“I took a wig with me and put it on in the bathroom after the train stopped. No one recognized me. Honest, detective, I didn’t know they were going to kill that woman. I never even saw her. He gave me five hundred dollars, more money than I’d seen in a while.” Lola began crying great, snuffling sobs that left Maude untouched.
“Who gave you money?”
“I…don’t know. He said his name was Stringer. Stringer Malone. He said I wouldn’t get in any trouble if I was caught.”
“Describe him for me,” Maude said, knowing the pale, blond man with blue eyes and small round glasses.
Lola described Buzzcut to a tee. She said the man paid her and Sammy separately. Sammy’s part was to be on the parking lot with a dog he’d borrowed from a neighbor. He pretended to be jogging as the train sat on the tracks. It all seemed like some kind of play to Lola. When she found out the woman she had been impersonating was killed, Lola said she had a fit and told Sammy she was going to the cops. He told her if she did, she was just as dead as the other woman.
“What could I do, detective? They had me tied up. There was nothing I could do.” Crying again, Lola shed enough tears to wet the collar on her blouse.
Maude was outside the room, observing her, wondering why women like Lola survived while others made of decent material had to die. She’d had a good friend once, a sweet girl who trusted the wrong man, and he killed her. Mercilessly, he had taken her life and all the innocence from the girl’s family. Maybe Lola Bankston was an innocent herself, but she’d had a choice. Eve Devine didn’t have one; nor did Mary Ellen, Maude’s friend who was murdered. They were both victims of the whims of a psychotic killer.
She gave her the crying woman time to compose herself then went back into the room.
“Lola, I have something you can do to help redeem yourself. If you do it, I’ll tell the district attorney you cooperated. Maybe he’ll be swayed to lessen your responsibility in the woman’s murder. Are you interested?”
“Interested? Yeah, I’m interested. What am I supposed to do?”
Maude told her then, in no uncertain terms, what had to be said, the emotion that must carry the words, and what would happen if it went the wrong way.
“Think on it, Lola. Get your words down pat. You only have one chance to do the right thing. In this case, someone has to pay for that woman’s murder. Is it going to be you?”
The rest of the day the detectives searched downtown bars for the ex-con, but he was nowhere to be found. Joe believed the man had left town, and they’d never see him again, but Maude felt differently. Lola was the drawing card; she held the fate of Sammy and Stringer Malone in her hands. Maude could only hope the woman played it straight with her. Toward five o’clock, regular quitting time, she went home, greeted Bill with a big, wet kiss, and proceeded to make ready for the fireworks that might come later. Bill was all in it with her, ready to do whatever it took. He considered it great fun. Maude saw it as necessary work to catch a criminal. She imagined if the shoe was on the other foot, working with Bill on one of his cases would be fun.
At 5:45, on the money, the house phone rang. Maude gave it a couple of extra rings to be sure of her listeners, then left the porch and Bill, to answer it.
“Hello,” she said, waiting.
“Detective, is this Detective Rogers?” Her voice was shaky, scared.
“This is Detective Rogers. How did you get my number? It’s unlisted.”
“The…uh…card you left with Lois Martinez. It has this number.”
“So, who are you?” Maude dragged it out, making sure.
“Lola Bankston; you met me there at the house. Sammy’s girlfriend.”
“Oh, yes, Ms. Bankston, what can I do for you?”
“I…uh…don’t want any trouble, but is there a reward for Sammy?”
“Not that I know of. Do you have some information?”
“Maybe, but it isn’t free.”
“Young lady, you’re skirting the law real close. If you know something about a crime, it’s your civic duty to tell it.”
“Maybe so, but I need money. If you want to know if Sammy had something to do with that woman’s death, you have to give me something for the information.”
“Lola, I need Sammy’s boss. Sammy is small potatoes. There might be some money for the big man. I’ll need proof.” Laying it on thick for the egocentric listener gave Maude some pleasure. She liked her revenge served a little cool.
“All right, but you have to protect me. He’s dangerous.”
“We can do that. Name the place you want to meet.”
“There’s a bar on Rio. Chesters. Tonight, ten o’clock. Bring the money. Oh, and come alone. If I see other cops, I’m sliding out the side door.”
“Just you and me, 10:00 o’clock tonight. I will bring as much money as I can.” Maude affirmed.
Sitting on the porch with Bill had become a ritual Maude enjoyed. She dreaded the next day, when he had to leave. He had found a couple of good prospects for spring when he retired, but it was time to get back home for now. Bill’s son would be leaving Philadelphia soon, and the grandkids would no longer be close by. He had no reason to stay in the northeast when they were gone.
“You think you’ll be able to live in the heat? Texas summers can be uncomfortable when you’ve never lived in them.”
Bill got up from his chair and walked out to the late-ripening peach tree. He pulled a couple pieces of fruit from a high branch and returned to her. “There are advantages to it. Like these Big Reds. And you.”
“I like you, Bill. More than I have ever liked anyone since Paul, my husband. I feel lucky we met.”
“Good Lord, Maude Rogers, did you just say something sweet to me?” He laughed and hugged her, kissing her with peach juice on his mouth.
“Yeah, I guess I did. Next thing you know I’ll be saving the whales. Hey, I have to go,” she said, licking her lips. “Want to ride along with me and Joe?”
“Thought you’d never ask,” he said. “Where we going?”
“A bar downtown. Going to do a little switcheroo. Got to go by the jail and pick up that woman, Lola Bankston. I hope it goes well. I’d sure hate it if she got hurt. Come along, I’ll fill you in on the way.”
“I’ll do what I can to help,” Bill said.
Chapter 19
Night came slowly on the twenty-second floor. Tall, sealed windows with tiny electronic bars sensitive to touch bordered the intake area, and further away, the dining room walled the west end. On certain nights the moon’s glow shone through the safety glass, haloing 73’s door, splintering reflected light from the highly shined floor tile. Overall, the appearance was one of tranquility. The chaotic behavior of mentally deranged men was soothed at night with pills, namely sleepers, tranquilizers, painkillers.
Robert Dawson had recently decided his days of being a number were about over. He was fully conscious at all times and tired to the bone of pretending to be otherwise. The kid, Bobby, had settled long ago, seldom raising his head to whimper and cry. When he did emerge as a turtle popping out from its shell, Ridge slapped him back inside, refusing to set free the sniveling part of their personality. The salesman, Dawson, was uncaring except for organization. He cataloged the must-haves necessary before they could leave the facility as a whole. Ridge was in control and wouldn’t back down for anyone. His desire for revenge and blood was strong, demanding release outside the hospital. The disorder that divided Robert Dawson into three distinct personalities was no longer controlled by medication.
Stringer Malone was a long lost cousin Ridge had met in Phoenix, someone needing money, willing to do whatever it took to load his bank account. Small and blond, he was the picture of innocence, able to disappear in places Ridge would have stood out. In the early days, when he first became aware of the hospital world, Ridge lay still, pretending to be out of it. The doctors had said he would never be more than a mass of tissue, with no functioning brain. Amazingly, he defied them, and began to
heal. A heavy bank account bought silence from food staff, nurses, security guards—all of them people who came and went from the facility. A time or two, Ridge had ordered someone taken out, but never near the hospital. He wanted nothing to draw suspicion to himself.
The best man for hire was Stringer. He came at first request, needing money badly to repay some loans. No mob connections bound Stringer—he was a free agent drawn by the smell of money. Ridge had written the scenes when the nosy detective’s niece was kidnapped months earlier. He’d hoped it would keep the old lady busy and her mind off him. She was too damn smart. Worse, Bobby had always got in the way when Ridge was in a position to get rid of her.
Stringer played his part like a pro, even down to arranging all the business on the detective’s property. The phone line had them up to date on her movements, at least on the ones Ridge needed. He’d put one over her, making her wonder how things were done. Let her try and figure that out, he thought.
If only Hopkins hadn’t been killed in a traffic accident. The doc had been a useful player and would have been part of the final curtain. After that, Hopkins would have disappeared. Ridge’s way would have been much cleaner. He had learned to appreciate unmarred efficiency: a knife in the sternum, a bullet in the brain, or even simpler, apricot kernels in a vegetable salad. There was always an alibi for sale. Ridge Roberts knew his stuff.
He had a problem—the nurse on Ponder’s team. She knew about him; knew he was alert, knew he was capable of all things. What she lacked was proof, and so far the good doctor Ponder had diverted her away from Ridge’s room.
Doctor Ponder was aware of the three personalities in his patient and was excited by the presentation. Bobby, the child, Robert Dawson, the toilet salesman, and Ridge Roberts, the cunning, sly, and incredibly intelligent manipulator of the other two—all were at the fingertips of the physician. To have that experience, he would do whatever it took, even concealing a criminal from justice. A simple nurse offered not the slightest danger, nor was he concerned with ethics. His professional obligations to his patient came first, before all else. Except money, that really came first. He made quite the addition to 73’s team.
During the hot August evening, while Bill Page and Maude Rogers sat spooning on the back porch, waiting for the phone to ring, Stringer Malone was bored and bothered after surveilling the detective’s phone for hours at a time. In the past few days there hadn’t been a call, and he was getting antsy, a condition new to the blond young man with calm blue eyes. Working with the boss, Ridge Roberts, had Stringer walking a wire most of the time; that was the reason he had diversified, covering his bases. Keeping his balance was a bitch, for one false move and the convict would take him out, never mind what he had done up to then.
That’s the way it was with crazies. They blew without any warning, taking everything down with them. His old man had been that way—running and screaming through a bad section of town in Alabama. If it hadn’t been for Stringer chasing behind him each time, the old man might have reached at a bad end; as it was, the mental health workers showed up and hauled him downtown after the boy’s last phone call. Seemed it was his lot to follow nutjobs.
After another hour or so, Stringer was about ready to call it a night and head for a quiet bar where a prostitute with curly hair and small feet knew him by name. He had a thing for women with tiny feet. Bitsy, as she called herself, would be working the front bar that night, her black dress cut low over double Ds, tight across the nipples, enticing any man who would buy her a drink and had money in his pocket. Just as he was reaching toward the recorder to set the timer for an overnighter, the phone rang in the house. The woman’s voice on the phone was tinny, cheap, and uneducated. She spoke to the detective, the content of her message reassuring Stringer of what he must do.
He was surprised, for Lola Bankston had already pulled a healthy chunk of money to do a job, and keep her mouth shut, but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough with them. Women like her sucked up to a man the way a barnacle stuck to the keel of a fine boat. She was scum for sure, and the boss would want her gone. The bar she named was one Stringer knew, one he visited every now and then. He’d have to get there early, long before she did, be waiting for her, for the detective. It was time both of them were put down. Maybe still have time for Bitsy.
Chapter 20
Maude called the dispatch office to see if information had returned on Stringer Malone. She knew it probably wasn’t his real name, but hoped somewhere in his youth, the man she had been referring to as Buzzcut was arrested and listed with real name and aliases. As luck would have it, Alice was on swing shift and answered the phone. After a greeting and friendly reception, Maude learned that Stringer Malone was actually Horace Earl Malone, born thirty-one years earlier, a petty thief back in Mobile. He had served some jail time, and was listed as a suspicious person in an unsolved murder case from five years earlier. His recent whereabouts were unknown, and the district attorney requested any law enforcement agency with that information respond to Tom Harper, Mobile, Alabama.
Alice bid Maude goodnight, and returned to her desk, leaving several questions unanswered. Maude was puzzled about a couple things. How did Robert Dawson find Malone? Did Dawson commit the murder in Mobile along with Malone? That would have been unusual for him to pair with someone, for Dawson loved his work so much he would have difficulty sharing. Still, the thought was provocative.
The city car blended with the darkness, transporting Maude, Bill, and Lola to Chesters on Rio Avenue. A local hangout for blue-collar workers, the bar was sometimes loud, with the voices of men and women rising in raucous laughter or heartbreak, depending on the moods of the drinkers. Maude had been inside several times, but it was never the place she chose to drink. At one time Chesters had been a coffee house, where new bands played gigs to a caffeine-slogged evening crowd. After the new wore off, and all the ferns died, the owner leased the building as a bar, and it had survived for several years.
Entering through the side door, Maude and Bill finally spied Joe near the back of the bar, in a dark corner. Lola Bankston entered from the front and sat down on one of the bar’s high stools. She crossed her legs at the knees and accepted a drink from the bartender. Turning slightly when the side door opened, she caught Maude’s eye. Just as Lola turned away, the front door opened again, and a blond youngish man seated himself next to her, his gaze upon the bartender, and the mirror behind the bar. Finally satisfied there were no cops in the reflection, Stringer Malone turned toward Lola with a false smile.
“So you want money,” he said. “Don’t we all?” The bartender took his order and Stringer waited until he and Lola were alone. “Who do you think you’re messing with, Ms. Bankston?” The words were hissed, the air from the man’s mouth foul as he forced the words.
“I…just need some money to get away,” Bankston said, the wire on her chest where Joe had taped it itching more than she could stand. She reached up and scratched gently, as Joe had told her to do.
“What makes you think you can get more money? You had five hundred,” Stringer said quietly, and sipped Gray Goose over ice. “I warned you to not get greedy.”
“Yeah, I know, but that woman detective saw me at the cemetery. She didn’t get too close, but if she starts thinking about it, she’ll remember it might have been me on the train when that woman was killed. You got to help me. Sammy hasn’t been around, and his mama is threatening to throw me out.” Her voice was rising, playing the part, but Lola thinking it was all true and her life was a mess.
“Slow down. You’re drawing attention to yourself. I’ll take care of you,” Stringer said, his voice low.
“Yeah, maybe you will and maybe you won’t, but I know who hired me for that job on the train. It was you. I didn’t have nothing to do with that woman’s murder, and you know it. All I had to do was make them think I was her.”
Stringer was quiet for a minute, catching his breath. He wanted to strangle Lola, but it wasn’t the time.
“You talk and we all go to jail. She had it coming to her. She liked to talk too much.”
Lola cut her eyes sideways, staring at the pink scalp through his flattop haircut. Stringer scared her, him and his round glasses and little-boy look. She believed him to be ruthless.
“I’m not going to talk, Stringer. I just need money. I know you paid me for the job, but I have responsibilities. A few hundred now would get me out of town and away from here.”
“Let me talk to the man. I’ll get the money. You stay out of sight for a while. I’ll call you tomorrow. Where will you be?”
“I…guess I’ll go back to the house. Maybe I can get by another night. But then that’s all. I can’t promise what will happen after that.”
“Be patient; it’ll be okay. I told you I’ll take care of you.” Stringer finished his drink and got up to leave, sad that the old woman detective was running late. He would get her another time.
Lola watched him leave, a shiver going down her back. She had no illusions about his words. He was going to try and kill her. The only things between her and a bullet were the detectives in the back of the bar.
Maude sidled up to the bar, the smell of booze ringing her bell, stirring the animal inside. She tried to ignore it, but it tore at her.
“Lola, you did good,” she said. “Let’s go.”
They hurriedly left the bar, headed to the street outside. Maude had parked away from the building, out of sight. Lola’s car was nearby, and Maude checked inside to make certain Stringer hadn’t hidden there, waiting for Lola to return.
“Wait for me to get to the car then go on to the house. We’ll follow you there. I expect your friend to show up, but we’ll be waiting for him.”
“Maude, he’s a cool customer,” Joe said. “He didn’t seem worried at all that she might outsmart him.”
“I wonder if he’s cool or such an egoist he believes, like his boss, that no one can get the best of him.”
The 6:10 To Murder (The Maude Rogers Crime Novels Book 3) Page 22
