Midnight Rain: A Detective Jack Dunning Novel

by Arlette Lees

  His youngest daughter appears above the ditch. “Is something wrong, Daddy?”

  “I want everyone back in the truck. We need to find a telephone.”

  When her father uses his serious voice, she knows better than to ask why.

  * * * *

  Angel is curled in sleep, her golden hair fanned out across the pillow, her skin fever hot. The sheet has slipped from her shoulder and there’s a four-fingered bruise on her upper arm. I ease from the bed and walk to the closet. I slide the hangers quietly along the pole and find her raincoat. The fabric is torn around the missing button. It did not fall off. It was ripped off, adding to the credibility of Tom’s story. Angel is still asleep when I take the elevator to the lobby.

  “Morning, Hank,” I say, pouring coffee from an urn at the desk.

  “Morning, Jack. It’s going to be another windy one,” he says. “Someone dropped off Angel’s lost umbrella.”

  “Do you know who?”

  “I was back in the office, but whoever it was dropped a cigarette ash as long as Jimmie Durante’s nose on the counter.

  I smile. “Would you please hold the calls to 210. Angel needs to sleep in this morning.”

  “Sure nuff.”

  I sit in the lounge with my coffee and cigarette and flip through the newspaper. There’s a brief notice about Lulu’s disappearance and a description of the car she was driving. When I finish my smoke I make rounds of the elderly tenants to make sure they’re still alive and kicking. When I check on Roland he asks if I’ve found his car yet. When I say no, he tells me not to come back until I have.

  With the matchbook in my pocket, I drive to the station in the black Cadillac that once belonged to Axel Teague. Since dead men don’t drive, The Chief gave me the keys for my part in the gangster’s demise. After two years of bouncing over the back roads and splashing through creek beds, it’s picked up a ding or two since its glory days.

  I tap on the door frame of the Chief’s office.

  “Chief, you got a minute?”

  “Come on in, Jack. Aren’t you off today?” he says. “If you’re here about Lulu Barker, I got nothing new to tell you. She could be anywhere depending on how much gas was in the tank.”

  “I’ve got something else on my mind.”

  Chief Dan Garvey is a rock-solid, good-looking man in his fifties with snow-white hair and denim blue eyes. He has six kids. All boys. He jokes that he married a Catholic girl with bad rhythm. Dan is that curious mixture of back-slapping affability and thinly disguised menace, the kind who’s a good drinking buddy, but someone you don’t want to cross. He’d find no contradiction in going to Mass on Sunday and beating a confession out of some poor slob on Monday.

  “Whatcha got there?” he says.

  I hand him the matchbook and smell whiskey on his breath. “It’s a license plate number. I thought you might check it out for me.” He gives it a cursory glance and hands it back.

  “Don’t have to. It belongs to Leland Dietrich’s Straight-Eight Auburn Speedster. Custom yellow paint, red leather upholstery. The only thing flashier is Jose Garcia’s fighting cock.”

  “Dietrich? Never heard of him.”

  “You remember Red O’Hara though.”

  “I liked him. He was a standup guy as far as bootleggers go.”

  “Dietrich is married to his daughter Frances. Now that Prohibition is over she’s gone legit. I hear she’s worth even more than Red was in his hay day. Some people think Leland’s the one did her old man in, but nobody can connect the dots.”

  “What does he do?”

  The Chief laughs. “As little as possible from what I hear. A little gambling; a little whoring. He used to be tight with Axel Teague.”

  “That’s quite a resume.”

  “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “I don’t know yet.” The Chief doesn’t press the issue.

  “You know that colonial outside of town, the one with the mile of white fencing?” he says.

  “On Hilliker Road? I haven’t been out that way in a while.”

  “Check it out. That’s where Dietrich hangs his hat.”

  I follow Cork Street across the bridge where it turns into Freedom Road. After driving through acres of orchard and patches of woodland, I swing a right onto Hilliker. A few hundred yards in, I see the long driveway that leads to the house on the hill. It’s big. It’s white. It has pillars like an antebellum mansion. A three car garage is visible from the road. There’s a stable and several well-maintained outbuildings and half a dozen sleek saddle horses grazing on the tender winter grass.

  A black Arabian mare stands out like an elegant piece of sculpture. Even for a guy from Boston who thinks horses were born with policemen on their backs, I know a quality animal when I see one. I pull to the side of the road and kill the engine. I’m firing up my second cigarette when a car door slams at the top of the hill. The Auburn flies down the driveway and swings a right. It disappears around a curve in the road up ahead.

  Hilliker Road is a horseshoe that intersects with Freedom Road on both ends. I’m about to tail him when a black DeSoto, pulls out from a grove of trees a hundred yards ahead and does it for me. Seems I’m not the only one keeping tabs on the rich lady’s husband. Rather than join the parade I wait a few minutes, swing a u-turn and drive back the way I came. That, however, doesn’t mean I’m through with Leland Dietrich.

  Wind buffets the car as I drive toward town, dead leaves blowing skyward, water hanging in the clouds. As I approach the river, the coroner’s van… a converted commercial bread truck… cuts in front of me and continues south on the main highway. The first thing that crosses my mind is Lulu Barker, so I tag along.

  * * * *

  When Angel opens her eyes, Jack is gone. Her head aches. She’s sore and bruised, thirsty and hot. In the bathroom she washes down aspirin. Her broken shoe sits on the closet floor, the heel twisted awkwardly to the side. The shoe. The button. Jack’s a detective. He notices things like that.

  Despite her stiff neck and the ringing in her ears, Angel puts on grey slacks, a fluffy white sweater and silk head scarf. With the shoe in her shoulder bag she takes the elevator to the lobby. Hank is busy loading the cigarette machine and she goes unnoticed out the door. She literally bumps into Cantor Nemschoff in the entryway. He’s leaning on his silver-tipped cane, a religious book in his other hand.

  “Shabbat Shalom, my dear.”

  “I’m so sorry. My balance is a bit off this morning.”

  “No harm done. Vere are you goink vidout a coat?”

  “To Moe’s. The fresh air feels good.”

  “It’s not fresh, it’s freezink and you don’t look so good today. You need to be in bed vit chicken soup. If my wife Raisel vas alive, bless her soul, she vould fix for you.”

  “I’ll be fine. I just need to drop off my shoe, then I’m tucking in with my book. How are your knees today?”

  “Oui! Don’t ask. Come, I’ll valk you on my vay to temple.” She looks around to make sure Dietrich is nowhere in sight and figures she’ll be safe walking with the Cantor.

  Tom is leaning against his cab, his arms crossed jauntily over his chest. He has a broad white smile and his chauffeur’s cap is pushed back on his head. He shoves off the bumper as they approach. Without makeup and appearing somewhat fragile, Angel looks younger than usual, her eyes that brilliant blue that takes his breath away.

  “Hop in,” he says. “Ladies ride free today.”

  “Thanks anyway, Tom, but the Cantor and I are walking together. He can’t ride or handle money on the Sabbath. It’s against the rules.”

  A racy redhead in a feathered hat and clacking Lucite bracelets steps up to the cab stand. Three cabs are at the curb, but she goes straight for Tom’s. She runs her hand over hi
s biceps as he opens the door, but he’s too busy watching Angel to notice. A man with three cabs and money in the bank isn’t a bad catch, he tells himself.

  “Don’t you think it’s ironic that Temple Beth Shalom is on Saint Finnbar St.?” Angel asks the Cantor.

  The Cantor laughs and makes a helpless palms-up gesture. “It’s America, everything mixed together like goulash.”

  Five minutes later they arrive at Moe Zimmerman’s shoe repair.

  “Remember,” says the Cantor as he continues down the sidewalk, “bed rest, chicken soup.”

  CHAPTER 9

  The bell rings above the door as Angel walks into Moe Zimmerman’s shop.

  “Good morning, Moe.”

  Moe is a short, pudgy man in his fifties, wearing a leather apron and repairing a bridle at his workbench. He walks to the counter.

  “Good morning, Angel. What can I fix for you today? A broken heart? A traffic ticket?”

  She laughs. “How about a shoe?” she says, pulling it from her bag and handing it over. She’s swept by a wave of dizziness and rests a hand on the counter to steady herself.

  Moe examines the shoe from every angle. “This I can fix. It will be ready in a day or two.”

  “Can I pay now so Albie can pick it up for me?”

  “Sure. How about two bits?”

  Angel is suddenly feeling very unwell as she fishes change from her coin purse and hands it over.

  “Thank you, dear,” he says and hands her a receipt.

  The shoe repair shop shares a wall with the bakery. Angel had wanted to say hello to Joe and Cookie, but a pain has settled deep in her ear and she thinks better of it.

  “By the way, have you heard about the new Deutschlander Social Club?” says Moe. “They’ve rented a space in the auction barn.”

  She turns around just short of the door, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, a patina of sweat breaking out on her forehead.

  “I heard someone mention it. It’ll be nice for you and Elsa.”

  “We looked forward to making new friends, maybe sharing recipes and doing some dancing. Yesterday we see cars in the lot, so we go inside. Three men are setting up tables and a movie screen. I introduce Elsa and myself. I tell them my family came from Weimar three generations back and that my grandparents came west in a covered wagon. They speak to us in German, but the old tongue died with my parents and I don’t understand but a word here and there. Instead of the warm welcome we expect, they say membership is closed and send us away.”

  “That’s certainly odd.”

  Angel’s head is swirling now, her ear throbbing painfully. She can hardly think, but she’s interested in what he has to say and doesn’t want to appear rude.

  “They said their membership is limited by the fire code,” he continues.

  “That’s nonsense. There’s 20,000 square feet in that barn. It could hold Napoleon’s army.”

  “And there aren’t enough German’s in Santa Paulina to fill a corn crib.”

  “What do you think is going on with them?”

  “I had the feeling they didn’t think we were German enough to join their club.”

  “How German would you have to be?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe, like Fritz Kuhn, spitting on American principles, then expecting the Constitution to protect him.” She’d heard that name before, maybe in one of Forsythe’s broadcasts.

  “In that case, you’d do better to stay away from them. They don’t sound like very nice people.” Angel is losing hearing in one ear, like she has a balloon expanding inside her head. “I have to get back, Moe. I’m a little out of sorts today.”

  “Well, don’t let the wind blow you off course,” he says, waving her off.

  The first thing she sees when she steps onto the sidewalk is Leland Dietrich’s Auburn idling at the curb on the far side of Cork Street. If she walks fast, she’ll be inside the Rexford before he can make a u-turn. Angel’s knees threaten to give way as the sidewalk rises and falls beneath her feet. Wind steals her scarf and her hair whips around her face.

  Just as the Auburn makes its move, Tom Kelly pulls to the curb. “Angel, get in,” he calls, leaning across the seat of his cab and throwing the passenger door open. She slumps against the outer wall of the bank building and slides to the sidewalk.

  Tom jumps from the cab at a sprint. He helps her up and she leans into his side.

  “I feel awful,” she says. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Tom.”

  “Come on, I’ll get you home.” He puts her in the cab and climbs behind the wheel. “You’re burning up,” he says, touching her forehead with the back of his hand.

  “I’m cold, very cold,” she says, with a convulsive shudder.

  The Auburn makes a u-turn in traffic and slows down when it passes the driver’s side of the cab. The men’s eyes lock before the yellow car moves on down Cork.

  “It’s that same man again,” says Tom. “What’s with this guy?”

  Angel whispers a few unintelligible words.

  “Dr. McBane is in with Roland,” he says. “We’ll catch him before he leaves.”

  Angel can’t hear him. She’s fallen unconscious against the passenger side door.

  When Tom carries Angel into the lobby, Hank buzzes Roland Barker’s room and within seconds McBane is downstairs with his black bag. Tom follows him into the elevator with Angel limp in his arms.

  “What’s wrong with her, Doc?” he says, lying her on the bed in room 210.

  “Get out of here so I can do my job.”

  Tom gives him an imploring look. “Please, let me stay.”

  “Out. Now.”

  Tom stands beneath the clock at the reception desk not certain what to do next.

  “What in god’s name happened?” asks Hank.

  “She was walking down the sidewalk with a roaring fever. I’m not sure she knew where she was.”

  “I never saw her leave the building. I thought she was still in her room.” Hank turns back to his ledger.

  “She’s a sweet girl, don’t you think? She’s nice to everybody.”

  “Yes she is,” says Hank.

  “I asked Jack if I could take her to the movies, but you know how dads are about their daughters. Maybe, you could put in a good word for me.” Hank looks at Tom over his glasses and puts down his pencil.

  “O-o-h boy,” he says.

  “What?” says Tom.

  “Forget about Angel.”

  “Why would I do that? I have honorable intentions.”

  “Tom, listen to me. Jack is not her father.”

  Silence. The wheels turn.

  “I get it. He’s Dunning and she’s Dahl. Jack is her stepdad.”

  “No, you don’t get it.” Finally there’s a flash of understanding in Tom’s eyes.

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Just let it be.”

  “But, Hank, she’s only a kid and he’s…”

  “They’re together, Tom. They’ve been together a long time.”

  “A long time! She hasn’t been on this earth a long time. What is she, sixteen, seventeen and he’ what…?”

  “Don’t start with the counting, Tom. If there’s one person you don’t want to tangle with, it’s Jack Dunning.”

  * * * *

  Joe doesn’t remember dreaming in color before. In fact, he hasn’t had dreams of this nature since he was a teenager. Then again, it isn’t every day a lively young creature like Miss Montoya wants to teach him how to tango. Although she isn’t his type, there are times a woman like that is every man’s type, whether he admits it or not.

  He liberates himself from the tangled sheets and walks to the window. Although it rained vigorously during th
e night, the giant storm everyone’s been bracing for never arrived. He didn’t bother with the shutters and there’s still a pile of sand and two hundred burlap bags waiting at the side of the house to be filled.

  He walks down the hall toward the stairs and looks into Mildred’s room. Chita was right. No woman wants to share a man with the ghost of wives past. He needs to call Stan at the second hand store and begin packing her thing up. After that he’ll decide about the ashes.

  Joe changes Pumpkin’s litter box, puts down food and clean water and gets ready for work. Saturday is a busy day at the bakery. When he walks to his car, Happy Hooker Towing is pulling Chita’s car onto the road. He waves to the driver and heads down the hill. Fifteen minutes later he’s dodging the broken glass at the intersection of Cork and St. Ambrose. He parks behind the store and enters through the alley next to the stairs leading to Cookie’s apartment. He puts on his white apron, sets the vat of oil bubbling and starts a fresh batch of donuts. While the coffee’s brewing and the bread rising, he takes his broom and sweeps the glass out of the street.

  Back inside he lays pink napkins and paper plates at the small bistro table by the window and waits for Cookie to come down for their morning ritual of donuts and coffee. He regrets giving her a matrimonial ultimatum. It was one of the stupidest things he’d ever done. After a twenty minute wait, he goes up the inner stairs and knocks on her door.

  “Cookie, it’s me.”

  No response. He tries the knob and the door drifts open. “Cookie, it’s Joe.” She’s not in the parlor or the kitchen. With increasing unease he walks to the bedroom door and sees her on the floor beside the bed.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” He makes the sign of the cross and rushes to her side. It isn’t until he’s lifted her onto the bed that he sees the plum-size knot on her forehead. He’s relieved when she moans and her eyelids flutter. At least she’s alive.

  “Joe,” she says. “I’ve been calling for you all night.” Her voice is barely audible and she has the cloudy look of semi-consciousness. “The horses bolted. The buckboard flipped.”