tonight,” Garner pointed out as a black marked police car rolled up to the corner where Santa was working. The three watched the uniformed officer get out and then the jolly, red-suited elf hand his black kettle—likely filled with a lot of monetary gifts—to the cop. The Santa and the man in blue shook hands before the pot was placed in the back seat of the sedan. After a hearty, “Merry Christmas,” St. Nick waddled off down the street while the cop got back into the car and pulled out into traffic. Lane dropped the Ford into first and followed a few seconds later.

  “He’s not in any hurry,” the reporter noted.

  “No reason to call suspicion on himself,” Garner added. “Lane, do you recognize the car?”

  “It looks like one of ours,” the cop explained, “but it’s not. We have numbers on the back designating each car’s unique I.D. That’s how a cop knows which one to take out of the garage.”

  “There’s a number on this one,” Tiffany pointed out. “It’s eleven.”

  “Yeah,” Lane replied, “and car number eleven was totaled in an accident last week. So that’s how I know it’s not ours.”

  “Let me guess,” the reporter cracked, “you know because you were likely driving it.”

  “That’s none of your business,” the cop replied with a frown. “Let’s just keep our eyes on the prize. Talking will just break our concentration.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Tiffany shot back.

  The trio rode in silence for the next several miles as the car they were following stopped at a dozen more corners and picked up a like number of black pots. Finally, after taking the contributions gathered by a short, rather thin Santa whose corner was just at the edge of the business district, the driver picked up his pace. When he drove beyond the shopping area, it was apparent his rounds were completed.

  “Okay,” Lane suggested, “let’s see where he leads us. My guess is he’s heading for the bank.”

  Car number eleven drove west on Twenty-Sixth until it passed the jail. Coming to Pulaski, the patrol car’s driver made a left, going by Sportsman’s Park Race Track and over the river. After crossing the canal, it continued south until Fifty-Fifth Street, then it turned back west until the driver drove through an open gate leading to a warehouse. As the car pulled up beside two other police vehicles and parked in front of a loading dock, Lane continued down the street, only rolling to a stop after he pulled around the corner.

  “Doesn’t look like he ever knew he had a tail,” Garner pointed out.

  “He’s likely been driving this route every night for weeks,” Lane surmised. “So, as he has not been followed before now, he was probably not even looking for someone.” He glanced toward the other man and asked, “You got your gun with you?”

  “I do,” the investigator assured him. “In fact, I’ve got an extra one that I plan on giving you later. There’s a story that goes with it, but I’ll save it for now.”

  Lane looked over his shoulder into the backseat, “I suppose it wouldn’t do me any good to ask you to stay in the car.”

  Tiffany grimly smiled, “No, this is my baby, I uncovered it, and I want to be there when we discover who’s behind it.”

  “Then let’s go,” the cop announced, “though I still feel it would be a lot better if you stayed here. This might get ugly, and if you get killed I don’t want you complaining to me about it.”

  “That observation has so many flaws it doesn’t even deserve a reply,” the reporter cracked.

  Following the men’s lead, Tiffany pushed open the door and stepped out into the cold night air. It was so dark she could barely see her feet on the cracked and uneven sidewalk. Turning up her collar to shield her neck from the cold wind, the reporter ducked her head and walked beside the two men down the lonely, deserted block. When they arrived at the gate, they stopped.

  “No one is guarding the door,” Garner whispered.

  “Have your gun ready anyway,” Lane suggested. “And let’s not waste time. Unless you have a better suggestion, we’ll sprint up to the back of the sedan, work our around to that lighted window, and take a look at what’s going on inside through the glass. I don’t want to charge into the building until we gauge their numbers and firepower. If there are too many of them and they are armed, we’ll find a phone and call for backup.”

  “Reasonable thinking,” Tiffany noted.

  “Thank you,” the cop sarcastically shot back, “now let’s get moving.”

  It took the trio about forty seconds to jog across the gravel parking lot to the side of the car marked with the eleven. They then crept up four badly weathered wooden steps leading to a concrete loading dock. Lane was the first to get to the window. Garner and Tiffany joined him a few seconds later.

  Stealing a glance inside proved the building was still being used. There were hundreds if not thousands of boxes and containers stacked in neat rows from the front to the back of the large interior space. Judging from the writing on the sides of some of the wooden crates, it seemed Chicago’s own Montgomery Ward Company leased the storage facility.

  “So this is where they stash all the stuff they advertise in their catalogs,” Tiffany noted.

  “Likely the stuff they don’t sell,” Garner suggested. “There’s a lot of dust on those crates. It’s pretty obvious this place doesn’t get visited much.”

  “Which,” Lane pointed out, “makes it a perfect place for those behind the fake Santa scam to hang out and count the loot. There are four of them inventorying the night’s haul right now.”

  A portable table was set up in the middle of the open area beside the building’s large rear receiving door and the men were pouring the contents of black kettles onto the eight-by-four-foot wooden table top. Three of them were dressed like cops. The other appeared to be a member of the clergy.

  “Do you see anyone besides the quartet?” Tiffany asked.

  “No,” came Garner’s whispered reply. “But this looks way too easy. You’d think there would be someone watching the door. I mean, those cops aren’t even armed.”

  “It’s close to Christmas,” Lane noted, “I’ll accept any gifts that are tossed my way. Get your gun ready, Bret, and let’s see if that side door is open. When we get inside, I’ll do the talking.”

  Lane eased over to the designated entry and twisted the knob, it moved freely. He looked back at his team and nodded. With Garner and then Tiffany close on his heels, he crept into the room. The men were so caught up in their bookkeeping they didn’t even notice they had company.

  “Everyone keep your hands on the table,” Lane called out while pointing his service gun toward the quartet. As the shocked four looked up, he identified himself. “I’m Lieutenant Lane Walker of the Chicago Police Department.”

  “What’s this all about?” the man dressed as a priest asked.

  “I’ll ask the questions,” Lane replied. “Now, as it is well past Halloween, why are you boys dressed up like policemen?”

  “I can explain that,” the priest cut in, “and the guns aren’t needed.”

  “Bret,” Lane suggested, “why don’t you search them? You boys stand and raise you hands.”

  Tiffany watched as the investigator pushed his weapon back into his coat pocket and stro
lled over to the now- standing quartet. After patting each of them down, Garner nodded his head.

  “I told you we weren’t a threat,” the priest chimed in. “Now, can we lower our hands?”

  “I’ll let you do that,” the cop sternly agreed, “but only if you’ll pipe up on who you are and what this racket is all about.”

  The priest appeared to be about forty. He was tall, his dark hair cut short, his blue eyes set deep, and his jaw square. As he lowered his arms, he glanced at each of the three uninvited guests, as if sizing them up, before telling his story.

  “These guys are friends of mine,” he explained. “They are also members of the clergy representing three different denominations. Until you hear me out, I would like to leave their names out of this.”

  “So,” Lane cut in, “there are pastors behind this racket? This will shake things up back at headquarters.”

  “I’d rather not call it a racket,” the man replied. “Now, for the moment, you can call me John.”

  “Okay, John,” the cop cracked, “how much have you taken in?”

  “About a hundred thousand. I think when we finish counting tonight’s donation it will equal or slightly exceed that amount.”

  “Not bad,” Lane noted, “of course you know that you have stolen funds that were supposed to be used by the city to provide Christmas for those who lost fathers and husbands during the war.”

  “Actually,” John explained, “we have donated more than twenty-thousand to that fund. This hundred thousand is on top of that. It’s thanks to our help that the city actually exceeded its 1946 goal by more than fifteen thousand dollars. So, because of our Santas, the kids and widows will actually get more than was planned.”

  Tiffany had held her voice as long as she could. After listening to the priest’s bizarre rationalization, she decided it was time to prove she could speak, think, and judge. “And the fact you gave some to a good cause makes stealing the remainder of the money all right? That leads me to believe that you can’t be a real priest.”