One Lost Soul More: A Clancy Evans Mystery (Clancy Evans PI Book 1)

by M. Glenn Graves

  I was sure that Whitmore would actually voice some displeasure when Malone insisted that everyone order some cut of steak, but all I saw in her was some mild disfavor reflected in a slightly raised eyebrow. I could tell that beef was not her first choice. J.C. and I chose the small Filet Mignon, while the burly boys and Craven indulged in the entire cow referred to as the Prime Porterhouse.

  “I promise to stay sober tonight,” Whitmore whispered in my ear.

  “No jazz to swallow.”

  She actually smiled. I was making progress, but to what end. One never knows what information lurks inside the least suspected suspect. After all, she had already confessed to me that she was more than just capable of murder. I really did not consider her a serious suspect in this investigation, but she might know something that could help me. The probing detective is ever vigilant.

  J.C. was sitting on one side of me and Craven, the other. That meant that I was privileged to enjoy watching the three heavy weights dine sumptuously on their cows of choice. Not a pretty sight.

  When Craven had finished what he could of his Porterhouse, he pushed his plate away and took out a cigar. He didn’t light it, but he puffed on it as if it were lit. I was grateful for his discretion. He moved his chair slightly in my direction.

  “Where do you plan to start?”

  “The police.”

  “Just waltz in and start asking questions?”

  “Subtle, huh?”

  “But they won’t help you, will they?”

  “Probably not.”

  “So then, what next?”

  “Play it by ear.”

  I took my last bite of steak. I had to admit that it was downright delicious, even if I didn’t really prefer sneak. Sometimes forbidden foods have a delightfully sinful affect on me when I indulge.

  “So you don’t really have a game plan?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I have a game, but not much of a plan.”

  “You’re not going to tell me much, are you?” he said with a resigned tone.

  “No.”

  “You’ll call me when you have something.” It was not a question, but he was searching for affirmation.

  “You’ll be the second to know.”

  “Who’ll be the first?” he said quite indignantly.

  “The killer.”

  My cell phone rang as we were walking out of the restaurant. I excused myself from out parade and entered the ladies room.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “I hear voices around you. Dining out?” Rogers said.

  “Just finished. On the way out.”

  “Two things – the police detectives assigned to the Malone case there are Dennis Morland and Tony Scarletti. Morland is the senior of the two. They’ve been doing detective work for several years and the records show that they are good. They’ve been partnered for some five years and counting.”

  “Number two?”

  “Found a kernel to chase on Dilworth. She was married for a short time to a guy named Dilworth. Imagine that. Reginald Oswald Dilworth, the 3rd. His grandfather and father were big in the newspaper industry in Chicago. But that’s another story. Barbara Anderson Dilworth was actually Barbara Lily Anderson before she married into money and a career. And guess where she is from?”

  “Norfolk.”

  “I love it when you are wrong. Makes me feel needed. No, ma’am. She’s from … ta-da … Mooresville, North Carolina.”

  “Interesting,” I said. Actually I already figured that somehow Mooresville would play a role in the life of one of the characters in this Detroit drama. I wasn’t too surprised that it was her.

  “Tis’ rather, isn’t it? I’ll keep searching for more. I found all of that quite by accident, but with my ever-penetrating skills, voracious tenacity, and penchant for acquiring more and more data, it should come as no surprise to you that I always come through. I like back channels. Accidents are what I really go looking for.”

  “You’re a jewel. Since I have some actual gumshoe work to do here in the city, I’ll call you if I discover something else for you to chase down.”

  “Stay alive, sweetie.”

  37

  When I awoke the next morning, J.C. Whitmore was dressed and packing. They had an early flight out of Detroit.

  “Can’t say it’s been a pleasure,” she said.

  “Ditto, here,” I said not fully awake.

  “I do hope you find out who killed Joey Malone.”

  “You liked Craven’s son?”

  “Not a whit. But I like Craven Malone and he wants to know who did this. He didn’t like Joey, but Joey was his son. You understand?”

  “Sure.”

  “Blood’s thicker than water, whatever the hell that means.”

  She took her bags and left. No goodbye. She did leave the radio on for me, even though I had not asked for such service. Country music was blasting away. When I finally forced myself to get up and turn off the misery, Bobby Bare’s classic Detroit City came on and I was forced to pause and listen. After a few lines, I decided that it was too early in the morning for beer-drinking music, so I clicked it off.

  A few of the lyrics stayed in my head: I dreamed about my mama, dear old papa, sister and brother. I dreamed about those cotton fields, waiting for me there. I wanna go home…. Some of that was true. Life is crammed full of nostalgia, even when you don’t try to conjure it.

  Craven said I could stay on at the Pontchartrain as long as I was in Detroit. He would cover my tab. Sometimes he acted like a nice old man with lots of money. I thanked him, but was my usual non-committed self as to whether I would stay there. I would have to play this by ear until I could see what my future held in this great city.

  I showered and had room service deliver a Continental breakfast before I hit the streets. I decided to continue wearing the business suits that Craven had bought for me. The jacket helped to hide my concealed .357 Smith & Wesson. I voted to be hot and prepared, rather than cool and vulnerable. The lyrics of Bobby Bare were gone by the time I left the room.

  The main desk of the hotel provided me with a map of the city and a guide to the bus lines. Susie tourist, ready for the sites. After forty minutes on the bus, I had enjoyed as much of mass transient as I could stand. I found a car rental place on my tourist map, rode the bus another fifteen minutes to that location, and then rejoiced silently when I exited. I rented a dark green Ford Taurus. I wanted something that didn’t look like a detective trailing two policemen. The Ford Taurus did it. Dark green color helped a lot.

  I parked in front of the First Precinct Station on Beaubien. I gambled that my two police detectives worked in the First Precinct. I had nothing to go on. Just time. If I were wrong, then I move on to the Second Precinct. Efficiency at work. I could have asked some beat cop, but policemen tend to get suspicious of folks asking out-of-the-ordinary questions. I sat tight and waited. Fortunately, I did find a photo of Morland on page one of the local press. I figured that whoever was with him must be Scarletti. The powers of deduction.

  I was dining on nabs and a Coke when I first spotted Morland with another man driving out of the precinct around 1:15 that afternoon. I followed them. My Taurus did an excellent job of keeping up with them in traffic. I may have to reconsider my long- standing opinion of dark green cars if it kept this up. While they made several long stops all over town, I had plenty of time to read while I waited on them to return to their car. I had a couple of newspapers that reported on the initial version of what had happened to Joey Malone. I knew that the police seldom give the press the entire story, but I had nothing else to go on. I needed to know what little I could while spending the afternoon following Morland and the one I assumed to be Scarletti.

  Joey Malone was found dead by his maid on a Saturday morning. The initial article from the first paper said that it was probably a heart attack. However, the second paper said that the police had ruled out natural causes. Aha. Foul
play. Great detectives keep up with stuff like that. The third article from this morning’s edition provided a statement from the Medical Examiner who said that he was poisoned. Foul play, indeed.

  There was no mention of the type of poison, nor any other gory detail that we public so enjoy when a wealthy celebrity who happens to be a sleaze-bag dies.

  Morland and the other fellow were just leaving a small white frame house on the lower west side of the city when I decided to take my life in my hands and announce my presence. With my usual charm and sexy style, I approached the two detectives.

  “Detective Morland, my name is Clancy Evans. May I speak with you for a moment?”

  Dennis Morland was as refreshing as rain to a drowning person. I expected him to be rough and uncooperative. He did not disappoint me one bit.

  “I don’t like to talk to reporters,” he said without pausing in his walk towards his vehicle. The other man kept pace with Morland.

  “I’m not a reporter.”

  He stopped.

  “Whattaya want?”

  “I have some questions about the Joey Malone murder case you’re working on.”

  “Do you, now? Well, well. And what interest is the Joey Malone investigation to you, Clancy Evans?”

  “I was hired by Joey’s father to find out who killed his son.”

  “Good for you, Clancy Evans. Wish you all the luck in the world,” he started moving towards his car again. “But if you think I am going to stand here in the hot sun exchanging pleasantries and case notes with a damn female gumshoe about a case I am working my tail off to finish, then lady, you’re in for a rude awakening.”

  He and the other man continued to their car. I followed behind him.

  “How about dinner? My treat.”

  Morland stopped moving after he opened his car door. The other man was already seated inside the car. Cops like food.

  “Both of us?” Morland said.

  “Of course.”

  “We name the place.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Follow us,” he said.

  I followed them to Mario’s Italian Restaurant on 2nd Avenue. They gave us a private table in a corner after I asked politely and gave the hostess twenty dollars. I figured that Craven Malone could afford my business expenses in search of the truth.

  We each ordered the special dinner consisting of spaghetti, lasagna, and chicken cacciatore. Along with the fresh, homemade bread, spiced olive oil for dipping, salad and some very fine Chianti, it was more supper than I could handle. The men continued after I stopped to catch my breath.

  “Great food, huh?” Morland said to me.

  “Good Italian. Chef must be from Italy.”

  “Don’t know,” said Scarletti, who finally had introduced himself to me as we entered the restaurant. “He’s good, that’s all that matters.”

  “The taste is it,” I said.

  Morland put his fork and knife down and finished chewing some food. He took a large swallow of his Chianti and set his glass down empty. He looked across the table at me.

  “Look, Evans, we don’t like PI’s coming around and bothering us while we’re working a case. But since you’re such a nice person and all, and since you bought us this delicious meal, we might be inclined to help you a little. Here’s the deal – whatever we find, we let you know. Whatever you find, you let us know.”

  “Sounds fair.”

  “Hell, it ain’t got nothing to do with fair. It’s got everything to do with pride and the fact that we’ve been busting our balls over this case since day one. City Hall wants this one solved quickly. This man was a highly visible person in our city. Sure, he was sludge you wouldn’t want on your feet, but he gave generously to all types of charities and fund raisers.”

  “And campaigns.”

  “Nobody said nothing about campaigns, Evans,” Scarletti said.

  “Implied,” I said.

  “Look,” Morland continued, “it ain’t in our best interest to help you. We don’t like competition.”

  “I’m not looking to solve the case before you do. I don’t even want credit for it. I just want a breadcrumb when you find something. I would even be glad to help you incognito.”

  “We don’t need no dame helping us,” Scarletti said.

  “Didn’t mean to imply you needed help, but it would seem that since you are receiving some pressure from downtown, you might like to have some secret help. No one would have to know but us.”

  “How do we know we can trust you?”

  “You don’t. I give you my word.”

  “Not good enough,” Scarletti said.

  “Wait a minute. Let’s think this through, Tony. The Captain is on our butts to end this thing as soon as we can. We can keep her on a short leash and run her out of town if she is lying to us.”

  “But if the Captain finds out, he’ll put us back working a beat.”

  “We’ll say we never knew she was here.”

  “Well,” I finally said, “I can see that you guys are really struggling here with your integrity. Let me see if I can help the situation.”

  I told them my case, the thirty-two year old unsolved murder of my father and the connection I had with Malone Industries. I also told them about Joey’s contract on me, and then his untimely death before his father could even pull the plug on the contract.

  “Well, it would appear that you do have a vested interest,” Morland said.

  “Distant from your interest. Still, no reason we can’t join forces and learn something together as we go. Maybe you’ll find something that will help me, and I could find something to help you. Beats working against each other.”

  “Okay, here’s the deal,” Morland said finally. “We meet for food every other day, your treat. If we find something substantive, we’ll call you and bring you along with us. In the meantime, we’ll give you some items to check that won’t get you too involved in the public so there won’t be unnecessary questions asked. You have to keep a low profile. Very low.”

  “Lower than that,” Scarletti said.

  I agreed to his proviso, gave him my cell number and hotel room number. I also told him I had access to a very thorough computer source who could trace just about anything they might need traced.

  “How could a female private detective have access to something like that?” Scarletti said.

  “Craven Malone has deep pockets,” I said.

  38

  It was raining when I awoke the next morning. I was suffering from a slight headache, probably from the third glass of Chianti I had during the Italian meal the previous evening. My suite had a small refrigerator for my leftovers from the bounty of Italy. I could smell them all the way across the room from my kitchen facilities.

  My cell phone rang.

  “You still sitting pretty up there on the top of the world?” Rogers’ voice was simply too cheerful for my taste at this early morning hour. I looked over at the clock. It wasn’t even eight.

  “Why are you calling me so early?”

  “Make hay while the sun shines. That’s what I always say.”

  “You say nothing of the sort. I’ve never ever heard you say that. I hope you have something for me and it better be good.”

  “Do I fail thee, ever, fair damsel? My words are my treasure. My truth is my power. My relentless quest for justice is my reason for being.”

  “Brother. You sound like a Shakespearean intro to the old Superman television show. What have you got?”

  “Two items of interest. One, I was meandering around in the database of the police there in Detroit city and accidentally came across a request for information on you, of all people. Imagine that.”

  “Yeah, imagine that. Who from?”

  “Someone in the Detroit Metropolitan Police System.”

  “I would very much like to know who.”

  “Thought so. I’ll sit on it until I discover who made the inquiry. Would you like me to send a reply of only the good stuff?”<
br />
  “Not until you find out exactly where it is going. I don’t even want good stuff about me going to just anybody.”

  “Any particular reason that the Detroit police would be investigating you? I know you have been in town long enough to cause mayhem and chaos, but, really, even for you, this is fast.”

  “You’re so good for my self-imagine. The answer is … yes and no. There are two guys, detectives, those names you gave me at your last report. I can imagine it is one of them, if not both. The only problem with those two is that they would not go through police channels to find out about me. Too dangerous for them since we have agreed privately to work this case together. Sort of.”

  “I have some questions about that, but, I shall wait on asking. I’ll find the answer for you quickly. Anything else you need?” Rogers said.

  “You said you had two items. What’s the other?”

  “Oh, yes. Seems that Craven Malone and B.A. Dilworth got together at his Virginia Beach resort home.”

  “Craven just left from here this morning.”

  “He and B.A. arrived in Norfolk today. Shared a flight, it seems. They’re together as we speak now.”

  “Together, together?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t know that and I certainly wouldn’t want to speculate.”

  “Sure you would. What do you think?”

  “I think he could afford better. But I don’t think they’re in bed, together to together, if that’s what’s lurking in that gutter mind of yours. I think that whatever they are doing together is all business.”

  “How did you find this out?”

  “Really now. You want to ask me that kind of question, after all this time we’ve shared together?”

  “Never mind. I forget you have far-reaching tentacles.”

  “I can reach around the world, Mama, in seconds. The entire globe is my backyard.”

  “Stay in touch about that police check on me. I need names.”

  “Your wish is my command.”

  She disconnected us. I lay there wondering what Craven was up to, or for that matter what B.A. Dilworth was up to. I wondered if Morland and Scarletti had checked on me. I wondered why they would risk divulging my presence by such checking. I also wondered how Morland and Scarletti could check on me during the night. Trust is a narrow, crooked street.