Troy took a cigarette from a pack in his shirt pocket and fired it up. He placed the spent match in the ashtray, and after a long drag, said, “You think you can find Andy’s killer?” His words came out with exhaled smoke and sounded more challenging than concerned.
“I think I can,” I said in a blatant, self-assuring way.
“Good cop, bad cop,” he said.
“What does that mean?”
“Just that some cops are better at what they do than others,” he said.
“Like carpenters or plumbers?” I said.
He smiled, showing neglected teeth as he picked up the ashtray from the piano.
“Good luck,” he said sarcastically, then turned and headed back toward the hallway.
I was already beginning to dislike this guy.
After our mystery guest sauntered back to his bedroom, Eileen Conlon and I sat on the sofa. Through a sense of obligation or guilt, she began explaining the history of her other brother to me.
“Troy is the youngest of the three of us,” she said, “and a bit more cavalier about life. I guess wild would be a better adjective. When he was young, he got into trouble regularly and caused my parent’s many headaches and sleepless nights. Troy isn’t mean, just different. He never seemed to belong to our family. He never seemed to belong to anyone or anything. I guess you can call him a loner.”
“Andy never mentioned to me that he had a brother.”
“Troy hasn’t been a part of our family for many years, not since he moved to the west coast. It’s easy to forget someone when they’re no longer a daily part of your life—even a brother.”
“You haven’t seen nor spoke to him in all those years?”
“We occasionally spoke on the phone and sometimes I’d write to him when he stayed in one place long enough.”
“Sure,” I said.
“You understand, it was my obligation to notify Troy about Andy’s death, and that he’d been named in the will. After all, he is Andy’s natural brother.”
“Of course,” I said. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“I appreciate all you’re doing,” she said, as we walked toward the front door. “I hope you’ll contact Mr. Denman. He may be of some help.”
“If need be,” I said.
Back in my car, I called Danny Nolan on my cell phone and asked him to contact Marjorie Palazzo at the probate court. I wanted to get the details of Andy’s will without having to go through the hassle and delay of getting a subpoena.
Marjorie Palazzo was a good connection and friend. I had worked with her husband, Jerry, when we were both street cops, until his sudden death of a heart attack, leaving Marjorie and her daughter to fend for themselves. I was married to Marlene at the time. We tried to stay close to Marjorie and offer whatever assistance we could without seeming too charitable. Marjorie survived for a while on the money from the policeman’s death benefit fund, and whatever money Jerry had coming from his pension plan. When things began to get tight, she got lucky enough to land her job at the probate court. She was always there for me when I needed her.
I had no reason not to believe Eileen Conlon, but the sudden appearance of the mystery brother was beginning to bother me. If there was any reason why he was here, other than to collect his booty, I wanted to know what it was.
When I left the Conlon house, it was almost 6:00 p.m. I drove through the Lincoln Tunnel and headed for Greenridge Borough, a small community in North Central New Jersey, where I lived. Traffic was heavy, as it usually was that time of day, and a trip that usually takes me less than an hour took me two. Greenridge sits at the foot of the Watchung Mountains just north of Interstate 78. I spent the first twenty-five years of my life there until I married and moved away. After my divorce, it seemed only natural to go back. Greenridge hadn’t changed much during my nineteen-year absence, and I quickly found myself feeling like I had never left.
It was dark when I finally arrived at my apartment at,123 Bigelow Street. The two-story colonial was well kept for its age, painted white with blue shutters, and a wraparound porch on the first floor. Mrs. Jankowski, the widow who lived below me, owned the building. She had rented me the second-floor rooms at a better than fair rate as a favor to my mother, whom she’d befriended during their Friday night Bingo games at St. Michaels’s Church. Although, I had a hunch she gave me the rooms because she felt safer with a cop living above her. Nonetheless, she was a decent woman and a good landlady, and I looked out for her.
My apartment was nothing to get excited about. It consisted of a large living room upfront, a small kitchen, a bathroom and one bedroom at the rear. I kept it modestly furnished to suit my needs, but Sandy had added her personal touch to all the rooms to, “add warmth and ambiance,” she’d said.
I used my key to lock both doors of the Chevy, then turned and started down the short distance of the sidewalk toward the front entrance steps. There was no streetlamp close by, and Mrs. Jankowski hadn’t turned on the front porch light yet.
As I walked past a low hedgerow, my eye caught movement in the brush to my right. I turned quickly as a dark figure sprang from the hedge and steamrollered me to the pavement. I couldn’t see through the darkness, but the guy was big, I could tell by the enormous weight that landed on top of me, probably three hundred pounds. I was unable to move, and I couldn’t breathe, until he climbed off me, grabbed me by my shirtfront and lifted me to my feet. When his massive fist crashed into my left cheek, I felt my brains rattle and my knees buckle. I wondered why I didn’t go down until I realized he was holding me off the ground by my shirt front. He threw another punch into my midsection, which knocked the breath out of me. I opened my mouth to yell, but nothing came out. I was as helpless as a marionette in this guy’s big hands. I could see the murkiness swirling around me as my body melted to the sidewalk. I lay there for a moment, hoping it was over. I knew it wasn’t when what felt like a size fourteen boot slammed into my stomach. I tried to curl into a ball, but not before the boot came down again, this time on my ribcage. I lay there unable to move, trying to regain my breathing and hoping this guy wouldn’t beat me to death. I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for the next barrage. When it didn’t come, I opened my eyes and tried to focus through wet, sticky lashes. Everything was spinning. I held on to a nearby tree and struggled to my feet. I looked around but didn’t see anyone.
Conversation over!
The spasms in my stomach wouldn’t let me breathe. I took short gasping breaths until I was able to get a steady rhythm going again. I had learned a few things about controlled breathing when I ran tack at collage. When my eyes fully focused, I saw that Mrs. Jankowski had turned on the front porch light.
Better late than never.
I pushed away from the tree, took a couple of deep breaths, and waited for my heartbeat to return to near normal. I steadied myself and began to walk toward the front porch. When I reached the bottom step, I grabbed the newel post and crawled up the porch steps one by one. I didn’t want to upset Mrs. Jankowski, so I moved quietly through the front alcove and started up the stairs to my apartment. I made it up the first two steps but had to stop for a breather. I only had eighteen more to go. I took hold of the stair rail and pulled myself forward, through the dark hallway, up the steps, one at a time.
When I finally made it to my apartment, I headed straight for the bathroom. I leaned over the sink and splashed oceans of cold water over my face. It hurt like hell, but I knew it would bring me back to life. In the mirror, I could see my left check already beginning to swell. My belly ached, and the stabbing pain in my ribs made me wince whenever I moved.
I went into the kitchen, took some ice from the freezer, wrapped it in a towel and pressed it against my cheek. Then I sat down at the kitchen table.
My head was still reeling, and it hurt to think, but I forced myself to make some sense of what had just happened. Had I gotten mugged? No, my gun was still on my hip and my wallet was in my pocket. Was I the target of
a vendetta? Somebody from my past that had it in for me; someone I’d sent to prison way back when? The possibilities always existed but didn’t seem plausible.
I got up and walked into my bedroom. Struggling through the pain, I stripped off my clothes and flopped down onto my bed in my underwear. I examined my ribs by pressing down gently in various spots. Each time I did, I felt a pinprick of pain. I wasn’t sure if any were cracked or broken, but it hurt like Hell. I lay there staring up at the yellowed ceiling, trying to figure out why someone would do this to me. I hadn’t been robbed. I had my gun, car keys, and wallet with my money still in it. I figured this incident had everything to do with my investigation into Andy Conlon’s murder. Was someone trying to get me to abandon the case? Nobody could be that stupid, I thought, beating up a New York City detective to get him to stop looking into a case. Besides, my assailant hadn’t given me any verbal warning. But I thought again and concluded it was a possibility. And if that were the case, who would be desperate enough to try something like that?
It didn’t take a middle-aged, slick minded, experienced, streetwise detective, to know the most logical answer to that question, was—Andy’s killer.
Chapter 11
“What happened to you?” Danny said. He was staring at my left check like he was studying a painting at the Louvre.
“Somebody jumped me.”
“You were mugged?”
“No. Somebody jumped me.”
“Where’d it happen?”
“Outside my apartment.”
“Nice neighborhood. Why would somebody jump you?”
“Don’t know.”
“Maybe to get you to lay off the Conlon case.”
“Maybe.”
“Did they say as much?”
“Didn’t say a word.”
“Well, if that’s the case, it never works.”
“You know that, and I know that.”
“What other reason could somebody have for trying a dumb thing like that?”
“I’m gonna find out,” I said.
He held up a manila envelope for me to see. “A copy of Conlon’s will from your friend at the probate court, Marjorie…Marjorie, what’s her name,” he said. “She faxed it this morning.”
When he placed it on my deck, I said, “Palazzo.”
He said, “Does that mean ‘thank you’ in Italian?”
I said, “Does what mean ‘thank you’ in Italian?”
“That Italian word you just used.”
“Are you kidding,” I said. “That’s her last name.”
“Oh,” he said, moderately embarrassed. “I need a cup of coffee.”
Occasionally, Danny wasn’t on his game in the morning. I tried to restrain my smile.
While I opened the envelope and read through several sheets of paper, Danny walked to the coffee machine and brought back two cups of coffee. He placed one on my desk in front of me and took a few sips from his while he waited. When I finished reading, I slid the sheets back into the envelope.
“According to his will, Andy Conlon left a fair amount of money to his sister, and a small sum to his estranged brother.”
“Why would he leave anything to a brother who deserted him and who he hasn’t seen in decades?” Danny said.
“Guess you have to have a heart like Andy’s to understand that,” I said.
I took a sip of coffee. “Let’s find out what we can about this guy.”
I picked up my desk phone and asked for the Bureau of Vital Statistics in Trenton, New Jersey. Andy Conlon had been born in New Jersey, so it seemed like a good place to find out info on his brother if he was his brother. After a short while, the switchboard connected me; a polite woman’s voice picked up the line. I identified myself and told her I needed a verification of birth for Troy Conlon. She said she needed to know in which county he’d been born. I told her I didn’t know. She said she could look it up but that it would take a few minutes and would I mind waiting. I said I’d wait. When she came back to the phone, she said, “I have that information. Would you like me to fax it to you?”
“No,” I said. “Whatever you can give me over the phone is fine.”
After she read to me the info she had on record, I thanked her and hung up. I took another sip of coffee and leaned back in my chair.
“Well?” Danny said.
“Troy Michael Conlon was born in Union County, New Jersey, to Arthur and Mildred Conlon,” I said.
“Guess that makes him Father Conlon’s brother,” Danny said.
“Guess it does,” I said. “One question answered.”
“You said this guy sounded like he couldn’t care if you found his brother’s killer?”
“Total apathy,” I said.
“Why would he feel that way if Andy is his true brother?”
“He never had a real relationship with his brother,” I said.
“And shows up now just for his share of the money?” Danny said.
“Maybe he came here and did his brother in so he could collect his share of the inheritance?” I said.
“How could he be sure he would get any part of an inheritance?” Danny said. “Besides, he’d have to fly here, kill his brother, then fly back to the west coast. Eileen Conlon said she phoned him there to give him the bad news.”
“A farfetched, option,” I said, “but not impossible. One thing’s for sure he’s not the one who clobbered me. That guy was huge—gorilla weight.”
“When we find motive we’ll find our killer,” Danny said. “Right now we have three possible suspects: Crockett, Regan and maybe Troy Conlon.”
“And as far as we know none of them has a valid reason for wanting Father Conlon dead,” I said.
“Unless we find one,” Danny said.
I picked up the envelope with Father Conlon’s will inside and locked it in the side drawer of my desk.
“Remind me to send Marjorie Palazzo a box of candy,” I said.
“For sure,” Danny said.
***
The following morning, I arrived at work earlier than usual. I was at my desk typing my interim report to Chief Briggs when I was interrupted by the presence of someone standing before me. I looked up from my computer screen and saw a guy the size of a small buffalo; his head was as big as an over-inflated basketball and just as round and hairless. The patch of dark hair he wore on his chin got lost in the fold of fat that rippled down from his cheeks. His nose was chiseled square. His eyes looked like two marbles that had been pressed into a ball of soft clay. The three-piece gray suit he wore looked at least one size too small. The vest rode high on his chest like a bib. His gut was big. His arms were bigger. They were so thick; they looked like they should have been where his legs were. He reeked of an overabundance of “Brut” aftershave.
“Detective, Graham?” he said.
I pointed to the nameplate on my desk.
“Martin Denman,” he said. “I’m working for Eileen Conlon.”
“What can I do for you?” I said.
“I may have information that you might want.”
“in regard to?”
“The priest,” he said.
I motioned for him to sit. When he did, the chair under him disappeared. I wasn’t sure what this guy’s game , but I wanted to hear his story.
“Ms. Conlon said you could be helpful.”
“I can be, sometimes,” I said.
“I thought you could help me find her brother’s killer. Maybe we could partner up.”
I leaned back in my chair and folded my arms over my chest.
“I can appreciate Eileen Conlon’s sense of urgency,” I said. “But this is an official police investigation. I’m not obligated to give out information to anyone. Besides, I have plenty of partners. Look around the room.”
The bureau looked like the city room of a major newspaper. Phones were ringing, papers were shuffling, and detectives were moving from desk to desk sharing info on cases they were working hard to solve. There was no
shortage of crime in the city.
Denman didn’t bother to look around the room, but instead, said, “I get it, but I thought there might be some things we can share that could move things along.”
I wasn’t sure exactly what this guy wanted. I wasn’t so sure he knew what he wanted. I decided to let him continue.
“How far has your investigation gone?” I said.
“Not far,” he said. “Just got the lowdown from Ms. Conlon about what happened to her brother.” Lowdown? I guessed it was modern PI jargon.
“What are your intentions?”
“Thought I’d talk to some people that might know something,” he said.
“Conduct interviews?”
“Yeah, that’s it,” he said. “I’m pretty good at tellin’ if people are lyin’. Miss. Conlon gave me some names.”
“You’re aware that any information you might ascertain that’s relevant to this case has to be reported to the police.”
“Oh, sure,” he said. “Like I said, I’ll tell you what I’m doing and you tell me what you’re doing.”
“That’s not the way it works,” I said.
This guy didn’t have one bit of professionalism about him, no pride or integrity in it strictly for the money. He probably got his PI license off an Internet course, if he had one. But if he should come up with something significant, I wanted to know about it.
I leaned forward on my desk to make sure he understood what I had to say next. “I’ll tell you what,” I said. “If you find out anything you think I should know, you bring it to me directly. If I have something for you, I’ll give it to you.”
“Fair enough,” he said.
He removed a piece of paper from his inside pocket and began to study it.
“I’m gonna talk to this Crockett guy this afternoon,” he said. “Eileen—uh, Miss. Conlon said he’s the one who found the body. Can you tell me anything about him?”
“I think you’d be better off finding out yourself,” I said. “You know, develop your own insight.”
Other Men's Sins Page 7
