Breaking Up Is Hard to Do (The Sam McCain Mysteries Book 6)

by Ed Gorman

  “He’s just an all-around jerk,” I said. To Murdoch, I said, “Did Carlson really try and buy up all your shares?”

  “Yes,” Murdoch said. “He wanted her for himself.”

  “Did she want him?”

  “He’s the only one who can answer that,” Murdoch said.

  “So there’s nothing with Gavin Wheeler?” Spellman said. He was not a patient man.

  “Nothing specific,” I said. “But I guess I could see him killing somebody.”

  “Maybe he could kill Gyro Gearloose for me.”

  I’m glad Ross-about-to-be-arrested-for-murder found Spellman so funny.

  I decided to trump him. “I may have figured out how her body got in here.”

  “You’re kidding,” Spellman said.

  “There’s a new rug in the bomb shelter. I don’t know if anybody gave it any thought, any law enforcement people. Ross, do you happen to know when it was delivered?”

  “I’d have to check to be sure. But I guess it would have been the afternoon before I found Karen in the bomb shelter.”

  “It’s a long shot,” Spellman said.

  “True,” I said, “but right now we have to consider it a possibility. Who’d you buy it from?”

  “Home Furnishings. I always try to buy everything I can in town here. You know, support the town. Our merchants are getting massacred by the shopping center and with Cedar Rapids and Iowa City so near. I gave my ladies strict orders to buy whatever they could right here.”

  I tried to imagine giving Deirdre Murdoch a strict order. It wasn’t easy. She just wasn’t a strict-order kind of girl.

  “I’ll get the name of the driver and talk to him,” I said.

  “The toughest part of this’ll be getting the names of enemies she made before she came here,” Spellman said. “She played a rough game. Even when you’re a high-priced call-girl—which in essence is what she was—it’s still a dangerous job. You run into some real nut jobs. They fall in love with you, they follow you, they get scared they’re going to be found out, they’re woman-haters deep down—you’ve got all these things in play.”

  “And then you start shaking them down,” I said.

  “Exactly,” Spellman said. “You start shaking them down. And that’s when they get really dangerous. You may have let something slip that makes you especially dangerous. It’s not just getting your time with her exposed—maybe she knows something that can send the guy to prison. He panics. He can’t spend the rest of his life worrying that every day might be the day she hands you over to some DA somewhere in order to save her own skin.”

  “So he kills her,” I said. “And her brother, too. The killer figuring the brother probably knows his secret also.”

  “Good Lord,” Ross Murdoch said. “If that’s the case, the killer could have been in town a couple of hours and then gone back home to wherever he lives.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “I still think it was local,” I said.

  “You don’t, of course, have any proof of that?”

  “No, I don’t. But being a good defense lawyer, I’ll make some up if you’ll give me a couple of minutes.”

  “I love working with people who’re strictly local,” Spellman said. He sounded weary and long-suffering. I was beginning to suspect that deep down I didn’t like this guy. As in I’d like to run him down with my ragtop and then back over him a few times.

  “And I love working with people who waste time overlooking the obvious.” I looked at Ross. “Karen Hastings and her brother were shaking you and your friends down for more money. And then they both wind up dead, one of them in your bomb shelter. Does any of this sound like somebody who just happened to be breezing through town?”

  “He makes some good points,” Murdoch said.

  Spellman was saved from responding because the phone rang.

  Murdoch picked up, listened and said, “Thank you.” He hung up again. “I have a friend in the police department. His father worked for me for years. He just wanted to warn me that Sykes is on his way to arrest me.” He glanced at me and said, “I’m going to wait for him on the porch.”

  “Why the hell would you do that?”

  He would do that because he knew the kind of mischief Cliffie would be up to.

  Three police cars arrived, sweeping up the drive. One had its red lights going. No siren, at least. Cliffie was restraining himself in his old age.

  And then came the press. Cliffie had apparently invited every reporter in a six-state area. There was, and I do not exaggerate, a caravan of at least fifteen cars, station wagons and vans.

  A low fog had set in. The reporters hit the front lawn like soldiers on a beach landing. They resembled monsters. The fog cut them off at the waist. They all moved toward a single place—the center of the front porch on which Ross Murdoch stood in his top coat with the brim of his grey dress hat pulled low over his face.

  Murdoch knew how Cliffie operated. If Murdoch hadn’t been on his porch, Cliffie would’ve walked in a crouch up to the front door, his gun drawn, waving to his men to fan out, as if Murdoch was going to come charging through the front doors with a couple of grenade launchers and an armload of automatic weapons. Murdoch had just decided to deprive Cliffie of his usual fun. Cliffie would pistol-whip a nun if he thought there was a press camera nearby. And then explain why the eighty-two-year-old Sister was a true danger to the community.

  Cliffie kept looking over his shoulder. There weren’t any live TV cameras, just three youths with bad complexions holding shaky film cameras. The film would be bathed in time for the ten o’clock news.

  When he was sure that the cameras were rolling, Cliffie said, “Ross Murdoch I arrest you on the charge of first degree murder.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Cliffie, cut the cornball bullshit,” I said.

  The cameras swung to me. “He knows he’s being arrested. He’s been standing here for fifteen minutes waiting for you to arrest him. And he’s obviously going to go along peacefully. And he has nothing to say at this point except that these charges are ridiculous, as does his lawyer, the famous Richard Spellman from Chicago.” I nodded to Spellman. “Mr. Spellman, if you would.”

  This was all happening too quickly for Cliffie. He was getting whiplash from gaping around so much. All he knew for sure was that he wasn’t the center of attention any more. And here he’d dressed up so well for the occasion, too. Cliffie secretly thinks he’s Glenn Ford. I can’t put that down, because I secretly think I’m Robert Ryan. Cliffie’s too chunky and ugly to be Ford and as I’ve remarked elsewhere, except for the height, the good looks, the voice and manly poise, I’m pretty much a dead ringer for Robert Ryan.

  Cliffie stood hip-cocked with his hand resting on the butt of his gun. The way he sneered at Spellman made me think Spellman wasn’t such a bad sort, after all.

  “There’s no doubt that Mr. Murdoch has done some things that he truly regrets,” Spellman said to the battery of microphones pointed at him. And that was a good strategy. Get the kept-woman problem out of the way up front. “He’s a decent man and admits that he feels shame for some of his conduct and for the grief he’s brought to his family. His days as a public man are over. He’s already stepped out of the race for governor.

  “But what we’re talking about here is an error—and a major one—in moral judgment. But we are not—and let me repeat are not—talking about murder. He did not murder Karen Hastings nor did he have anything to do with putting her body in his bomb shelter. It is clear to me that the real killer managed to secrete the body inside Mr. Murdoch’s home. I have no idea how this happened. But with the help of my investigators—and one of your own local investigators, Mr. Sam McCain, who has already been extremely helpful to our investigation—we’re going to clear Mr. Murdoch’s name long before this matter is brought to trial. And that’s a promise.”

  He had no more paused for breath than the reporters began shouting questions at him.

  “The blonde woman
in the blue hat asked me what about the other three men involved in this. And I can’t speak to that. I haven’t been asked to represent them and I’d imagine they’ll each want their own lawyers—if there are even any charges. Again, the arrangement they had with the Hastings woman was morally indefensible but it doesn’t seem to me that any laws were broken. Police Chief Sykes has chosen to arrest my client, and it’s my client I’m concerned about. I’m sure Chief Sykes would be happy to answer your questions.”

  I was standing next to Spellman. When the cameras and microphones swooped over to Cliffie, Spellman said, “Cliffie’ll probably tell them about the time he had a gunfight with Jesse James.” He looked at all the reporters. “This guy should be a campaign manager. He can really get the press to turn out.” Then he smiled at me. “Sorry we got off to a bad start inside. I can be a bit of a prima donna. But the next time I express my true and profound love for myself and all my sage opinions, remind me that I grew up in Groverton, Illinois, population eight hundred and seventy-two. That always keeps me humble.”

  I smiled. “Thanks for the plug. I can use the business.”

  “Could you meet me at Murdoch’s office tomorrow morning at nine? I always like to review things. You can meet my guy from Chicago.”

  “See you then.”

  Then Deirdre came through the front door and said, “Sam, could you come inside a minute, please?”

  Spellman winked at me. “I’d come inside that gal any time she asked.”

  I went up the steps. She stood aside for me and I went inside to the light and warmth and splendor of her home.

  We stood in the vestibule. She flipped off the light. “My dad wants my mom to go into the hospital again.”

  “When did he say this?”

  “Earlier tonight. He called and made the arrangement himself. He has a pilot and plane standing by in Cedar Rapids to take her.”

  “You don’t want her to go?”

  “I’m just wondering what his thinking is.”

  I didn’t say anything. I wanted her to say it herself.

  Outside, Cliffie was still talking. He allowed as how this was a scandal that would probably be picked up everywhere in the country. And because of that, he said, he wanted to bring swift justice to the murderer so that the fine Midwestern folk who lived here could get on with their lives. Never mind that the poor, sensitive folk were enjoying the hell out of this; and never mind that the town would enjoy an economic boost when the trial was in session. There’d be more reporters than citizens. And never mind that the man Cliffie had already convicted was likely the wrong man.

  “I think he thinks she did it.”

  “Your father thinks your mom did it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that’s why he’s sending her away.”

  She pressed herself against me. Her hair smelled sweet and clean from a recent shampoo and she was a marvel of soft flesh and gentle curves. She clung to me the way a child would. But her grip wasn’t strong. Weariness had set in. She was fatigued both physically and mentally. She could probably use a hospital stay herself, just to recover from her anxiety and exhaustion.

  “I still can’t believe this is happening,” she said.

  “You need some rest.”

  She leaned away from me. “What if she really did it?”

  “There’s no answer to that. It’s hypothetical. You’re reading things into a situation that may be just what it seems to be. I mean, your dad loves your mom and wants her to be healthy. The strain you’re all under and her past psychiatric record—this is the best thing, I’m sure.”

  “You really think it could be that simple?”

  “I really do.”

  She clung to me once more. Cliffie was speaking in an especially loud voice now. He was going into his “morality” speech about how the US of A was such a decadent country these days, the commies wouldn’t have a hard time taking us over at all. Hell, we might even want them to take over, all of us dancing naked around a huge statue of Khrushchev, as the pagan fires burned higher and higher.

  The assembled reporters groaned, tittered and a few of the braver ones laughed out loud. Cliffie never sounded dumber than when he tried to save the national soul.

  She stepped back from me. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m so tired I’m just making things up. Getting really paranoid.”

  “For now anyway, I’d just let your mother go. Make sure she packs everything she needs and say goodbye. You could always drive her to the airport yourself.”

  “I’d thought of that, Sam. But what if I’m needed here?”

  I took her hand. “I’m going back to work. Your dad’s going to jail for a couple of hours, just till Spellman bails him out, and your mother needs a ride. There isn’t anything for you to do but sit here and worry. And your mom would appreciate you for taking her rather than one of your dad’s staffers.”

  “No staffers left,” she said. “He gave them all very big checks and said goodbye. To the ones who worked here in town, anyway. The other paid staffers will get their checks tomorrow or the next day. Dad feels guilty about letting them down. They worked very hard for him. And then it ended like this. But that’s dad’s style. He has this sense of guilt and when that takes over, he’ll give you anything he owns.”

  “Take your mom, Deirdre. She’ll appreciate it and it’ll get you out of this house.”

  “It still seems unreal, Sam.”

  “That’s how these things go. Most people never experience this side of the law. And it’s scary when you realize that even if you’re a powerful man—like your father—that an incompetent like Cliffie can completely take your life over and make you jump through any kind of hoops he puts up for you. Then think of what it’d be like if you didn’t have any money or power at all. No bail. If you’ve got an honest cop, an honest judge and a fair-minded jury pool—and you’re innocent—you’ve got a fifty-fifty chance of going free.” I took her by the shoulders. “Your father’s going to go free, Deirdre. The charges’ll be dropped.”

  “You really believe that, Sam.”

  I really wanted to believe it, anyway.

  “Yeah, I really do. Now why don’t you go help your mother?”

  She gave me another one of those exotic erotic fleeting kisses of hers and then hurried toward the grand staircase.

  SIXTEEN

  THINK WE FOUND A PLACE.

  THANKS FOR EVERYTHING.

  PAMELA

  THERE WAS QUITE A party going on at my place. The cats were sitting up on the couch with their legs crossed watching that new Johnny Carson late night show. They were drinking bourbon and smoking cigars. Tess was wearing a party hat I had left over from last New Year’s Eve. I’d begun to suspect that they had lives very much like ours. But they tried to keep them secret for fear of my inhibiting them. In my fantasy, the cigars and the bourbon had to do with Pamela and Stu moving out. Far out. They knew, as I knew, that that long malaise known as Heartsick About Pamela In Black River Falls, Iowa had ended. I was over her. I hadn’t liked her for many years but I’d loved her. Now I didn’t like her or love her. No wonder the cats were whooping it up. The intruders were gone and they wouldn’t have to listen to any more love-sick mooning on my part.

  Law enforcement people say that they’re trained to spot things other people don’t notice. I must’ve been out sick the days they were conducting these courses at the police academy in Des Moines, because I miss things even the blind can see.

  Not until I’d gone to the john, checked my service for phone messages, turned up the heat, pulled on a ragged U of Iowa sweatshirt, and sat myself down in my recliner did I notice the imposing round foil-wrapped plate in the center of the table.

  I went over and inspected it. Tess was there to help me. She knew, as I did, that it was a plate covered with food. Tess has gone to drama school the past two years. She knows how to look up at you with those large intelligent eyes and make you want to cry. And share. “I’ll tell you what. You
can have it all if it’s anything like liver and broccoli. How’s that?” I was thinking that if cats knew how to give you the finger, that’s what she would have been doing just then. Cats are smart. They know all about stuff like liver and broccoli.

  It was a white meat chicken sandwich with lettuce, tomato and mayo, a small chilled tin of V-8, several carrot sticks and a good hunk of chocolate cake. There was a tiny card that read From a secret admirer who thinks you’re getting too skinny. Mary. Mrs. Goldman would have let her in. She was one of the many people who thought that Mary and I should’ve gotten married a long time ago.

  I had to keep pushing Tess away. “You can have half the carrot sticks.” Oh, yeah; she definitely would’ve given me the finger if she could.

  I ate sitting in the recliner. I then polished off the beer, smoked a few cigarettes and thought about Mary. Looks, smarts, tenderness, laughs. That was Mary. But Mary also offered love so strong it was sometimes overwhelming, smothering. Always had, always would. Just her nature. And now Mary offered two kids in tow as well.

  I didn’t find the teddy bear until I slid under the covers. A big brown teddy bear wearing a lawman’s badge. A tiny note Scotch-taped to it: Your Secret Admirer. God, it was corny but there in the wind-whipped prairie night it felt good to know that she was out there, thinking of me.

  “Who’s this guy?” my dad said at seven-thirty the following morning.

  “I don’t know. He claims to be our son. He just showed up here a few minutes ago. Says he lived with us for a long time. But I’m not sure we have a son, do we? If we have, I haven’t seen him in a long, long time.”

  “Years and years,” Dad said.

  “You have any ID?” Mom said, dishing up the pancakes and the bacon and setting it in front of me. The milk and orange juice and daily vitamin were already in front of me on the kitchen table.

  “How come he gets to eat first?” Dad said. “We don’t even know if he belongs to us.”

  “Whoever he is, he seems to think he’s real important. Says he’s got a big meeting at nine and has to be ready for it.”