No Stone Unturned

by James W. Ziskin

  Dom Ornuti seemed amused by my brush with death. Frank Olney was baffled.

  “Who the hell would want to cut your brakes?” he demanded.

  I shook my head and said I didn’t know, but I told Frank about the threatening phone call I’d received late Friday night. He scolded me for not having reported it. I told him Pukey Boyle had been following me around for several days. And how could I forget Glenda Whalen—she of the bad temper and bruising fists?

  “You’ve sure made yourself popular,” he said, shaking his head. “Why don’t you just back off this story? Let a man handle it. George Walsh.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I said. “And I don’t need Georgie Porgie stealing my story.”

  “Suit yourself. Much as I’d like to, Ellie, I can’t guarantee your safety if you decide to stay on this story.”

  I looked up at the blackened brake lines again and groaned. My head hurt. This was becoming more than a minor annoyance, more than a sock in the mouth or a car in my rearview mirror. Whoever it was who wanted me dead was brazen and able.

  Dom Ornuti didn’t know anything about Tommy Quint’s car, but he referred me to Vinnie Donati, the mechanic who had worked on it. Over the phone, Vinnie told me he had started on Tommy’s car the previous Saturday afternoon, two days after Thanksgiving, and Tommy picked it up late in the week—Thursday or Friday. I asked him if the car had been leaking oil.

  “No, that wasn’t it. The car’s a rust bucket, full of problems. Me, I wouldn’t have bothered fixing it. The timing was all screwed up, and one of the valves is cracked. But it runs.”

  “Are you’re sure there was no oil leak?” I asked.

  “Surprising, ain’t it? But the car didn’t lose a drop of oil in the five days I had it in the shop. The floor under that bomb was so clean, I’d let my two-year-old eat off it.”

  “You’re a regular Father of the Year, aren’t you, Vinnie? So how come Tommy Quint drives such a jalopy?”

  Vinnie chuckled. “His old man ain’t Nelson Rockefeller.”

  Before leaving Phil’s Garage, I knelt down, my backside in the air, and took a long look at the brakes under Fadge’s car. I felt silly, especially since I could hardly have recognized sabotage without Dom Ornuti’s blackened index finger pointing the way. When I rose to get into the car, I noticed Billy Jenkins and two mechanics leaning against the wall, coolly contemplating my form. They had watched the entire show and were grinning broadly at me. I ducked into the front seat, no more confident of my safety, and drove home without incident.

  I sensed something was off beam as soon as I entered the stairway leading up to my flat. The doorknob twirled uselessly on its spindle, clearly stripped by force. There was no one in the apartment, but someone had recently finished ransacking my humble home. The floor was strewn with things that had once sat on tables, counters, and bookshelves. The cleaning closet and dresser drawers had been turned inside out. Even the refrigerator was empty, its contents spoiling on the kitchen floor. Among the smashed beer bottles, in the puddles of spilled milk and melted butter, and underneath the ripening cold cuts, dozens of rolls of film—all ruined—had been pulled out of their canisters and exposed to the light. But the saddest sight of all was the bathroom. Most of my expensive developing equipment had been destroyed, chemicals poured on the tiles, photographic paper burned in the tub. I brought a hand to my aching head and went to lie down on the couch. I called Frank to tell him what had happened. He lectured me again, then said he’d ask the city police to look in on me. Why did I have to start that rumor about Julio’s film?

  MONDAY, DECEMBER 5, 1960

  As a rule, I am not easy to find when off duty. When I began working at the Republic, I would call in at least ten times a day to let them know where I could be found, even on my days off. But after a few weeks, I realized that the emergency phone call and big story weren’t coming. So I had a police scanner installed in my car to know what was going on. The system had worked for me on occasion; I had gotten the jump on a couple of stories listening to the scanner instead of the hit parade. But nothing compared to the dispatch I’d picked up Saturday, November 26.

  Now, with my company car dead, I was deaf to the world. But at least I was mobile again; Charlie Reese provided a new set of wheels. By eight thirty Monday morning, I was tooling around town in a nifty red-and-black Dodge Royal Lancer. There was the hint of a mildew smell I couldn’t quite locate, but it was a swell car.

  I stopped at Fiorello’s for a cup of coffee and a look at the crossword, but I never got the chance. Fadge met me at the door.

  “Frank Olney’s looking for you. He’s at the Mohawk Motel and wants you there right away.”

  “What happened?” I asked, heading back to my car.

  “Someone broke into the motel and tore the place apart.”

  The Mohawk Motel parking lot was clogged with police vehicles for the second time in a week. Stan Pulaski waved me through the cordon, and I parked my Dodge next to the sheriff’s unmarked cruiser. Big Frank, arms crossed over his chest, was leaning against the Dr Pepper machine as he talked to the Thin Man, Don Czerulniak. We exchanged good mornings, news about my black eyes and bandaged nose, then we all went inside.

  The sheriff led the way, through the office to Jean’s plundered parlor. Furniture had been upset, drawers emptied, and carpet pulled up. Her bedroom had suffered a similar fate, with Jean’s clothes and possessions scattered everywhere.

  “What do you think they were looking for?” I asked, certain I knew.

  “It’s hard to say what all is missing,” said Frank, “seeing as it ain’t my stuff. But one thing’s sure: they took Jean’s revolver.”

  “Just a routine robbery?” I asked.

  “Looks like it to me. Some local kids, maybe, read that Jean was in jail, so they took advantage. Probably looking for money, jewels, what have you.”

  We stepped outside for a smoke.

  “Your robbery scenario seems possible,” I said. “Except a girl was murdered here last week; her roommate in Boston, ditto; and someone tried to kill me the other night. My place was ransacked yesterday, too.”

  “Well, what do you make of this, then?”

  “From the looks of this place, there’s nothing to steal but a few towels.”

  “So what are you saying?” asked the DA.

  “It was robbery, all right. But not like you think. The burglar was looking for something in particular, the same thing he’d been looking for in my house. Film.”

  “What?” chimed Frank and Don.

  “I haven’t said anything till now because I figured people would think I was crazy. But I believe Julio shot some photos the night Jordan was killed.”

  “Goddamn it, Ellie! Did he tell you that?” asked Frank, ready to erupt.

  “Of course not,” I said. “He denied it. But I’ve had this suspicion since we searched this place. We all believe Julio was living here, right? Well, Jean’s bathroom had been used as a darkroom up until a day or two before we searched it. I know photo-developing chemicals, and someone had been using them in there, trust me. Remember those strange questions I asked Jean Trent about clothespins, Frank? That’s what I was driving at.”

  “I was wondering about that,” he said, relieved. “I thought maybe it was your time of the month.”

  “Frank!”

  “Sorry, but it was kind of out of left field.”

  “Well, you can still see where the countertop was discolored by spills,” I said, glaring at the sheriff.

  “What makes you think it was Julio and not Jean?” asked the DA.

  “Jean doesn’t know the first thing about photography. Doesn’t even own a camera.”

  “And you’re sure Julio does?”

  “He was in the photo club in high school.” I paused for effect. “Along with Jordan Shaw.”

  The two exchanged looks.

  “So what’s on the film?” asked the sheriff.

  “I don’t know. The murderer perhaps. Some ot
her clues. Something worth killing for.”

  The two men weighed the plausibility of my theory. Frank was struggling with the idea. The DA was hard to read.

  “What makes you so sure Julio took any pictures at all?” asked Frank. “And if he did, why would he go on rotting in jail when the pictures could prove his innocence?”

  “Julio is a voyeur, a serious one, if we are to believe the stories. Jordan Shaw was too good to pass up. And, furthermore, why lose the moment forever? Julio is a good amateur photographer, with a darkroom of his own to develop the racy pictures. As a matter of fact, I’d wager he’s been shooting the action through these windows for as long as he’s worked here.”

  “So where’s the collection?” asked the DA.

  “I don’t know. But the darkroom was dismantled and is stashed somewhere. My guess is that the candid photos are as precious to Julio as the processing equipment. I can’t believe he’d throw any of it away. If we can find his camera gear, we’ll find the pictures.”

  “Maybe he took out a safety deposit box,” said the sheriff, finally dismissing my theory. “This kid’s in hot water, charged with murder. You really think he’s going to worry about saving some dirty pictures he’ll never see again?”

  “Who knows?”

  The three of us pondered that for a while.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” asked the DA, fishing in his pockets for change. Nobody. He deposited three nickels in the Dr Pepper machine and pulled a bottle through one of the refrigerated holes.

  “If I can locate Jean Trent’s woody,” I continued, “I think I’ll find more than a tire jack in the trunk.”

  “You still going off on that?” asked Frank, throwing his hands in the air. “I told you that car was junked six months ago in Rensselaer County.”

  “And I saw it a week ago, right out back here.”

  “Go ahead and waste your time looking,” said Frank. “I’ve got a murderer locked up already. As for this two-bit burglary, I couldn’t care less. Let Jean’s insurance company handle it,” and he stomped off to confer with some of his deputies.

  “How about you, Don?” I asked the DA.

  He sipped his Dr Pepper. “First thing I’m going to do,” he said, squinting into the mild December sun, “is drop murder charges against Julio Hernandez.”

  Just a few hundred yards from the Mohawk River, I found the house Victor Trent had left to his sister Reba. The ground floor of the brick building had been a furniture warehouse: Johnston’s Mill Refinishing, according to the faded lettering painted on the side. Upstairs was an apartment. The building stood alone amid the elm trees, forgotten, abandoned. A shallow creek, no more than a trickle of cold, clear water in wintertime, skirted the house and emptied into the river below. From the crumbling concrete sidewalk, the view consisted of overgrown shrubs and weeds and a dirt pathway to the front of the building. A weathered wooden staircase clung to the east side of the structure, leading unevenly to the upstairs. By all appearances, the shop had lain fallow for much longer than the home above it. The doors were padlocked and the windows boarded up, but around back, I found a loose two-by-four and a way inside.

  My idea, of course, was that Julio had hidden his film equipment here, but there wasn’t the slightest indication of his or Jean’s presence anywhere. Someone had been inside, but it looked more like mischievous teenagers than amateur photographers. Beer cans, cigarette butts, and a hot rod magazine lay in the dust. Some creative soul had scrawled obscenities on the dirty windowpanes, complete with primitive representations of male and female anatomies.

  The workshop itself was nothing more than a shell. Unidentifiable instruments, tools, and pieces of broken furniture cluttered the floor. Rusty hinges, boxes full of bent nails and screws, one jaw of a vice, cans of solidified lacquers, and dried-up stains . . . An insurance calendar from 1946 still hung on the wall above a caved-in worktable. Julio couldn’t have hidden his things in the shop without leaving a trail of footprints in the thick dust on the floor. Besides, no self-respecting photographer would store his equipment in such a filthy place. I pushed past the two-by-four and stepped back outside.

  The upstairs was locked tight, having been vacated two years earlier, and there was little sign of life. I trusted my instincts and decided it would be a waste of time and effort to get inside; this had been Reba Trent’s place, not Jean’s.

  Driving back to town, I stopped at a red light at the bottom of Windsor Street. Up the hill and a few streets over, Judge Shaw’s proper home sat on two-and-a-half acres of manicured landscape. When the light turned, I shifted into low and headed up the steep incline.

  “Miss Stone,” said Audrey Shaw, in her cool manner. “I’m afraid the judge is not in.”

  “I didn’t come to see him,” I said. “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “What about?”

  “Jordan’s boyfriends. You seem to have been more in touch with her personal life than your husband was.”

  “I was on my way out, but I suppose I have a few minutes. Come in.”

  Audrey Shaw led me down the hall in silence, her slim hips swaying easily under the tapered navy skirt. She was an attractive woman, no matter her age, and she knew it. She invited me to sit in the parlor, then offered me a cigarette from a box on the cherrywood coffee table between us. Not my brand, but I didn’t quibble.

  “What happened to your face?” she asked. I’d tried to hide the black eyes and bruises under makeup with mixed results.

  “Just a car accident,” I said. “I’m fine.”

  “So, how can I help you?” she asked.

  “I’ve spoken to the judge about some of Jordan’s boyfriends, but I’m interested in your opinion.” She lit her cigarette, and I lit mine. She stared at me, composed, waiting for me to explain myself. “If you could tell me about them—her boyfriends, I mean—I might learn something.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yes, I think that would be best. We could start with Tommy Quint.”

  Audrey Shaw crossed her nylons and set about thinking. “Tommy was like an annoying puppy dog. He was an average boy in love with an extraordinary girl. They began going steady in the ninth grade,” she said, inhaling from her cigarette. “He was nice looking, and serious, too. He started working at that ice cream parlor at fourteen and never acted like a typical teenager. While the other kids were loitering on street corners, experimenting with their first beer, stealing their first kisses, Tommy was scooping ice cream and drawing Cokes.”

  “Not a good deal for a teenager.”

  “I don’t know if I’d go that far. Tommy enjoyed a privileged position at that place.”

  “Fiorello’s,” I prompted, sure she knew the name. “Privileged how?”

  “Privileged because every boy and girl in high school wanted a part-time job at that place, Fiorello’s. Even Jordan asked that fat man for a job one summer, but he said he didn’t need any more help. She went to Europe instead.” She smiled to herself. “Strange, isn’t it? Jerking sodas in a small-town ice cream shop like Fiorello’s qualifies as status . . .”

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” I asked with a conspiratorial smile.

  “Baltimore,” she said simply. “Neither are you. I know you’re from New York, and I’ll bet not Brooklyn or Queens.”

  She smiled sadly, probably thinking of her daughter. “Yes, I’m a snob, Miss Stone. But don’t kid yourself. You’re as big a snob as I, but you’re a liberal and won’t admit it to yourself. You probably voted for Kennedy.”

  “What about Tommy Quint?” I asked, ignoring her remark. I didn’t want to offend her with my politics; I’d seen the Nixon bumper sticker outside, after all.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, remembering herself. “The girls liked Tommy very much in junior high school; he was handsome and polite. But that job marooned him outside the circle of his peers. I suspect he was considered somewhat different, and I’m sure you know what an impairment that can be for a teenager.”

/>   “You say that as if my peers might have considered me different in high school,” I said.

  “Of course they did.”

  I nodded. “Maybe Tommy enjoyed being different.”

  “I can’t say. But I know he was crazy for Jordan. Every so often, she tired of him and went out with other boys. For Tommy, it was the end of the world. He moped, whined, cried, and when she’d had her fill of the excitement of someone new, she’d take him back. Jordan was kinder than I would have been. Just as she was with Glenda Whalen. I never understood how she could stand that girl. Just an unhappy, unlikeable soul. As for Tommy, his delicate nature turned my stomach, to be quite frank. No woman likes that in a man, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

  “I’ll bet Pukey Boyle never shed a tear in his life,” I said and waited for an answer.

  “Ah, the charming Mr. Boyle . . . Well, that was another mess.”

  “Did you ever meet him?”

  “Yes, several times. Jordan took up with him about four years ago, the summer before she went to college.”

  “How did they meet?”

  Audrey Shaw took a last puff on her cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray before her. She leaned forward, eyes bright, lips parted just so: the pose she’d perfected at mixers and cocktail parties in Baltimore to capture the complete attention of her interlocutor.

  “Jordan went to Winandauga Lake to a summertime bash at the camp of a friend. She was to spend the weekend with the others but came back unexpectedly that first night. When her father and I asked who had brought her home, she said Henry Boyle.” She sniffed. “It wasn’t until later that we found out that he was known as Pukey.”

  “Did she ever talk to you about him?”

  “Not much, but she shared some things. Most of the information we got on Mr. Boyle came from Jordan’s friends, who were justifiably concerned.”