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

by M. Glenn Graves

  “She’s not seeing anyone today. Perhaps you could ....”

  “She’ll see me,” I said and walked through the doors into the publishing world once more.

  Memory served me, and I found B.A.’s office without getting lost in the maze. I knocked.

  “Come in,” her voice said.

  I entered and closed the door. Confrontation time.

  “Who let you in here?” she said.

  “Me.”

  “You can’t barge into my office.”

  “Didn’t’ barge. Just entered when you said ‘come in.’”

  “Get out.”

  “Need some information.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Just a few questions. I’m still on the case.”

  “The case is over, or don’t you read the papers. They have arrested a whore for the murder.”

  “You and I both know that she didn’t do it.”

  “I know no such thing.”

  “Sure you do. Think about it. If you take Conroy’s position and believe that Malone was gay and preferred little boys, then there is no way that he would be sleeping with a prostitute. But if you take the other position, the all-knowing position, where Malone was completely heterosexual, had no interest in boys or men, and was madly in love with a woman who used to be a prostitute, fathered her child, and lived a secret life, then you have to admit that her killing him would be odd, to say the least. She had a gold mine with him already. Joey took care of everything for her and the daughter. Everything. She didn’t work. She wasn’t doing tricks. Hadn’t done tricks in years. He was a sugar daddy. Why kill the golden goose? That would be stupid. Are we communicating here yet?”

  “You should write fiction. That stuff makes for a good story. But in real life, well, Joey Malone was a queer.”

  “I can see you are tolerant of alternative lifestyles.”

  “Get out of my office.”

  “One more question, then I’ll go.”

  “You’ll go now,” she walked across the room and opened her office door.

  I stood in front of her desk facing her. She was standing by the door.

  “Why wouldn’t Joey sell you the magazine?”

  I saw a flinch, but nothing more. Her facial expression remained placid. Angry, but placid.

  “Get out.”

  I left.

  Miss Flair was just leaving herself when I entered the reception area. We walked out the front door of the office building together.

  “You have a way back to your hotel?” Miss Flair asked.

  “I’ll get a cab.”

  “Come on. My car is just across the street in the lot. I’ll give you a ride. It’s no trouble.”

  Sometimes my work is full of genuine surprises. People. Go figure.

  She drove a dark green Taurus. Apparently, they were everywhere. She paid the parking lot attendant and pulled out onto McComb.

  “I’m Marlene. We haven’t formally met yet. Marlene Streeter,” she said as we pulled out into traffic.

  “Clancy Evans, Marlene. Thanks for the lift.”

  “Glad to help.”

  “You work for magazine long?”

  “Almost ten years now. It’s a pretty good job. They pay me well for handling the phones and clients and traffic off of the street.”

  “That the whole job?”

  “Sometimes I help Cyler do something special, like set up a party or a reception. Once I got to help out on a story that appeared in the magazine. I didn’t like that very much.”

  “Magazine not your cup of tea?”

  “Not really. But I say live and let live. If it floats your boat, hurray for you.”

  “Hurray.”

  “Are you really a private investigator?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you are investigating Mr. Malone’s death?”

  “Yes.”

  “But they arrested that woman … who was with him.”

  “They did.”

  “And you don’t think she’s the one who did it?”

  “I don’t.”

  “You think somebody at the magazine did it?”

  “Don’t know. That’s why I investigate. Tell me, what kind of relationship does Cyler have with Miss Dilworth?”

  “Well, she says jump and Cyler says, ‘How high?’ Does that help you?”

  “It helps. Dilworth like that with everyone?”

  “Let me see. I think the answer to that would be yes. All except Mr. Malone. Cyler told me that years ago she tried to handle him like she does the rest of us, did it in a subtle way, but he was too shrewd for her. Never gave in. He just let her run the magazine, but not him. He seldom made suggestions to her, as far as I know.”

  “Does she have any other interests?”

  “Interests?”

  “Yes, things outside of the magazine. Hobbies, social events, clubs, stuff like that.”

  “None that I know of. She might have some hobbies, but I know she doesn’t do the club thing. She does social events that help the magazine. She’s not into charity functions, at least not around here. I think she gave away some money a few years ago to something down south.”

  “You recall what?”

  “Uh … no. That was before my time. There was quite a buzz about it around the office, but I never did hear all the details. I was new then and it wasn’t my place to be nosey. Besides, it was her money. She could give it or burn it.”

  “She have any romance?”

  She laughed.

  “I’m sorry. But that was a funny question,” she said.

  “Funny?”

  “B.A. Dilworth is a lonely, wealthy, mean woman. She hates men. All men. She told me that once. Said it like I would say I hate asparagus. No passion, just hatred. Except for her position at work, she’s practically a recluse. You know where she lives?”

  I shook my head.

  “If you have time, I’ll show you.”

  “Forge ahead,” I said.

  Marlene took I-75 and headed north out of town. We drove for about an hour, maybe more, then she turned off. I loss track of the turns she made. Eventually we stopped in a secluded area. She turned onto a paved road that had no houses. At the end of the paved road was a small house set off in the woods. Small and private.

  Marlene shut off the engine.

  “This is it?” I said.

  “Her estate.”

  It was certainly not the home I would have imagined for B.A. Dilworth. I had some sort of large, gated, high-walled mansion on a hillside in my mind.

  “How did you find this place?”

  “Cyler. He drove me out here to show me this.”

  “Why?”

  “I think it was the day that she told him off in front of everyone in the office, and he was really mad at her. I think he thought that showing me this would belittle her in my eyes.”

  “Did it?”

  “Not really. I felt sorry for her. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I don’t like her, but I do feel sorry for her. Besides, this place is still larger than my apartment back in the city,” she smiled.

  “And you’re not lonely.”

  “Naw, I have a boyfriend. We might even get married soon. No date, but he’s talking serious-like finally.”

  “If that’s what you want, then I hope it happens.”

  “Thanks. It’s what I want. You have a boyfriend or spouse?”

  “Not what I want.”

  51

  Marlene dropped me at my hotel. I offered to buy her dinner, but she had a date with her boyfriend and had to keep moving.

  As I approached the elevators, one of the women behind the reception desk motioned for me.

  “You have a call. You may use that phone on the table by the chair.”

  It was Cyler.

  “You remember how to get to my place?” he said.

  “I do.”

  “Then get over here right now. I need your help.”

  “What’s wrong?”


  “Can’t talk. Just come, for heaven’s sake. Come now.”

  He hung up. I could hear some loud knocking in the background.

  I hailed a cab and arrived at Cyler’s place twenty minutes later.

  The front door was hanging on one hinge. The living room was in disarray. I heard moaning coming from one of the back rooms.

  I found Cyler on the floor in his bathroom. He had been badly beaten and was unconscious. I called 911 and waited for them to arrive. I called Morland to see if he could help. Morland didn’t come, but sent some uniforms to handle the situation.

  The police arrived just as the emergency medical team was taking Cyler out on a gurney. After I answered the few questions I could, they let me go.

  I was sitting in the emergency room waiting for some word on Cyler. The chairs were comfortable, but the magazines were all outdated. Old news is good news. At least the shock had worn off.

  I walked outside and called Rogers. I updated her on all of my recent interviews and discoveries.

  “You got leads, Snookems?”

  “Snookems?” I responded with mock surprise.

  “Came across that term recently. Still expanding,” she said.

  “Expand in another direction. No leads.”

  “Hunches.”

  “Plenty, but nothing strong. At this point I would say that B.A. Dilworth did old Joey in because he wouldn’t sell her the magazine.”

  “Well, I doubt if job security is really something she concerns herself with. She has more money than some cities. What does she care if he sells the magazine?”

  “You’re right. It’s not about the money.”

  “Power?” she said.

  “Perhaps. She’s definitely a control person. Tell you what, dig up what you can on Big Bob LeFoy. Go back as far as you can on him. See how he came to power in Detroit. See if you can find someone back at the time Dilworth became the editor, someone at the magazine who knows what happened. Maybe a secretary who worked in the office who was fired. Axe to grind. Something. Anything. My trails are running cold, except for this Conroy event. If he survives, maybe I can learn something from him.”

  “Well, if whoever beat him to a pulp wanted him out of the way, why didn’t they just kill him?”

  “Point for you. Maybe they just were angry as hell at him and wanted to send him a message.”

  “Just to the point of death, huh?”

  “Maybe they got carried away. Homophobia. It happens, Babe.”

  “Say, you’re finally getting the hang of it. I call you sweet names, you call me sweet names. Cool, huh?”

  “I refuse to answer that. Anything on Morland yet?”

  “Nothing showing up in my search so far.”

  “As always, do call me when you find anything worth reporting.”

  I walked back into the ER and sat in the waiting area. Busy night. Noisy and full of bodies. Could be a full moon out.

  After a couple of hours, I caught a passing nurse and asked if she could tell me anything about Conroy. She checked her records and told me that they had taken him to ICU about an hour ago. Thanks for telling me, I wanted to say. I refrained.

  I got off of the elevator on the fourth floor. There was a lady wearing a pink jacket sitting at a desk in the large lounge for the ICU waiting area.

  “I’d like to see Cyler Conroy, please.”

  “What’s the name?”

  “Clancy Evans.”

  “Family?”

  “No.”

  “Clergy?”

  “No.”

  “Can’t let you in.”

  “I’m as close to family as you get for him.”

  “I’ll call the doctor.”

  “Good idea. Ask the doctor to come out here if the answer is no.”

  She frowned at me but said nothing. I waited. It took longer than it should have, but finally she hung up the phone and smirked at me.

  “No.”

  “Is he coming out?”

  “She. In a few minutes.”

  So much for public relations.

  “You work for the hospital?” I said to the pink lady.

  “No. This is volunteer work. I enjoy giving my time to help people.”

  “I can see that you are a real asset for the hospital.”

  Her badge said Marge Abbott.

  “No need to get sarcastic with me,” she changed her tone immediately. “I have to follow the rules.”

  “Marge, no one would know whether I am family or not if you let me in there.”

  She looked stunned. It was an idea that had not surfaced for her. I think she was about to let me go in, when a short, thirty-something, business-like woman came into the lounge looking for someone’s head. My guess was that this was the doctor who had come to make some strong suggestions about what I could do and where I could do it.

  “The person who wanted to see Cyler Conroy?” she said to Marge.

  Marge pointed to me.

  “What relation are you to Cyler?”

  “Double first cousins, twice removed on my mother’s side.”

  “That’s family,” she said while looking in Marge’s direction. Marge was aghast that I would lie to a doctor.

  “Distant,” I said to the doctor. “Very.”

  “Come on. I’ll show you where he is.”

  I followed the doctor and smiled at Marge as I left. Marge smiled back. Apparently she was okay with my subterfuge, or she was pleased to learn that doctors were not omniscient. I was just glad to finally be able to see Cyler.

  The lady doctor stopped at the door to his room. She eased it open and motioned for me to enter.

  “He’s stable, but he’s had severe head trauma. It might take him a while to come around. Or, he might not come around at all. Could stay in the comatose state for a long time. Hard to call. We’ve treated his cuts. Had a few stitches, nothing too serious. Fortunately, he didn’t lose much blood. But whoever did this to him hit him hard several times in the head. My guess is that they used their fists and they were very strong.”

  “Thanks,” I whispered to her.

  She closed the door and left us alone. I held his hand and stroked it for a few minutes. Too bad that God is the only one who loves all of the children. Whatever God has, right now I’d recommend that we start spreading it in Detroit.

  52

  It was early in the morning and I was sitting under a grove of trees somewhere near the hospital. I had spent the night with Cyler. Some time before dawn, I left the room for a break. Thus far, no consciousness for Cyler. His vitals were all stable, but the head wound was the culprit. I was hoping he would come around and tell me something.

  I was tired, managing to doze off now and then during the night, but I decided against going back to my hotel suite. I didn’t want to leave him just yet.

  The sunrise was refreshing. I heard some birds fussing over my head. My cell phone rang.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I answered.

  “How’d you know it was me?”

  “No one else calls me.”

  “You need to get a life, Kid. Should I give your number out to some folks?”

  “Internet friends?” I said.

  “Acquaintances. They sound nice.”

  “No. What’s up?”

  “Got some low down on Big Bob LeFoy. Born Robert Elwood LeFoy, December 3, 1951 in Detroit. Grew up on the streets and was simply a hoodlum until some guy named Nelson Cannel came along and influenced him. Must have taught him the ropes because Bob took over some businesses for Mr. Cannel. All of this was strictly small time stuff it appears. Nothing really serious going on. But, because of all of these business interests that Cannel had, Bob became well known in Detroit by the time he was twenty-something. Overnight Bob became Mr. Big.”

  “Reason?”

  “Can’t say. Influence, maybe. Someone died and left him King. I don’t know.”

  “What happened to Cannel?”

  “Died in 1970. Killed in the line of bus
iness. Nasty stuff. Maybe Bob just naturally assumed he was the heir apparent and moved into Cannel’s shoes.”

  “And he has been Big Bob LeFoy ever since?”

  “Yes and no. He’s been big. Bob was overweight as a teenager and got bigger after that. Well over six feet tall and weighs 300 plus. But the problem with all of this is that Bob LeFoy is not smart enough to run a big city crime syndicate. He’s not dumb, mind you, but there is nothing in his past that would indicate Bob had the brains to do this. Cannel was a small time operator and gave Bob some good advice. I’m guessing here. But you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. Like that one?”

  “It’s been around.”

  “Hey, I just found it. Thought it was a good one.”

  “Priceless. So, Big Bob does not fit the model for crime boss of a city. How does he do it then?”

  “You want my opinion?”

  “I generally do.”

  “I think he’s a figurehead. He works for somebody else. He’s a good front, but he just ain’t got the smarts to handle the whole package. Crime is sophisticated these days, as you know. You have to be shrewd in order to avoid both the local police as well as the Feds. Don’t believe that Bob has the wherewithal to do that.”

  “Why would some guy allow this Mr. Fatso to be the Featured Attraction?”

  “Maybe this guy appears to be lily white, some political figure, or someone connected to the authorities. Big Bob is a good front for him.”

  “You find anything to support your theory?”

  “Nothing in politics or the local law. Bob has a group of people who work with him, but he doesn’t have too many friends in high places that I have come across.”

  “When did you say Big Bob mysteriously took control of things in Detroit?”

  “Cannel was killed in 1970, so … by 1971 Big Bob LeFoy was the man.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “About why I’m here in Detroit working on two cases. I’ll call you back.”

  I dialed Rosey’s private number for emergencies. I was hoping that he wasn’t somewhere in Mongolia consulting.

  “Washington, here.”

  “Where are you?”