Another Senseless Killing (2) She hesitated before answering. "Thirty-six." Middle thirties. Perfect, I thought. "I like your dress. What is it --- black?" She took a deep breath and looked me directly in the eye. "It's navy blue silk. I live on Elaine Street. I hate jewelry. I'm an animal rights activist. I --- " "Whoa --- " I put both hands up, palms out. "We are a bit testy here." "I came here in good faith." She stood and her clinging skirt hiked way above her knees. "I remember you as being an okay guy. But --- " "Margo, I am okay." Our eyes began to spar again. "Now sit down." I softened my tone. "Please." "What if I don't? Are you going to --- shoot me?" We paused a moment then we both smiled. She sat back down slowly and put her knees together. There was another long silence. I turned the page. My hand was shaking. "I --- I'm sorry." she said. "You're right. I am a bit --- testy." I didn't interrupt. I just let her talk. "I need your help --- obviously. If I didn't, I wouldn't be here." She took a deep breath. "I need someone I can trust." "I'm your man." I answered too quickly. But it didn’t matter because deep down I didn’t want her to leave. "Okay. Let's talk about your sister again." I opened a fresh page. "You say she's been missing four days?" I turned off Mozart and lit up another cigarette. "Tell me where and when you last saw her." "You smoke too much." "It's my only vice." I blew another smoke ring. "Now I repeat. When and where did you last see her?" My clothes were soaked with sweat and my rear end was numb. She thought for a moment, then consulted the small calendar on my desk. "At her house on --- September thirtieth. We had dinner." "What did you eat?" I wanted to pull back that inane question. "Chinese food. Ming Po delivers. Neither of us likes to cook." "And that was the last time you saw her." I made it a statement instead of a question. "Yes. I left her house --- oh --- around ten." "And she acted okay?" I took a final drag and continued to stack the ashtray. Margo crossed her legs again and thought a moment. "Yes. I thought she acted okay." I continued to write, trying to catch up. My fingers were ready to fall off. I wasn't used to writing this much. "Can you remember what she was wearing?" She wrinkled her forehead. "No --- well maybe her brown cashmere sweater." I looked up at her. "Well --- was she or wasn't she --- wearing a brown cashmere?" She paused a second, then slowly nodded. "Yes. I'm sure." "She had good taste, I gather." I knew I couldn't sit here much longer. "She loved cashmere." "What else?" She thought some more. "I can't remember." I picked up the pencil and started writing again. "I'm sure it'll come back to you." I turned the page. "Can you describe her?” "My sister is gorgeous. Hollywood gorgeous!" My fingers were cramping. At times like this a lot could be said for being ambidextrous. Another diesel went by. I waited patiently. "She's almost five-feet-nine and thin --- about one-hundred-twenty pounds." She took another tissue from her purse and blew her nose. I wanted to jump over the desk and comfort her. I didn't. "Her face is --- perfect. Long brown hair, dark brown eyes, --- " I continued to write. Between the shaking and the cramping it was near to impossible. "She always wears too much makeup." Margo added. "We both know she doesn't need it." She paused and took a deep breath before continuing. "When she dresses up --- makeup or no, everyone takes notice." I felt a hint of hostility in her voice. Was it jealousy? I kept writing. "I told you she loves cashmere. But her entire wardrobe is dazzling. Lots of originals." "She must have a good job to be able to afford those clothes." She didn't respond at first. When she did, the hostility was more pronounced. "She --- she inherited a great deal of money." I looked up slowly. "From --- ?" "I don't think that's important, do you?" I put the pencil down. "Yes, I do. Otherwise, I wouldn't have asked you." Margo took another deep breath. She looked like she was in pain. "From her father. Now, can we go on?" I began to vigorously exercise my fingers. "You don't want to discuss it?" I asked. "No! Let's just go on --- okay?" She sat back rigidly. I tapped the end of the pencil on the desk for several seconds, then asked as an afterthought, "How old is your sister?" She paused a moment, then shook her head slowly. "You’ve got a thing for age, don't you? Twenty-nine." I thought I would give it one last try, so I snuck up on the subject and asked casually, "You and your sister have the same father?" I wasn't sure if she was going to laugh or cry. "Of course! What kind of a question is that?" "Well --- I just --- " "I told you, I don’t want to discuss parent-child relationships. Can we go on --- " Her tone softened. " --- please?" I looked up. Her eyes were a strange mixture of fury and sadness. So I changed the subject. "Does your sister work?" There was no response. I wondered if she'd heard me, so I repeated the question. "Does she --- " She quickly interrupted. "Kate works as a part time receptionist and is a student at John Carver's School for Models." “School for --- “ My stomach dropped to my ankles. “Did you say Kate?” Margo nodded. “Yes.” “Kate.” I repeated as I absently turned the page. “And --- uh --- just what does Kate do at this school?” “What’s the difference what she does?” The hostility in her tone returned big time. “Don’t ask me any more questions about that school!” “Okay.” Time to shift gears again. “Tell me about her personal life.” “Her personal life?” “Yes. Does she date? Does she go out?” My entire body felt like one large piece of wood. “She doesn’t tell me much about her personal life.” Margo sighed deeply. “I told you she’s a very private person.” “Even with her sister?” This is lunacy. I must have sperm for brains taking this case! “Even with her sister.” “I see.” But I didn’t see. Margo looked at her watch. “How much longer?” “I have one final question.” I knew I’d have to be careful. “If your sister is dead --- “ “She’s not dead!” "Margo, this is purely hypothetical. If she's dead --- " I emphasized the word 'if'. " --- who gains the most from her death?" Her breath came in short spurts. She licked her lips repeatedly. I stifled another urge to leap over the desk and console her. "This is police work.” I spoke softly. “Your sister is missing --- " I thumbed through a couple of pages. " --- four days. She stared at the floor. "I want her to be alive as much as you do. The pain in her face became more intense. I knew she was unconvinced. I softened my voice another notch. "I know this is tough, but --- who stands to gain the most if --- " "I will inherit three million dollars!" Her voice was barely audible. I stared at my client for what seemed like eons. Then I whistled softly. But before I could respond, she put her hand up. "Can we not talk about this anymore --- please?" She took a tissue from her purse and blotted her eyes. I took a deep breath and nodded. "Okay. I give up." I knew the interview was over. I put the pencil and notebook away in the top drawer next to the notes on Delvecchio. "Well, this gives me a little something to go on --- for starters." I took a key out of my pocket and locked the desk. "Do you have a picture of your sister?" She opened her purse and handed me a snapshot. I stared at it long and hard. “You’re right, Margo. Kate is beautiful.” I could feel the photo pulling my eyeballs out of their sockets. “Her face is --- perfect.” “I told you.” “Your features are similar.” I continued to stare at the snapshot. She laughed. “Hardly.” “I think the resemblance is overwhelming.” "We both have brown eyes and long auburn hair." Margo sighed. "But that's as far as it goes." I started to protest her self-deprecation, but changed my mind. I took another long look at the picture before putting it in my shirt pocket. Kate would have to share space with Alex. I got up slowly. The parts of my body that didn't ache were numb. I walked to the window and drew the blind. I looked at the clock. It was six-forty-five. My stomach began to growl angrily. "How about dinner?" I asked. "No thanks. I have to meet a client at the far north end of town." She stood and smoothed out her dress. "But I'll take a rain check." "You got one." We shook hands and locked eyes for an instant. I wanted to kiss her as hard as I could. Her voice brought me back to reality. "We haven't talked money yet." she said. Time to be professional again. "My fee is fifty dollars an hour plus expenses." She didn't respond. I continued. "I also ask for a thousand dollar retainer." She paused then nodded. "That sounds fair." She didn't look as shocked as I thought she would. I was sorry I didn't ask for more. I glanced at my appointment book. Besides Carmen Delvecchio, the pages were depressingly empty. I closed the book before Margo looked. “Why don’t you stop by my apartment tomorrow night around eight o’clock and pick up the money.” Margo said as she walked towards the door. Then she turned back to me. “I don’t think I’ll be able to get away because I’ve got all this work to do.” Her remark caught me off guard. “Sounds like you work too hard.” “Tell that to my creditors.” “There’s really no rush.” The growling in my stomach was getting louder. "Manny, the sooner we get started, the better." "You're sure I won't be interfering?" Hunger pangs and a throbbing backache battled for my attention. "No. I'll probably need a break by then anyway." She took a small pen and a piece of paper out of her purse. She spoke as she began to write. "This is my address. And these are the --- directions. It's quite easy to find. You can't get lost. But , just in case --- " She smiled again. " --- here's my telephone number." I took the paper, glanced at it briefly and put it in my shirt pocket next to Kate Blair's photo. The pocket was getting crowded. Then I moved the chair against the desk. She said “goodbye” as she was walking out the door. I stared after her. I knew that taking this case was a huge blunder. But it was too late. I was hooked. As the cigarette smoke cleared. I could smell Giorgio again. IV I walked into Junior's Deli at five minutes past noon. As usual, it was mobbed with a long line of drooling patrons --- mostly tourists. The privately owned Sixth Street delicatessen, now in its nineteenth year, claims to have the best corn beef and pastrami in the world. I, for one, would never dispute that ambitious statement. I love to just walk through the noisy restaurant and smell the cold cuts and the pickles. One whiff and it’s instant hunger followed eventually by heartburn. There are only twenty tables at the small twenty-four hour establishment, but the owners have no plans to expand. Why should they? People are willing to wait in line for hours to get in. The round counter in the center is always filled --- day or night. The cash register, take out section, and deli and dessert cases are all in the front. So that you have to pass the mammoth selections as a teaser when you first enter and as a final reminder when you leave. The dessert case has huge cheese cakes with all sorts of fruit toppings. There are a dozen different types of chocolate cakes ranging from black forest to six kinds of rum --- not to mention the rugeleh and the strudel. Large chunks of virtually every cheese known take up two full shelves. There are huge slabs of corn beef, pastrami, turkey and tongue. Three and four foot salamis hang on hooks in the window. If you're on a low fat diet, forget it! The walls are covered with photos of personalities that have frequented the place over the years: Gerald Ford, Bob Hope, Tom Hanks, Madonna --- and on and on. The room is loud and smoky. Two large fans, even at high speeds don't help. My biggest complaint is that there is no privacy with the tables all jutted up against each other. But, judging by the success of Juniors, no one else minds sharing their meals with total strangers. At twelve-thirty-five I was seated, and ordered coffee and a piece of cherry cheese cake. At twelve-forty-five Nick Foley came in, tieless and wearing his customary three piece suit. Nick is five-foot-eight and a solid two-hundred pounds. His walk is almost a waddle. His thick white hair matches his bushy eyebrows, both offset by a W.C. Fields nose and a ruddy complexion. Nick has been with the Cleveland Police Department for almost twenty-six years. His twenty-nine year marriage has produced three boys and three girls. None of them have decided to pursue a career in law enforcement. I know this bothers Nick, even though he never discusses it. Today I thought he looked terrible. He had dark gray circles and bags under his eyes that were large enough to shop with. I saw lines I never saw before. "Hello, Nick. I wondered if you were gonna make it." I lit up a cigarette. "You sounded like you were asleep when I talked to you on the phone earlier." "I probably was." He yawned. "There was a fucking homicide three nights ago." The table on our immediate left had a young family with four children and the table on our right had a family with three children. All the children looked to be under ten and both sets of parents must have thought that discipline was a capital crime. The children all spoke at the same time and didn't seem to care how loud they were or that anyone else was in the room. The youngest, maybe two years old, was crawling on the top of the table with his hand in the pickle jar. The whole family thought it was hilarious. I wanted to smack the little shit. "I've been up with the medical examiner for damn near forty-eight hours." "Juan Morales?" "That's him." In spite of the din, I tried to try focus my attention solely on Nick and ignore the assholes on either side of us --- especially the moronic brat on the table. "I'm ready to retire, Manny." Foley took a sip of water, then put a cigar in his mouth. I laughed. "Nick, we have this stupid conversation at least once a month" "Exaggeration!" Nick said, pointing his cigar at me jokingly. "You'd be plain fucking bored and you know it." "Hell, I'm fifty-six years old. I'm ready to take that chance." He turned the cigar in his mouth. "This shit is for young people." "Nick." I took a deep drag of my Camel. "How can you stand to put those awful cigars in your mouth?" Nick took the cigar from his mouth and put it under his nose. Then he sniffed and smiled. "I love 'em. They relax me. And besides, I never light 'em." He put it back in his mouth. "How do you have the nerve to talk about my cigars with a cigarette smoldering between your lips." "These don't smell." I said gallantly. "Manny, one day you're gonna set your fucking beard on fire." We both laughed as he sat back and closed his eyes. The bratty two year old was off the table and the dysfunctional family of four was getting ready to leave. Thank God! The waiter, a stout elderly man with short white curly hair and a face that looked more like a road map, came over with my food. He took out his small pad and pencil and looked at Nick. "That looks good." Nick pointed his head at my food and spoke with his cigar sticking out of the corner of his mouth. "I'll have exactly what he has." "That's quite all right." The waiter spoke broken English. He peered over his half-eyes and as he spoke his double chins shook. "It's not a crime to be unoriginal." Then he bowed and left. Nick and I looked at each other. "Was that supposed to be funny?" Nick asked. I shrugged. "Apparently the waiter thought so." The one family finally left and the other one, although still seated, had quieted down --- at least for the moment. Now we could talk without yelling and hear each other without straining. "Who was it?" I asked belatedly. "Who was what?" Nick asked as he took a sip of water. Before I could repeat the question, he took a napkin and wiped the table. "Christ, this table is filthy!" And I thought I was picky. "Call the busboy, Nick. That's his job." I took a bite of cheese cake and a sip of coffee. "The homicide." "Oh." Nick bit down on his cigar and opened his vest. His white shirt had a small tan stain. I chose not to mention it. I knew his wife would. He continued as if he'd never been interrupted. "A middle-aged guy by the name of Curt Warner got himself killed two nights ago. His Saint Paul driver’s license had slipped into the lining of his coat. We had one helluva time finding it." Nick stopped and stared at me. "Hey --- you okay?" I stared back. "Yeah. Why?" "Well, you looked a little pale, and --- " "I'm fine." I shrugged it off. "So where did you find this Warner?" Nick moved the cigar to the other side of his mouth. "His landlady found him by accident in a dumpster near the corner of Main and Race." "I guess the city needs to be more conscientious about picking up the trash." I said it jokingly. Nick didn't laugh. "It took us several hours to calm this landlady down before we could even begin to question her. The woman was hysterical." Foley took his napkin and laid it next to the ashtray. "We finally got her to go to the morgue and ID this guy --- or what was left of him. Then she got hysterical again." "So it was pretty bad, huh?" I motioned for the waiter. "The right side of his head was blown away. Preliminary reports, according to Morales, indicate a thirty-eight caliber pistol." Nick took the cigar out of his mouth to emphasize his point. "Manny, I could be a cop forever and still never get used to shit like that." He quickly put the cigar back in his mouth. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look like you’re --- “ “I’m okay. This talk just makes me squeamish.” “See it first hand. Then you’ll know how I feel.” We sipped our coffee silently for several seconds. Then I asked, "Nick, how do you ID someone with only half a head?" "I guess there was a part of him she recognized." Foley suddenly realized what he had said and he and I looked at each other and began to laugh. "What I meant was --- ah --- forget it." I lit another cigarette with the butt of the last one. The waiter came over with the check and filled our coffee cups. Nick went on. "This landlady is positive the deceased came from Minnesota, which confirms his Saint Paul driver’s license." He sat back in his chair. "She has no inkling as to why the guy was zapped. Lived alone and no one ever came to visit. No friends or family she knew of." Nick took another bite of his cheesecake and a final sip of coffee. "'Strange' was the word she used to describe him. Says he'd been knocking around lately as nothing less than a fucking vagrant." I put out my cigarette and finished my coffee. "So," Nick continued wearily, "I need to do some digging and find out who this bird was and why anyone would want to bump him off." "No witnesses, I assume." "I spoke to businesses and people in the vicinity. No one recognized his photo. The night of the murder, no one saw or heard anything. Or if they do, they're claming up." Both tables were suddenly empty. Two busboys feverishly cleared away the dirty dishes and wiped the tabletop. "Anything I can do?" I asked. "Nah. Everything is pretty much under control." "Well, Nick, good luck." "Yeah. I'll need it." Foley removed his cigar and took a final bite of the cheesecake, talking with his mouth full. "This is awesome!" People speaking with their mouths full of food generally annoy me. With Nick Foley, I take exception. The table on the right filled up with two adults and two teenagers. Nick looked around him, then for some reason blurted out, "Fuck old age!" The family of four turned and looked at him. "I'll drink to that." We raised our water glasses, touched them and took a sip. We both sat back in our seats, then after several minutes, I said, "Nick, you don't really want to quit, do you?" I knew he'd be climbing walls. He hesitated a second. "Oh --- I guess not. Just get in the old lady's way." I motioned for the waiter again. "But if people do insist on committing murder,” Nick continued, “ I wish to hell they would have the decency to do it in someone else's territory." We both paused a while, fondling our empty water glasses.
Go to part: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24
Copyright © 1998 B J Bloch |