Hawk Moon

by Gorman, Ed

  "Anything else?"

  "Well, there was one that the old man accidentally killed his mistress and had to cover that up." He looked at me and smiled. "You're really getting into this, aren't you, Robert?"

  "I want to know who I'm dealing with."

  "All that great FBI training you had." He arched an eyebrow. "Did you ever stop to think that the FBI and the Jesuits are a lot alike?"

  "I think you've told me that before," I said patiently. "About six hundred times, if I'm not mistaken."

  Of all the Machiavellian organizations in the world, according to Gilhooley anyway, the two worst are the FBI and the Jesuits.

  "Any other rumors?" I said.

  "The Circle of Six," he announced.

  "The what?"

  "Some kind of secret society. This was back near the turn of the century, remember. Victoriana was a big part of life for the gentry out here. You saw a fair share of hansom cabs parked outside Greene's Opera House downtown, and a lot of people affected Edwardian-style clothes. And had secret societies. You know what I mean, you're a big Sherlock Holmes fan."

  "And Shipman was part of this secret society?"

  "That was the rumor. But first of all, Payne, you've got to understand that there was this whole group of rich Anglophiles living in Cedar Rapids then. They went to Britain every few years and brought back everything British they could, including this English thing for secret societies. Hell, in those days, you still had vestiges of the Thugs." He grinned. "Not to mention the Masons."

  "Who were the Thugs?"

  His grin widened. "Very bad folks is what those were. The Assassins originated in Egypt back around A.D. 1000, and one of the things they were noted for was killing anybody their leaders told them to. The killer usually dressed in a white tunic with a red sash and he was absolutely fearless. He usually used a dagger. Every king in Europe was afraid of these people. They were absolute fanatics — and very successful, despite the white tunics and red sashes. Apparently they murdered seven European leaders in three centuries.

  "One of their favorite routines was to kidnap somebody they hated, fasten him to a cross with rope — and then ask a young man who wanted to be a Thug to set him on fire. If the young man could do it, he was automatically made a Thug."

  "You think Shipman was into some kind of violence?"

  He shrugged again. "I don't know, but I doubt it. In Victorian England, there were a lot of secret societies involving sexual activities of various kinds. I suspect that's probably what the good burghers of Cedar Rapids were up to. But you're a good ex-FBI man, Payne; you should be able to figure it out."

  "A secret that's over a hundred years old?"

  He grinned again. "You're the detective, my friend."

  "So after this thing happened — whatever it was — the Shipmans lost all their money?"

  "Not all of it. As I said, the old man went into the asylum and died there, and a grandson looked after the estate. They always had money — I think Claire Heston probably still has some of her own today — but not big money. Not power money. And in a town like Cedar Rapids, nobody pays any attention to you unless you have power money." He laughed out loud. "But you're still working on The Circle of Six, aren't you? I knew that'd get you. Who could resist a secret society?"

  Actually I wasn't thinking about a secret society at all. I was thinking about how I was going to get into the apartment house where Perry Heston had installed the beautiful young Indian woman.

  "So you'll let me know when you talk to this old reporter friend of yours?"

  "Sullivan? Sure. But he's back east visiting his daughter so it may be a while."

  The phone rang. He grabbed it and said, "Hey, hi."

  The way he said it, I knew it was a woman. Nothing focused Gilhooley's mind like the opposite sex. And I could tell that he suddenly wished I wasn't there.

  I obliged him. We went through one of those brief pantomimes wherein I gestured that I needed to be going and he gestured back (insincerely) that I should stay, and then I was at the door and out.

  Mother night was drawing the drapes, and the air was chill, and the stars were many and bright, and I thought of my wife, as I did at so many odd moments, and felt a terrible loneliness.

  It is when we examine the death penalty that we see how skewed justice was for people of red or black skin. Time and again red men would be hanged while white men served life sentences (some with the possibility of parole) for the same offense.

  Professor David Cromwell's Indian Journal

  Mid-August — and a blazing mid-August it was, with ice wagons clopping up and down the street night and day. Tall Tree was found guilty by the jury and told by the Judge that he would be hanged at the state penitentiary early next year.

  The sentence pushed Anna into further action.

  She began carrying around with her the scrap of paper she had found at the crime scene:

  ay

  ouse

  Whenever she got a chance, she showed the paper to people and asked them if they could guess what it would read if the other half hadn't been torn away.

  People made some pretty intriguing guesses:

  F(ay) Cl(ouse) — a citizen

  M(ay) H(ouse) — a café

  B(ay) S(ouse) — nickname for cheap whiskey-drinker

  And so on.

  And then one day Anna had to run an errand for the Chief and she stopped to see a courthouse friend who worked in deeds and titles, a spiffy man with a handlebar mustache and a hankering to take Anna over to Tilden's drugstore and sit there during the lunch-hour wooing her with fountain Coca-Colas.

  Anna hadn't tried the torn note on him before so she thought she'd give it a try and her friend took a look at it and said immediately: 'Gray House."

  "Gray House? What's that?"

  "This mansion that Douglas Shipman built for himself and then his wife decided it was too far away from town so they built another big house here."

  "Does he still use it?"

  Tilden smiled. "He and his friends do, from what I hear. That's where they go when they want to do serious drinking and carousing."

  "Must be nice to have a spare mansion."

  "Yeah, it must be, mustn't it?"

  That very same night, Anna started spending most of her evenings following Douglas Shipman around. She knew how dangerous this was — a word from Shipman to the Mayor and Anna would be fired — but she had no choice. An innocent man sat waiting to be hanged.

  "May I ask you a question, Mrs. Goldman?"

  "Why, sure, Anna."

  Were you a virgin when you got married?"

  "That's quite a question."

  "I'm sorry if I embarrassed you."

  "That's all right, you didn't embarrass me. And the answer is, yes, I was."

  "May I ask you one more question?"

  "I think that'd probably be all right." They were standing in the kitchen and Mrs. Goldman gave Anna a little hug. "Honey, I know what you're going through with Trace so ask me as many questions as you want."

  "Did you ever let him get to second base before you were married?"

  "Second base?"

  Anna explained.

  Mrs. Goldman laughed. "That's a good one. But no, the answer is that he didn't get any further than first base."

  "So you don't think I'm being crazy?"

  "Honey, you need to do what feels right to you. If you don't want to let him get to second or third base, then just tell him that."

  "I'm going to lose him."

  "I don't think so."

  "Have you ever seen Marietta down at the soda fountain?"

  "She's pretty, I'll say that for her."

  "She's prettier than I am, that's for sure."

  "But she doesn't have your intelligence or your fire, Anna."

  "She doesn't?"

  "Not at all."

  "Thanks for saying that, Mrs. Goldman. I appreciate it."

  "Second base and third base and home run," Mrs. Goldman laughed
as she left the kitchen. "I just can't believe this modern age."

  Chapter 16

  My next stop was at Linda Prine's, me scooting in right behind a car that had a buzzer for the gate. The driver didn't even look at me. Probably worn out from a long day at the office. With dusk making everything hushed and melancholy, he probably just wanted to get up to his condo and relax.

  I followed the guy up to the right rear door. Only now did he look inquisitive. He was in his early sixties, wearing a blue seersucker suit, a white button-down shirt, blue regimental striped tie and black horn-rimmed glasses that all said "lawyer". His leather briefcase only confirmed my suspicions.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I guess I don't know you."

  "I'm Perry's cousin from Des Moines."

  "Well, I'll be damned. His cousin."

  I nodded.

  "Well, hell, glad to meet you."

  He was wiry and silver-haired but his grip had lost none of its power.

  "Perry is one of our favorite people — my wife and I, I mean."

  "He's a great guy."

  He smiled. "You forgot your key, right?"

  "Right."

  "You ask that cousin of yours how many times I've had to let him in. He keeps his place just down the hall from us." He winked. "You know, for his extra-curricular activities."

  All the way in, all the way up the elevator he talked about how the Hawks looked for the coming football season.

  "Great as usual," I said.

  "That's what I think."

  After we got off on the proper floor, he turned to the left.

  I'd managed to notice in the lobby that Perry's number was 1012. Which meant I went right.

  "Thanks again for everything," I said.

  "If you're not busy later, stop down and we'll have a drink on the veranda."

  "That sounds nice. Appreciate it."

  Then he was gone.

  "Who is it?"

  "Perry"

  "Perry? What happened?"

  "Can't find my key."

  "Oh, shit."

  She might be gorgeous, the young Indian woman in Perry's apartment, but she wasn't real friendly.

  Nor was she particularly careful.

  She opened the door and there I stood and I wasn't Perry at all.

  "You're not Perry."

  "I guess I'm not."

  "How would you like it if I screamed?"

  "I'm not sure Perry would appreciate it if you attracted attention in a high-tone place like this."

  "You asshole."

  "Thanks, I'll take that as an invitation to come in and have a drink."

  I went in and closed the door behind me. She didn't offer me a drink.

  "You're one of those bastards from the County Attorney's office, aren't you? They want me to talk about David."

  County Attorney. I wondered what she was talking about.

  The condo was a showplace of taste and money — a living room of three club chairs and two small couches done in cream-colored leather, a fireplace that gave the room its focus, and two full walls of built-in bookcases.

  Behind me, as I walked around gawking, she said, "Why don't you just give it to me and leave?"

  I turned to look at her. She wore a white bikini top and tight white jeans. Her middle was bare and it was brown and cried out to be nibbled on. Her shining dark eyes and shining dark hair gave her a sexual presence that was somehow oppressive.

  "Give you what?"

  "The subpoena."

  "What subpoena?"

  She sighed, set nice little hands on nice little hips. "Look Perry is going to be back and he's been drinking and if he sees you here, there'll be a scene. So just give it to me and get the hell out of here."

  "I'm not from the County Attorney's office."

  "Then where are you from?"

  "I'm helping Cindy Rhodes."

  Her beautiful face was soured by a frown. "Good old Cindy."

  "You don't like her?"

  She laughed harshly. "Why, I thought everybody liked Cindy."

  "What's wrong with her?"

  "Other than being a sanctimonious bitch who's ashamed of the fact that she's Native American, nothing."

  "She doesn't think that David killed the woman they found in his car trunk."

  Her eyes averted from mine. "I wouldn't know."

  "The dead woman's name was Karen Moore. Did you know her?"

  "No." But she said it too quickly. And she still couldn't quite look me in the eye.

  "What's your name?" I asked.

  "Linda Prine. And I shouldn't even tell you that."

  I walked over to the veranda. Looked out. Cedar Rapids, with its ring of rolling bluffs, really was a lovely city.

  "I imagine it's nice just sitting up here at night."

  "I don't have time for this bullshit, man. If you're through, why don't you leave?" But she came out on the veranda with me and took deep breaths of the smoky autumn-like night.

  "How many men share this apartment?"

  "That isn't any of your business."

  "Bryce and Perry Heston is all?"

  "You heard what I said, man. None of your business."

  "What happens when you start getting a few lines on your face and your breasts start to sag a little?"

  "Ever hear of plastic surgery?"

  "Yeah, but there's one thing about men like Cook and Heston. They wanted fresh new meat to carve. That's a line from an old blues song."

  "I'm the fresh new meat?"

  "You are for now. But pretty soon it'll be somebody else."

  "I can see why you and Cindy get along so good, man. You like being sanctimonious, too."

  I leaned on the edge of the veranda and looked out at the rolling acres and thought of how hard it had been for the pioneers to settle this land. I'd recently read a journal kept by a Rhode Island woman who came halfway here in a covered wagon. The other half she'd had to walk. She arrived alone even though she'd started out with a husband and four children. She'd lost them, variously, to drowning, cholera (her twins) and a prairie fire that she described as 'burning everything that I could see with these sad old eyes of mine." The journal stopped right after she reached Ioway Territory as it was then called, and I often wondered about her, how she'd ended up, her sweetness and dignity and sorrow.

  The front door burst inward.

  I didn't have to speculate who it might be.

  By the time I had a chance to turn around, Perry Heston stalked into the living room.

  I had the feeling he wasn't going to offer me a drink, either. "What the hell are you doing here?"

  He tried to look cool and casual in his pink polo shirt and chinos but he was too sweaty and agitated to make that kind of impression.

  She was angry. "What do you think, I'd tell him something he could use against us?"

  "I want him out of here."

  "I want him out, too. But there's no need to get rough."

  He turned back to me. "If I ever see you around here again, Jerk Off, you're going to be very, very sorry."

  "I want to know about Karen Moore. You don't usually hang out with women in their forties. What made her so special?"

  He glared over his shoulder at the woman.

  She shook her head, apparently meaning that she'd told me nothing.

  "I don't know any Karen Moore," he said to me.

  "Right."

  "I don't give a shit if you believe me or not, Sport. In fact, I don't give a shit about anything except you walking out that door right now."

  He made a grab for me but I stepped back. I wasn't afraid of him and I think he sensed this and it seemed to calm him down a little.

  "Whatever it is, Heston, I have a feeling it's all going to come out real soon." I smiled at him. "Just the way The Circle of Six came tumbling down."

  The woman looked afraid, as if she agreed with me.

  "I want you out. Now."

  He wasn't yelling anymore. In fact, he looked tired, and much olde
r, suddenly. The gray hair didn't look so premature.

  "You hear me?"

  "I hear you."

  "Then, out."

  I nodded to Linda Prine. "I'd still like to talk to you sometime."

  I left. Before I even quite got the door closed, Heston was shouting at her.

  Chapter 17

  There were two Patricia Moores listed in the Cedar Rapids phone book. I tried the one with the worst address.

  A woman, who did not necessarily sound sober, said, "Hello."

  "I'm calling about Sandy Moore."

  There was a pause. "Who is this, anyway?"

  "My name is Robert Payne."

  "Well, Robert Payne, Sandy Moore is dead."

  "I know that. I want to talk to somebody about her."

  "Why?"

  "I'm doing some work for a client of mine. I'm a private investigator."

  "They got the guy who killed her. That bastard Rhodes."

  "You knew Sandy?"

  "Knew her? Is this a joke or something?"

  "Ma'am, I just need to talk to somebody who knew her. About her background."

  "I'm her daughter."

  "I'm sorry for all this trouble but could I stop over and see you?"

  "This place is a pit."

  I thought of Gilhooley. Nothing could be more of a pit than his place.

  "I'm sure it'll be fine."

  "Don't try and tell me that bastard didn't kill her."

  "Why don't we talk when I get there?"

  "He killed her. He killed her for sure."

  As a boy, I always used to go for Sunday drives with my mother and father. This was usually one of the neighborhoods we passed through when we drove around Cedar Rapids. But as the middle classes pushed further out Mount Vernon Road, the drug-pushers and muggers moved in to prey on the poor who now filled the houses and apartments.

  I locked my car up nice and tight and tapped my shoulder-holster to make sure it was in its proper place.

  The address was a crumbling stucco two-story. According to the mailbox, she lived on the second floor.

  I climbed the stairs up through a haze of marijuana smoke, greasy cooking smells and the rot at the center of this old house.