A parking ticket flapped beneath the Buick’s wipers. After skimming a hoary palm over the side panel, he plucked it away, tore it straight down the middle, and let the breeze take the fluttering strips away.
“Just isn’t your day.”
He pushed me aside, wedged himself behind the steering wheel, and reached for the door handle.
I stepped back. He cranked the door shut and fired up the engine. I watched the bomber’s trunk fishtail down Maxwell Street in a cloud of exhaust and hang a left. In no rush, I strolled toward the Bel Air, arranged myself in the driver’s seat, and cranked the engine. Frank Sinatra was singing Young at Heart over the radio. I turned up the volume, gazed into the rearview mirror, and smoothed my hair.
At this time of day, traffic heading downtown was usually backed up. Making things worse, the bascule bridges along the south branch of the river were on a rolling system, perfectly timed to block crosstown traffic in seamless symmetry while allowing nautical traffic to parade beneath without losing smoke stacks or sailing masts. To avoid the inevitable traffic jams along with the honking horns, simmering tempers, and heat rising up from asphalt pavement, I took a shortcut, zigzagging down side streets, slipping through underpasses, and hogging delivery lanes. Finally, putting muscle into the steering wheel, I cut out of a side street, hung a right, and floored the accelerator.
My timing was off by seconds.
At Adams Street, the lights blinked, the bell clanged, and the wide arms of the bridge groaned into an upside-down V position. I braked to a screeching halt. The front bumper of the Bel Air benignly tapped the Buick’s rear bumper. Starr adjusted his rearview mirror and acknowledged me with a grudging shake of his head. I drummed the steering wheel, impatient for the bridge to lower and the chase to resume. Hey There by Rosemary Clooney filled the airwaves.
When the bridge fell back into place, the Buick accelerated over the steel-riveted span and bounced toward Wacker Drive. Halfway across the intersection, Starr hit the brakes, stripped the gears into reverse, and squealed a circle around the Bel Air. He waved before hightailing it into Lower Wacker Drive.
It was scary down there. Drivers were known to get lost for days in the underground maze, going round and round on an endless merry-go-round of dead ends and wrong-way signs. The grid served downtown buildings with convenient delivery bays but also provided escape routes for quick getaways. I didn’t try to follow him but took a leisurely crosstown shortcut toward the next logical stop-off when investigating a cold-blooded murder.
Fifteen minutes later, I was waiting in front of the county morgue with arms crossed and foot tapping. The Buick pulled up and parked. Starr crossed the street, his fedora angled rakishly over an eye. He was studying the Bel Air. “You had the front end raked,” he said.
“You noticed.” I couldn’t help bragging. “This baby is shaved and decked, ported and polished. She’s got a louvered hood, dual exhausts, half-moon hubcaps, and tri-power carbs. I can put her away without breaking a sweat.”
He looked at me askance. “Who taught you to drive, Grenadine?”
“Daddy’s chauffeur.”
“Tell me another.”
“Used to be Bugs Moran’s getaway man.” When his eyes narrowed, I said, “If you don’t believe me, ask Bugs.”
“He’s in prison.”
“Naw, when did that happen?”
Even if he didn’t believe me, which he should have, he wasn’t sure if he should completely dismiss my claim. Gears were churning inside his head. He was thinking I was handy to have around. I was thinking along the same lines. Call it a mutual love-hate relationship. We couldn’t stand each other, but we couldn’t stand to lose sight of each other, either. Even if he didn’t entirely trust me, and the feelings were mutual, we worked well together. He might be a private detective, but I had as many connections, as much street smarts, and more guts than anybody he’d ever meet, in this lifetime or the next. He inhaled an even breath and exhaled it slowly. He’d made a decision. Taking a firm but respectful hold of my elbow, he escorted me inside.
In the sterile hallways of Cook County Morgue, the odors of alcohol and formaldehyde clung to the walls. Starr knew where he was going, and he wanted to get there fast: through long corridors, past countless doors, and over innumerable floor tiles, buffed to waxy perfection.
“Afraid of viewing the stiff by yourself, Starr?”
“Seen plenty.”
In the autopsy room, a white-swathed cadaver was laid up like a rainbow trout on a bed of ice. Holes punctured the stainless-steel autopsy table, allowing fluids to drain into a collection tank underneath. A disembodied brain lay in an ice-packed basin.
I hugged myself for warmth. Starr held a handkerchief to his mouth. The coroner flicked away the sheet. Byrnes wore a toe tag and nothing else. The top of his skull had been cracked from ear to ear. The doc lifted a bullet to overhead lights. “Thirty-eight caliber,” he said. “Pointblank range. Drilled a hole through the frontal lobe and into the motor cortex. Didn’t stand a chance. One minute it was up ...” He glanced at the corpse’s scrotum. “The next he was singing Glory Hallelujah. Not the worst way to go.”
He held up a cellophane bag and raised a speculative eyebrow. “Found several blonde hairs.”
I squinted into the bag. “Maybe strawberry blonde?” I asked.
He made a closer inspection and nodded agreement. “Also found this in his pocket. It’s for tonight.” He handed over a theater ticket.
Starr flipped it over. “Byrnes didn’t seem like the opera type.”
“Maybe the missus was,” the coroner said.
“They were separated,” I said.
“Makes sense then ... just the one ticket.”
Starr handed it back to the coroner.
In the fresh air, Starr strolled at my side, hands shoved into his pockets and tongue toying with a toothpick. Sparkling with mischief, his eyes slipped sideways. He dragged a hand out of his pocket and displayed the filched theater ticket. I made a grab for it, but he re-pocketed it.
“Dick,” I said.
He chuckled and headed for the Buick. I strutted towards the Bel Air and jammed myself behind the steering wheel. We took off in opposite directions.
A few minutes, I dropped a dime in a pay phone while the Chevy idled nearby. When the line connected, I said, “Got anything for me?”
Chapter 19
I DROVE PAST the Harmon House Hotel.
Black-and-whites were lined up around the block. A meat wagon waited out front, motor running and lights flashing. Police officers diverted traffic around the hotel, their whistles shrill. I found a parking space three blocks away and sprinted back to the hotel. A white Plymouth Fury parked beneath the elevated train tracks could have easily been overlooked except for the shark-tooth grill, smashed front fender, and fresh black paint etched into mangled metal. The doors were locked, but a silk scarf had been left on the passenger seat along with an empty pack of Marlboros. I memorized the plate number.
Huffing and puffing, I dropped a couple bills into Spiffy’s clarinet case. “She checked in late last night,” he said. “Alone. Wore Chanel No. 5.”
When I pushed through the revolving door, Damian Kane was waiting for me. He didn’t look happy.
“Let me guess,” I said.
Though the door to room 2201 was ajar, a uniformed cop diligently stood guard. I showed him press credentials. He was unimpressed. I slumped to show my displeasure. He stared straight ahead. I shot him a steely glare of contempt, then a smoldering look of frustration, and finally a withering expression of annoyance. Nothing swayed him.
Several cops were moving around the hotel room. Starr leaned against a far wall, a smirk covering his face. Pennyroyal walked past the doorway, his suit looking as if he’d slept in it. His mouth was set into a frown. The frown intensified when he saw me. He snapped his fingers and said to the cop, “Let her in.”
The hotel room was set for a film noir. High-heeled shoes were tumble
d just inside the door. A small purse, its contents upended, lay nearby. Red carnations sprayed the floor. A cut-glass vase—cracked and shattered—rested nearby. The light-catching beads of a lopsided lampshade tinkled in the window breeze. A chair had been overturned. Pillows were randomly tossed about. Someone had ordered room service for one. An open bottle of red wine was perched on the service cart. A girl of independent means lay sprawled across a bed of percale and seduction, feet splayed near the headboard, arms flopped to either side. The refined flesh of her comely face was chalky white. The ceiling fan puffed strawberry-blonde hair across a colorless brow. Sheets billowed around her like whipped cream. Naked from the waist up, she wore flesh-colored panties and fishnet stockings. Dilated eyes stared blankly at the ceiling.
Gathered around the bed like pallbearers, Pennyroyal, Starr, and uniformed cops had become spellbound by her youthfulness, her sheer beauty, and most of all, her indescribable innocence. In stark contrast, the bedding beneath her was soaked with the coagulated blood of a stomach wound. These hard-boiled men who had seen the worst there was to see in a crime-ridden city held their breaths. They were waiting for a sign of life. A moaning gasp. An irrepressible sigh. Anything that would give them cause for hope.
The police photographer snapped a photo. Everyone blinked and rubbed their eyes, cover for the real tears they wanted to weep for this lost soul. Several more crime shots from different angles followed. After the photographs had been taken, Pennyroyal pulled up a corner of the bedsheet and covered her nakedness. Using thumb and forefinger, he pressed her eyes closed. His acts of kindness took me by surprise.
I leaned close and sniffed. The perfume was familiar. So was the face.
My eyes tracked to the foot of the bed where a yellow sundress, soaked in blood, lay like a shroud over the rug. Beyond the dress, a young man sat on a chair near the window, quiet as death. He stared unblinkingly at the girl. He was ordinary looking, as ordinary looking as a shoe salesman, except he was covered in blood and his wrists were bound by a pair of handcuffs. His face registered shellshock.
Pennyroyal motioned to a police officer, who drew near the prisoner and closed a fist around his arm. The young man shook his head, a feeble gesture of denial. “I didn’t do it, I tell you.” He spoke with a southern twang and a cracking voice. A second officer took up the other arm. The boy had no choice but to go along. “Sh-she called me. Told me she was sc-scared. Said somebody was helping her, protecting her, would I come, would I take her anywhere but here. Hell, I would’ve taken her to the moon if she wanted.” He choked on a sob and ran one last mournful gaze on the girl he loved.
I reached out to the boy. “What was her name?”
He looked up but didn’t really see me. “Cindy. Cynthia. Cynthia Kay Whitehead. She would’ve turned nineteen next month.”
“Do you know where she was staying? An address? Or phone number?”
Numb with grief, he shook his head, and then he was gone.
A hush shrouded the room. Pennyroyal broke the silence. “Looks like we have our man.”
“Jesus,” I said. “Were you even listening to the guy?” Sometimes his cavalier attitude boiled my blood. You never knew when he was kidding or dead serious.
“He was holding her in his arms when we got here.”
“Hell, anyone with eyes can see they were high school sweethearts.”
“He was carrying this.” Pennyroyal held a World War II semiautomatic Colt with a Parkerized finish and checkered walnut grip.
“I’ll bet it hasn’t been fired.” He sniffed the barrel. From his informed expression, I guessed right. “That poor kid brought it with him to protect her. He was just too damned late.” I don’t remember leaving. I do remember collapsing against the hallway wall and sobbing into a stifling hand.
Starr pulled alongside. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. Nothing you could have done.”
“Yes, there was.” I wasn’t crying for the girl but for myself. “Did you see her, Starr? Did you get a good look at her? She was just a kid.”
“She tried to pick me up at the hotel,” he said.
“Not everyone is charmed by your striking good looks.” He chortled good-naturedly. The guy was easy to get along with, I had to give him that much. If only I could go for an uncomplicated man like Starr, my life would immeasurably improve. “The first time I saw her was right here. This room,” I said. “Or maybe that one down there. She watched me go into 2201. I think she was with Byrnes when he bought it. I think she knew who the murderer was. I think she wanted to confide in me. And I blew her off like she was so much trash.”
Starr walked me to the vestibule and rang for an elevator. His offer of a handkerchief was gratefully received. I blew my nose, started to hand it back, thought better of it, and stuffed it into my purse. “How many handkerchiefs do you carry?”
“Enough.”
The car arrived. We hopped aboard. The elevator descended on a whirr of motors and cables. I leaned against him. He put his arm around my shoulders. “The murder scene was staged,” he said.
“I know.” The trail of clothes, the dead girl’s pose, the state of the bed, the upset furniture ... everything had been arranged for a tragedy.
“Pennyroyal knows, too,” he said.
I rolled my eyes. “I wouldn’t give him that much credit.”
When the curtain went up, the audience would consist of a select few. Members of law enforcement, a reporter, a private eye, and a heartbroken boy. The Playbill would include a brief synopsis: Prostitute buys it in posh hotel room. Sexual encounter goes awry. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong john. No one gives a damn except her high school sweetheart.
In the lobby, I marched to the concierge desk and used the phone. Off Starr’s quizzical look, I said, “I know somebody down at motor vehicles.”
“Is there anybody you don’t know?”
“Offhand? Can’t think of any.” Someone picked up at the other end. “Is John there?”
“Why motor vehicles?” he asked.
“The girl’s been driving around in a Plymouth Fury. Long story, but it’s parked on Clark Street.”
Speaking in confidential tones, Pennyroyal and Damian strode across the hotel lobby. Before heading out, Pennyroyal sent a sidelong glance in my direction. If he wanted to apologize about my imaginary Marilyn Monroe lookalike, it was too late now.
Damian came over and shook hands with Starr. “Richard Starr, right? Pennyroyal told me about you.”
I pricked up my ears. “What about him?”
Damian exchanged glances with Starr before saying, “That he’s a man to trust.”
“Run that by me again?” I said. Starr grimaced. Damian grinned. I grunted. John came on the phone. “It’s Iris. Hold on a sec.” I covered the speaker and said to Damian, “Tell me about Darlene Byrnes and your boss.”
He blinked once and recited the canned response. “Jackson ‘Jack’ Harmon is a devoted husband and father.” Beneath the words and stiff performance, Damian as good as confirmed the rumor that had been floating all over City Hall for months. “As always, Iris, a pleasure.” He acknowledged Starr with a nod and strode off.
I gave my guy at motor vehicles the Plymouth’s plate number. Inside sixty seconds, I took down the owner’s name and address. I owed him. He knew I was good for it.
Starr was leaning against the desk, one ankle hooked over the other, hands stuffed in pockets, and fedora slanted at an angle. Only his smile was visible. He cocked his head toward the revolving door.
On the way to the Bel Air, he asked, “Who told you about Harmon and Darlene Byrnes?”
“Damian Kane. Just now. By the guilty look on his face.”
He accepted my facile explanation at face value. “Think they got together at the hotel?”
“Jack Harmon owns every single bed in every single room. The sheets, too.”
“I’m sure it’s just a coincidence Byrnes’s body was dumped there.”
“In my book, there’s
no such thing as coincidence.” I cranked open the door to the Chevy and slid into the driver’s seat. Eight cylinders roared like a turboprop, then settled down to a gentle purr.
Starr asked, “Why would Jack Harmon want to kill Dick Byrnes?”
“The oldest reason in the book. Jealousy. Or the second oldest. The threat of blackmail.” I reached for the door, but Starr stood in the way.
He tugged down the rim of his fedora. “I underestimated you, Grenadine.”
“Honey, some girls wind up on the short end of the stick, but not me. I learned all the angles when I was still in pigtails. And I’m smart enough keep one step ahead of everybody else.”
He acknowledged me with a respectful nod and stepped back. I yanked the door shut and took off.
Chapter 20
STARR TAILED ME to an address on Polk Street. We drove up to an unimposing warehouse. I parallel parked against the curb. Starr pulled against the fire hydrant. I studied the back of his head. He stretched his neck and waved. We hunkered down for a stakeout.
Moving to the rhythm of Sh-Boom, I scrounged in the glove compartment, hunted down an emery board, and filed my fingernails. Starr fiddled with something in the passenger seat, and with tender handholding, lifted a mid-afternoon snack to his mouth: turkey on rye, mustard, lettuce, and a slice of Muenster. How he managed to stop off at a deli and still arrive when I did, I’ll never know. When I saw him savor each mouthful between sips of Coca-Cola, my stomach growled with hunger pains.
The warehouse did a brisk business. Car after car drove up. Sometimes they kept on going. Other times they would make a U-turn at the end of block and cruise back at a slow speed. The drivers—all men and all alone—arrived in shiny Cadillacs, Lincolns, and Pontiacs. One arrived in a chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce. As one by one they sauntered up to the warehouse, they’d shrug into suit jackets, straighten ties, and center fedoras. By the looks of them, each was a straight-laced doctor, lawyer, businessman, accountant, banker, salesman, philanthropist, or chairman of the board. They had to climb a short flight of steps to an inconspicuous door near the loading dock and ring a strategically placed bell. Almost immediately, they were buzzed in. The door would bang shut behind them and the lock would reengage. From a side door, other men left the warehouse, contained grins consuming their otherwise vapid faces. Having spent spare time and money on various pleasures—some would say wisely, others would venture recklessly—they climbed into similar vehicles and drove off.
The Green-Eyed Dick Page 14
