The Visible Suspect (A Frank Randall Mystery)

by Steven Ehrman

  “Thank you, officer,” said Woodward. “I’ll pass your analysis on to the district attorney. I want statements from the people at the bar and take Hawkins downtown for a statement as well.”

  “He’s already bawling for an attorney, sir.”

  Then he’ll get one. You’re dismissed.”

  The young officer backed out of the room and Woodward turned back to me.

  “You see how it is, Frank? The whole thing is wide open,” he said with disgust and weariness. “Listen, I won’t drag you downtown, but keep yourself available for the next few days. I might need to you clear up any loose ends. Got that?”

  I agreed to stay in touch and Woodward got up and left the office without shaking hands. I heard the elevator stop, open, and then close again. After a few minutes I walked to the hall and it was deserted. I went back to my office, locking the hallway door as I went back in. I turned off all the lights and sat down in my desk chair. The room was softly illuminated by the lights of the city. A big town like this doesn’t stop because of one murder, and the traffic and background noise sounded like every other Saturday night. I poured myself a drink and sat in silence.

  I nodded off after a while, and I awoke around one in the morning, still holding the empty glass in my hand. My mouth tasted sour. I washed my face in the basin in the back of the office and took a mouthful of water, rinsed it around, and spit it out. I felt a little more human, but my mind was reeling. I decided to take a walk to clear my head, and anything else that occurred to me.

  Once outside the building, I turned east and just kept walking. The bars were still open, but the street traffic had thinned out some. The farther I got from downtown the quieter it got. Several cars slowed down as they passed me. They probably wondered what I was doing, but no one stopped. I had walked for over an hour when I found myself on the bridge spanning Crystal River. The river, despite its name, was a muddy flow. I looked over the side of the railing, but the night was dark and I couldn’t make out the water from this height, but I could hear it splashing up against the piles of the bridge. I leaned way over and felt a slight rush of vertigo. I wondered how long it would take to fall to the water’s surface. I stood leaning over from the railing for a long time. When I finally started walking back the way I came I heard a splash in the water, like a fish breaking the surface. Even in the mud and the muck there was something. I walked for another half hour before I flagged a cab. I didn’t bother with my car and told the driver to take me home. I drifted off again in the cab. I woke up when the cab stopped and stuffed a bill in the driver’s hand. I hoped it was enough and he didn’t say anything. He just drove off. I walked in and went straight to my apartment, where I slept with my clothes on. I didn’t see the point in taking them off.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A ringing telephone is the most annoying sound in the world and the most difficult to ignore. The phone in my apartment starting ringing at seven o’clock. It woke me up, but I went right back to sleep. At nine it was ringing again and this time the troublemaker on the other end wasn’t taking no for an answer. I counted twenty-two rings before I finally gave in and picked up.

  “Hello,” I said with a mouthful of gravel.

  “Frank, you double crossing, two timing snake,” the voice said. “Thanks for the favor you were going to do me.”

  It was my friend Mitch at The Herald.

  “What happened to the paper getting the story before anyone else? Peterson is murdered in your lobby and I get it from my police beat reporter, instead of my old friend. What’s up with that?”

  “Listen, Mitch, I'm not in the mood for this,” I said. “By the time the cops were done with me last night, the paper had already been put to bed. That’s what happens when you run a morning paper. Let me know when you pack up and move to The Star.”

  “That’s not the point and you know it, Frank. You should have called.”

  I tried to explain to Mitch that having a man murdered in my office building was not business as usual, but he was on a tilt.

  “All I’m saying, Frank, is that we look bad. I’ve already talked to the publisher this morning. He knows you’re a pal of mine and he wants to know why I didn’t have the inside track on this. In fact, I want to know too.”

  “Mitch, buddy, it just all happened so fast and then Captain Woodward was there and it was so late when it was over, I just came home.”

  “Woodward himself is leading the investigation? He was on the scene himself on a Saturday night?” Mitch asked. His newsman instincts kicked in quickly as he smelled his first scoop of the day.

  “That’s right. He questioned me in person. He chewed me out too.”

  “Why?”

  “Am I an unnamed source close to the investigation or am I Frank Randall.”

  “Fine, I’ll keep you anonymous on most of this, but I want some quotes too in a few days.”

  “That’s acceptable, “ I said. “Here’s the deal. Woodward showed up at the office within fifteen minutes of the killing. Supposedly there was an anonymous phone call from a concerned citizen, but that’s second hand.”

  I spent the next few minutes filling Mitch in on enough details to satisfy him, his publisher, and his readers.

  “One more thing Frank,” he said. I heard Peterson was knifed and by a professional. Anything on that.”

  “I don’t know about a professional, but the cops said he was stabbed in the brain from behind.”

  “Well doesn’t that sound like someone who knew what they were doing? Maybe a hit man eh Frank?”

  I stayed noncommittal on that and after another promise that Mitch would keep my name out of it for a few days, I hung up.

  I needed a drink in the worst way, but I settled for coffee and buttered toast. Two cups and three slices later I was in the shower. After shaving and getting dressed, I felt like I could face the day. I had a phone call I had to make. I dialed Mrs. Peterson’s number. It was answered on the second ring by a suave voice that I was likely never to forget.

  “Peterson residence,” said Rodgers.

  “This is Randall. I need to speak to Mrs. Peterson,” I said. “I’m sure you know why by now.”

  “Yes, sir,” purred Rodgers. “The police have been here this morning and madam was informed of the tragedy.”

  “Can I speak with her?”

  There was a brief pause and I heard Rodgers clear his throat.

  “That will be quite impossible today, sir. Madam’s physician has been here and has prescribed madam a strong sedative and she has taken to her bed in the care of a nurse.”

  “Is she in danger?” I asked quickly.

  “The doctor assures me she will be fine. It is simply the shock. If I may say so, sir, the police, a Captain Woodward I believe, told madam of your report of Mr. Peterson’s words to you. His kind words about Madam greatly heartened her in this most sad occasion.”

  “Yeah, Tony was a sweetheart,” I said.

  “Most assuredly, sir,” he replied. I listened for the smirk, but I couldn’t hear one. I wondered if the guy ever smiled.

  “Did Thomas make it home last night?” I asked changing gears.

  “No, sir. My understanding is that after consulting an attorney he refused to make a statement and the police were quite upset with him, but they could not hold him. I have spoken with Mr. Hawkins’s secretary and he tells me that Mr. Hawkins has decided to remain in the city for the time being. I understand he has taken a suite at the Royale Hotel.”

  I whistled. The Royale was pretty fancy. I wondered what a suite cost a night. I understood that Thomas’s mother kept him on a pretty short leash in the money department. Well, if he wanted to blow it on maids and room service that was his business.

  “All right,” I said. “If Mrs. Peterson is sedated, then I’ll be there tomorrow morning. She’ll want to talk to me, I know.”

  “Of course, sir. I will put you on madam’s calendar,” he said.

  “Oh, and Jeeves,” I said. “Tak
e care of her.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  He hung up before I could. I held the receiver in my hand and then replaced it. I wondered if Mrs. Peterson was going to be able to see me, even tomorrow. I had tried my best to spare her, but she was apparently taking it pretty hard. There was always a doctor behind a rich female with a satchel full of sedatives.

  I tried to get Woodward and John Maynard at the precinct, but neither were available. I left messages for each. Around noon I got tired of waiting and went out. I thought about going to the office, but decided against it. Until I talked to Mrs. Peterson there wasn’t much to do. I found a lunch counter and had the meatloaf and mashed potatoes. I didn’t ask for gravy, but the meatloaf and the potatoes were covered in it. The waitress smiled at me and asked if everything was all right. I smiled back and told her everything was great. I picked at my food and finally finished the meatloaf and left most of the potatoes. The nice thing about that was that I had left room for a piece of pie. As I was eating, a man sat down at the counter next to me. He sat with a paper in front of him and grunted at the waitress for coffee. I put three dollars down on the counter and left. I didn’t bother to look for tails. I was just going back to my place anyway.

  I parked my car and made my way up to the apartment. I had just taken my jacket off when the phone rang. I answered it and heard a click. I hung the phone back up and sat on the coach and turned on the television looking for a game. I finally settled for an old John Wayne movie, sat back, and fell into a brown study.

  Around five there was a knock at the door. I looked through the peephole and saw Captain Woodward. I hesitated for a moment and then opened the door.

  “Lets talk, Randall,” said Woodward, as he brushed past me and came into the living room.

  “Just sit anywhere, Captain. I want you to feel like a guest in my home.”

  “Put a sock in the smart mouth, Randall. You might be in some trouble.”

  I sat down opposite him and lit a cigarette. Blowing smoke into the air, I waited for him to go on. We sat in silence. Woodward finally spoke up.

  “I’ll say this for you, Frank, you’re a cool customer, but I don’t need smart guys, I need cooperative witnesses.”

  “I’ve told you all I know, Captain.”

  “Then why has Hawkins clammed up? Are you protecting him, or a cop out of some misguided sense of loyalty?”

  “So Thomas is not talking, eh?”

  “That’s right. He’s one of those Miranda guys. He was bleating about his rights until we let him go. He’ll talk sooner or later though. Listen, Frank, I know you’re clean, but I’ve got a sneaking suspicion you know more than you’re telling. I called the Missing Persons Bureau this morning to talk with Banner. That’s the same guy you talked to, right?”

  I admitted it. “He seemed like a straight shooter,” I said.

  “Well, guess what? He retired. They said he just up and quit. Now, of course, he had the time in, but it still smells funny. Banner was a real hotshot detective back in the day, they say. I didn’t know him, but then again I’m just a plain cop.”

  It was one of his favorite sayings and I think Woodward really saw himself as just an ordinary cop, in spite of the fact that he was brass.

  “All right, Frank, let’s run through it again,” he said. “Why did Peterson come to your office last night?”

  So we ran through it again. Woodward kept trying to punch holes, but I play a pretty good defense. After a frustrating two hours for both of us Woodward finally admitted defeat. I offered him a drink and he was almost down enough to take it. I poured myself one and took a seat. We sat in silence as Woodward scribbled in his notebook.

  “I don’t believe this, Frank,” he said finally. “I know you didn’t kill Peterson, but I got an old cops instinct that you know who did.”

  There was no answer for that, so I didn’t give any.

  “We picked up a couple of Ravello’s men this morning,” he said. This was news and I pricked up my ears. “That’s right. After we looked at the statements from the bar Hawkins was drinking in last night, we recognized a couple of Ravello’s pugs. Of course, they aren’t talking either. They say they were just nibbling a few, but what can they say? I don’t think we can sweat them, but Hawkins doesn’t appear to be made of very stern stuff, as far as I can see. I think if we slow roast him, he’ll squawk. Any idea what he might tell us?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “If you’re asking me if Hawkins killed Peterson, I say no. From what I can tell, and from what others have told me, Peterson was a dangerous guy and I can’t see a cream puff like Hawkins shoving a knife in him.”

  “The coroners preliminary report is in and he says Peterson was dead before he hit the ground. It was a thin blade that was inserted from behind in the base of the skull. He said there was very little blood. That’s a cold-blooded way to kill a man. You’re right, it doesn’t sound like Hawkins, but I’d swear he’s hiding something. We’re bringing him in tomorrow morning, lawyer or no lawyer, and I’m going to get some answers. All I need is one person who will testify that he left the bar. Hawkins may not be much, but remember, he had been drinking. You know how some guys get when they’ve stepped up to the courage counter.”

  I admired the bulldog in Woodward. He wasn’t a fancy detective, but rather from the old school. A lead leads to another lead, and so on. Hawkins was all he had right now, and it was an itch he was going to scratch. The rubber hose days were gone, but I wouldn’t want to trade places with Hawkins tomorrow at the station. I hoped he was tougher than he looked, for his own sake. Maybe I better keep my own wits about me. This case wasn’t over yet. At least not until Mrs. Peterson told me it was. I finished my drink and stood up.

  “I think I’ll switch back to coffee,” I said. “Care to join me?”

  “Fresh coffee?”

  “Fresh this morning.”

  He decided that was okay. As an ex cop I knew Woodward had had a million cups of stale coffee. One more wouldn’t hurt him. I went into the kitchen to heat up the pot and brought back two steaming cups of the dark stuff. Woodward took it the same way I did. Hot and black with nothing fancy. It was an old cop habit from long stakeouts. He started in on his while I waited for mine to cool. The phone rang. I answered it.

  “It’s for you,” I said handing him the phone. “A sergeant at the precinct, or so he says.”

  “Woodward here,” he said.

  He listened for a few seconds. He didn’t like what he heard.

  “When?” he asked. “What about witnesses? Make, model, anything.”

  He went on in that vein for some time.

  “Fine,” he said finally. “No, I’m not coming down. What is there to see? You think I’m a traffic cop?”

  He hung up the phone and pulled his battered notebook back out and made a couple entries. He flipped it shut again.

  “Guess what, Frank? Thomas Hawkins is dead. He was run down by a hit and run driver fifteen minutes ago.”

  He watched me closely for a response and then went on.

  “That’s right. He was coming out of a bar, which doesn’t seem unusual for him, and was mowed down. Witnesses at the bar say he was intoxicated and he crossed in the middle of the street. Mrs. Peterson is going to get another shock.”

  I didn’t enlighten him into the true nature of their relationship. As far as I was concerned Thomas was a burden to her. He didn’t deserve to die, but he was going to be nothing but trouble for her in the future. Of course, dead men don’t make too much trouble.

  “Accidents happen I suppose,” I said. “It’s a dangerous city.”

  “Yeah, accidents happen and Hawkins swore he didn’t know anything, so why would anybody kill him? Must have been an accident,” he said. “Kind of a nice coincidence that I was here with you when it happened.”

  I couldn’t tell if he congratulating me or accusing me. After a while, he stirred himself and stood up. He walked to the door and I followed.

  “I�
��ll be in touch, Frank,” he said as he turned. “If you remember anything, let me know, but I don’t want to come across witnesses who have spoken to you. You aren’t part of this murder investigation. Am I clear?”

  I assured him he was and he opened the door.

  “One more thing, Frank”

  “Yeah?”

  “You make a lousy cup of coffee.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I got out of the elevator Monday morning and started to cross over to my office. I could hear the insurance agent in the office next to mine complaining to his secretary about the door being unlocked.

  “For what I pay you, the least you can do is lock up before you start your weekend,” he said.

  “But I did lock up,” she protested. “When have I ever left it open?”

  I missed his sarcastic response as I opened my door and went in. I could still hear the muffled arguing. I had troubles of my own. I had not been able to get through to Mrs. Peterson last night or this morning. That was bad enough, but now I wasn’t even getting through to Rodgers. All calls were being routed through the security guard and he wasn’t putting through anyone. I made up my mind that I would have to go out there to talk to my client.

  I had grabbed a morning paper on the way in. There was a mention of the Hawkins death, but nothing to tie it into the murder of Tony Peterson. The article didn’t even mention the Peterson case, except to note the personal tragedy to Mrs. Peterson in losing her husband and stepson on consecutive days. My friend Mitch at The Herald, hadn’t even been interested when I had called him. I had asked if there was any scuttlebutt connecting the two deaths and he seemed nonplussed by the idea.

  “This isn’t a scandal sheet, Frank,” he had said. “My sources at police headquarters say this is a run of the mill hit and run. You know how many drunks stagger in front of cars in the country every year?”