Murder in Store

by DC Brod

  “Bingo,” said O’Henry. Then he shook his head. “Seems like working at that place could be worse for your health than smoking.”

  I recalled seeing him around the store, but he was someone I had never had any personal contact with. Until tonight that is.

  “Tell me, McCauley,” O’Henry continued. “Did you leave anything out of your little story?”

  “Like what?” I said sharply, wanting him to come out with it.

  He cleared his throat and consulted his notebook again before saying, “Like the fact that before you left, you sliced him from ear to ear?”

  13

  ELAINE LOOKED LIKE she was about to tell O’Henry just what he could do with this nugget of knowledge, but I placed my hand on her arm.

  “I didn’t tell you because it didn’t happen.”

  “How do you explain it then?”

  I tried. “There were two of them—Bonkowsky and a driver. Whoever was driving was doing his damnedest to smear me all over the pavement. I don’t have a lot of trouble picturing someone like that dispatching a partner who’s too beaten up to move. Especially if he didn’t trust him to keep his mouth shut.”

  O’Henry didn’t respond. I kept talking. “We’re not talking about nice people here.”

  That scenario made sense. I knew it and I was pretty sure O’Henry had already considered the possibility. So why did I feel like the celebrity suspect in one of those Columbo TV shows who overexplains every inconsistency?

  “Besides,” I went on. “I’m not denying the fact that I killed the guy, or at least seriously injured him.” I probably should have shut up there and then, but my off button wasn’t working. “It was him or me. Do you want me to make excuses for surviving?”

  O’Henry shifted in his chair and went into a thoughtful mode. He sighed. “What I can’t figure out is why you’re right in the middle of all this. I’m assuming the attempt on your life and Hauser’s murder are connected. So, it occurs to me that you may know something you’re not telling me.”

  He punctuated that statement with a long pause. Then he said, “What is it?”

  Elaine and I looked at each other and came to a silent decision. “There were some files,” I said.

  O’Henry leaned forward. “Now we’re getting somewhere. What files?”

  I explained how Hauser had given me the files and how the private detective who compiled them had been a hit-and-run victim—a fact which, since earlier tonight, I was convinced was not coincidence.

  “Where are the files now?”

  I opened my mouth and Elaine interrupted. “Let me tell this part.”

  O’Henry nodded to her with a gesture that was a bit too gracious. She told what had happened after she returned to the apartment. He jotted down the partial plate number. Then he looked back at me.

  “You want to tell me what was in those files?”

  I shrugged. “Can’t remember too much. Actually it seemed like a lot of merciless digging into personal lives.”

  “Can you give me an example?”

  “Sorry. I didn’t have much of an opportunity to look them over before they were stolen.”

  O’Henry nodded like he didn’t believe one word of that, which was okay. There was no way he could prove or disprove my statement.

  “Was it the kind of information you could blackmail someone with?” he asked.

  That had occurred to me, and although Hauser might have had some questionable habits, I didn’t think blackmail was one of them. “I don’t know,” I lied.

  O’Henry sighed again, put his notebook back in his pocket, and stood up slowly. “I could charge you with suppressing evidence. It might stick too.” He hesitated, thinking, and shrugged his shoulders as if answering himself. “Maybe I

  will. Maybe I won’t.” He turned back to me. “I want you to come in this afternoon to make a statement.” He shook his head in a long-suffering gesture. “I have to discuss you with the DA.”

  Elaine jumped from her seat on the couch, surprising both O’Henry and me. “Why? It was self-defense. Can’t you see that? What was he supposed to do?”

  “That’s okay, Elaine,” I said, standing.

  “No, it’s not.” Her face was starting to redden. “Quint didn’t have to call you guys, you know. And you would have spent days spinning your wheels trying to figure out who killed that thug.”

  O’Henry held up his hands in a quieting gesture, but Elaine would have none of it. “Now you’re saying he might be charged with something? Well, tell me. With what? Defending himself?”

  I knew that my making a statement and O’Henry’s chat with the DA were standard procedures, but it did make me edgy. “It’s really no big deal, Elaine,” I said, trying to convince myself as well.

  Elaine’s jaw tightened as she clamped her teeth in a controlled effort to keep her mouth shut.

  “By the way,” O’Henry said, preparing to leave, “in case you’re interested, we have the coroner’s report on Hauser.”

  It’s strange how quickly an attempt on your own life can make you forget about the successful attempt on another person’s life. “Poison?” I asked.

  O’Henry nodded. “Cyanide. Enough to stiff a moose.” He looked at me. “Whoever replaced the capsules wanted to make damn sure he didn’t take a regular one. All the capsules on the top were packed full of the stuff.” He shook his head as if he were trying to fathom human nature. He probably did a lot of that.

  “Let me know if you have any flashbacks about those files, okay?” he said as he was leaving.

  I closed the door behind him and turned to Elaine. She was picking up books and slamming them into the bookcase. Apparently she hadn’t heard the last part of our conversation and was still fuming over O’Henry’s distrust of me. Without looking at me, she said, “I’m sorry. The guy just made me so damned mad.”

  “It really wasn’t his fault. He was just following procedure.”

  She looked at me sharply. “Do you always let people walk on you and then apologize for them? I don’t understand that kind of attitude.”

  I wasn’t sure what I had done to incur this diatribe, but I knew I didn’t want to go a round with Elaine too, so I kept my mouth shut.

  “That’s it. Just stand there and take it. Be Mr. Nice Guy. See how far it gets you.”

  I ran a hand through my hair, trying to figure out how to respond. There had to be more to this. I couldn’t think of what to say. She brushed past me on her way out of the room. Then, I heard her bedroom door slam.

  I lay down on the couch, using one of the back cushions for a pillow and tried to sift through everything that had happened in the past couple days, but I had trouble holding a thought for more than two seconds and pretty soon I couldn’t tell my thoughts from my dreams.

  When I woke, something was tickling my nose. At first I thought maybe it was the smell of coffee, but when I opened my eyes there was a remarkably ugly purple-and-orange afghan covering me. I sat up, my back feeling the effects of sleeping in one position on a soft couch. Elaine was standing over me with a mug of coffee.

  “Black?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Thank you,” I said, taking the mug from her. “And thanks for the blanket.”

  She smiled. “Ugly isn’t it?”

  I shrugged and took a sip of coffee. It was strong, hot, and revitalizing.

  “I made it in 1970. The afghan.” As if that explained everything. Maybe it did.

  “What time is it?”

  “Noon,” she said. “You want some scrambled eggs?” I nodded. “That sounds great.”

  My knee was stiff and still hurt, but I could walk on it without too much discomfort. Elaine gave me an Ace bandage to wrap it with. I showered and shaved; and, when I came out, ate one of the most delicious meals I have ever had the pleasure of enjoying. Everything is relative, of course. Not that the eggs weren’t terrific, but I was also somewhat euphoric about still being alive.

  We didn’t talk much during the meal.
I was trying to figure out where I’d be living. I couldn’t stay here. Elaine had already been too much imposed upon by my life.

  After we ate she made another pot of coffee. We just couldn’t get enough of the stuff. She wore a pair of gray, large-framed glasses and the steam from the coffee caused them to fog up. She giggled and waited for the fog to clear.

  Then she looked at me and said, “I’m sorry about the abuse last night.”

  “Forget it.”

  We both knew I would say that. But I still wanted to know what prompted her outburst. She wasn’t ready to tell me, though. Maybe she wasn’t sure herself. I wasn’t sure about a lot of things either. Like, why I was beginning to notice little gestures and movements of Elaine’s—for instance, that when she sat down, even at the dining room table, she would fold one leg under her and sometimes, when deep into a thought or conversation, would sit cross-legged; or that she carried an elastic band in her pocket the way some people carry change and when her shoulder-length

  curly hair got in the way, she whipped it back into a ponytail. But I wanted to know more than what I could pick up through observation. “Tell me about you,” I said.

  She shrugged and smiled. Her auburn hair seemed more vivid than ever against the white turtleneck she wore. Why hadn’t I noticed her dimples before?

  “Like what? Born and raised in Chicago. Only daughter of a mechanic. Mother died when I was three. Dad remarried two years ago. Nice lady. I’m real glad for him. Two brothers. One’s a lawyer and the other is a teacher. I’m the only one who didn’t go to college. I was determined to prove it was possible to get somewhere without a college degree. And I did.” Her laugh was humorless. “Just couldn’t stay there.” She took a sip of coffee and lit one of my cigarettes. “There you have it. My life in a nutshell. Think we can sell rights to the networks?”

  “Maybe. Ever been married?” That might have been too personal, but I wanted to know.

  She shook her head.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I seem to have a real knack for finding men who aren’t very good for me. You know, the kind who let their neuroses run their lives.”

  “At the risk of sounding like Dear Abby, there are a lot of decent men out there.”

  She studied me for a moment before answering. “All the nice ones are busy bestowing their affections on the women with neuroses.”

  “Touché,” I said.

  We cleared off the table, and I washed while she dried.

  “Do you remember what was in those files?” she asked.

  “Not as much as I’d like to. A few things. Not many specifics. Actually, a lot of the real meaty stuff was supplied by Grace.”

  “Grace?”

  “Preston’s elder sister.” “Meaty stuff?”

  “Yeah, mostly on people in management. You know, dirt like how so and so’s in debt to the mob. Another guy was arrested for statutory rape. Things like that.”

  “Colorful management team you have,” she said.

  I shrugged. “He was her little brother. You know how that sibling business works.”

  “I’ve got a little brother. I can’t see myself doing that for him.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “But I guess I can’t see him asking me to either.”

  “Your brother probably doesn’t need as much help as Preston did.”

  “Maybe not.” But before I could pursue it, she said, “You know more than you admitted to O’Henry, don’t you?” I nodded.

  “Why didn’t you tell him?”

  “I think Hauser was way off-base with some of his suspicions. I also think Grace’s fact-finding was a bit too zealous. I don’t want to put a decent person’s reputation at risk because he looked cross-eyed at Hauser one day. Besides, Hauser never really got specific about any of them. I think he was just fishing.”

  “Can you tell me anything? Maybe it would help to puzzle it out with someone.”

  I hesitated at first, not because I didn’t trust her, but because I didn’t want to get her involved. But then, she already was involved. I told her what I remembered and we batted around motives for each of the suspects. None of them seemed very likely.

  “Do you remember where Griffin’s friend lives?” she asked, referring to the general manager’s frequent visits to a certain apartment building.

  “No. Only that it was on Sheridan Road.”

  “That narrows it.” She put the last plate away and folded the dish towel. “Do you think it might have been Griffin?”

  I shrugged and thought about that for a minute. “Maybe. If he did kill Hauser, then that would explain why he fired me. He didn’t want me snooping around.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Well, I’m wondering if the late detective Ray Keller kept copies of the data he collected on cases.”

  Elaine’s eyes widened. “Where would they be?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe he had a partner. Maybe his wife cleaned the place out. Maybe she threw them away. Hell, it’s a long shot but it’s a start.”

  “Can I do it? Look for the file copies?” She was like a kid asking for a pony.

  Before I could answer, the phone rang. Elaine answered it, “McCauley and Kluszewski Investigations.”

  I rolled my eyes heavenward, but I smiled too.

  “One moment please,” she said into the receiver, then handed me the phone. “It’s the grieving widow,” she announced none too softly.

  “Hello, Diana,” I said.

  There was a hesitation. Then she asked, “Was that your roommate?”

  “What can I do for you?” I said, instead of answering. There was a pause again. “I need to see you. It’s important.” “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m upset. That miserable Sergeant O’Henry is trying to do a number on me.” “What do you mean?”

  “I’m sure he thinks I killed Preston.” There was something that sounded like a small sob, but I couldn’t be sure. “Quint, you know I didn’t do it. Don’t you?”

  I didn’t know how to answer that, so once again I avoided the question.

  She said, “I have to talk to you. It’s important” Her voice wasn’t shaky anymore. “Where are you?”

  “I’m at the house in Wayne.” She gave me the address, then added, “You know, sometimes I just need to get out of the city.”

  “I’ll be there in a couple hours.”

  “Thank you, Quint”

  “Is she the black-widow type?” Elaine asked after I hung up.

  “It’s real hard to place Diana Hauser into any category,” I said, “but it wouldn’t be entirely out of character.”

  The phone rang again. This time Elaine used a more conventional greeting. She shrugged as she handed the phone to me. “This one doesn’t say who she is.”

  “Hi, Quint.” Images leapt at me over the line. “It’s Maggie.” As if she had to identify herself. If she was surprised to hear a woman answer, she didn’t let on. But then Maggie wouldn’t. “I got your number from Harry,” she explained.

  “Oh,” I said, always ready with a clever rejoinder. “There’s a letter here for you. I mentioned it to Harry and he said it might be important” “Can you describe it?”

  “What do you mean? It’s just a letter. I didn’t read the postmark or try to steam it open.”

  “Okay, okay. It may be important. Can I pick it up now? Will you be home for the next half hour?”

  Elaine stopped wiping off the kitchen counter. “I don’t know,” she said. “If I’m not, I’ll leave it in the mailbox.”

  As I hung up, I was experiencing some very mixed feelings. Part of me wished Maggie would be there, and part of me hoped she was as far away as she could get in a half hour. Part of me hoped the letter was the final phone bill from the apartment I’d left two years ago catching up with me, and part of me knew that it wasn’t.

  14

  MAGGIE’S MAILBOX WAS empty. The little piece of tape with my name punched on it had been remov
ed, but hadn’t been replaced yet.

  I climbed the two flights to her apartment, wondering if the fact that I was able to park in my old space was significant or simply a matter of good timing. I stared at the door for a minute before knocking. It was odd, being on this side of a door I used to consider, more or less, my own. I felt like a stranger, or worse, a solicitor. I had turned in more than my share of keys these past few days.

  She opened the door and for a minute we just stared at each other. She looked terrific as usual. Her short, dark hair complemented her small features, and she was casual in a pair of khaki corduroys and a tight-fitting, black, V-necked sweater.

  “Come in,” she said.

  The place hadn’t changed, but that shouldn’t have been surprising. Why did I have to keep reminding myself it had only been a few days? There didn’t seem to be anyone else here.

  I turned to Maggie. “Where’s your young lawyer friend?”

  “Gone,” she said, brushing past me on her way into the kitchen. She pulled a jug of burgundy from the cupboard and set out two glasses. “Care for some?” she asked, pulling the cork from the half-empty bottle.

  “Sure,” I said. “You mean gone as in ‘Quint McCauley is gone’ or gone as in ‘He’s just recharging his batteries'?”

  She finished pouring the wine and handed me mine. We clinked glasses. “To old friends,” she said, and we drank.

  Then she set her glass down. “It didn’t work out.”

  I waited and she added, “I got tired of debating with him.”

  “At least you gave it everything you had.” I shrugged and added, “Maybe you ought to give up on the idea of choosing a partner from one of your own kind. You need an easygoing noncompetitive type.”

  “Like you,” she said.

  I shrugged again.

  “Are you still available?” she prodded.

  “Are you kidding? My life has been one whirlwind since I walked out the door.”

  She studied me. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I know.” I wasn’t trying to be evasive or mysterious. I simply didn’t know.

  “I think maybe I was a bit hasty in asking you to leave.” She sipped her wine and sat in a chair at the small kitchen table. I remained standing. “You were good for me. I didn’t realize that until you were gone.” She smiled. “How does the song go … ‘don’t know what you got till you lose it …’ or something like that?”