A Bullet Apiece (7 page)

“Yeah, I got it.” Simon put his cigarette up to his mouth and took a drag. The man's hand was still shaking.

“And another thing, Simon?”

“What?” he asked, pronounced defiance in the clipped way he snapped out the question.

“Brush your teeth. Your mouth smells like a dead possum.”

He closed his mouth and pursed his lips, and his face got hard, but he didn't say anything.

I gave him my winning smile, walked out, and slammed the door behind me.

Back in my apartment I thought longingly of my modest, comfortable bed. I needed to sleep, but couldn't. Not yet. I had to reach Bertie, find out what Hamilton and Frederick had discovered. In my groggy state, I was starting to mix them up, plus now I had a third cop who wouldn't want to be my playmate once I found him. If I was going to probe around into official corruption, I'd need Bertie's trust to do it—and to cover my saggy ass if necessary. I tried his direct line, but no dice. I dialed his home number. I was in luck.

“Bertie? It's Ed. Yeah. Listen, I need to talk to you.” I summed up the night's festivities out at the Hanady estate, including that Hamilton and Frederick might be missing, though I left out the new development with The Beef. He said he was going to go in to his office, and that he'd meet me at mine by 10:00
a.m
. I debated catching some shut-eye in between. Naw, I could do that at the office.

Another beautiful late spring morning, and already too hot for this time of year. When I pulled into the industrial court, the morning drop off at the preschool had already commenced. I thought it'd be nifty if Mrs. Hanady was there, dropping off her daughter, but she wasn't. Sure, I'd be out a new case, but she would have her Rachel back. And I'd again get to enjoy the beautiful view from the comfort of my desk.

Inside my office, nothing had changed. Mrs. Hanady's mug still sat on the desktop, a smudge of evaporated coffee on the bottom. I decided to check in with the answering service.

The operator was pleasant. Three messages: two more solicitors, and a Mrs. Hanady.

“What did Mrs. Hanady say?”

“She said, quote, ‘Tell Mr. Darvis that I'm very worried that he did not call last night. Please have him phone me immediately.' She also left a number.”

I thanked the operator and hung up. I immediately dialed the Hanady place. The phone rang about ten times before I felt myself starting to doze. Finally, I hung up.

I felt woozy. I was worn out from lack of sleep. My headache had slipped into a low throb, thanks to the Slinger, but I'd have to skip the catnap if I wanted to stay on top of this case. I lurched up from my chair and pushed out the front door, intending to walk across to the preschool. If Rachel Hanady was there, I'd have little to do until Bertie showed up.

Immediately, I turned back into my office, as I felt the heft of the .38 against my waist. Yeah, maybe not the best entrée into a preschool. So, I deposited the pistol in my desk lap drawer, then doubled back toward the school entrance.

I entered and found the same receptionist, free of her Agatha Christie paperback and chips this time.

“Hi, remember me?” I tried a smile. My jaw, still sore, checked that impulse.

“Yes. Mr. Darvis. If you're looking for Miss Reyes, I'm afraid you're out of luck. She took the morning off.”

Along with everyone else, I thought.

“The police came by earlier.”

“Yeah? The same officers as yesterday?”

“Just one of them. Officer Hamilton.”

If Hamilton was okay, then maybe his partner was, too.

“Thank you.” I was about to walk out of the building, but then I remembered. “Is Rachel Hanady here today?”

She looked down at a roster. “No, she isn't.”

“Any word about her?”

“No. And I'm sorry.” She seemed to mean it.

“Okay. Thanks again.” I walked out. The sun was spreading down the street, sparking a little humidity. Which didn't do wonders for my headache.

I went back into the office, ransacked my desk drawer for some aspirin, and debated washing it down with some scotch, but then remembered I'd left it back in my apartment. I guessed water wouldn't kill me. But coffee, I thought, was better, so I put the coffee on to brew, doubling the usual grounds.

Waiting for it to percolate, I dialed Hamilton's precinct again, but stopped when a police cruiser pulled in behind my car, lights flashing. I hung up the phone. Immediately, another car, unmarked, screeched up to a halt behind the cruiser. Hamilton, sunglasses on, leaped out from the driver's side. He looked pissed. Then the passenger door opened, and out stepped an officer I didn't recognize. Both of them drew their guns and crept towards my office door. Why they were creeping in full view is anyone's guess. No one stepped out of the unmarked car.

I decided to stay put. They entered one after the other. Officer Hamilton first. And he had his gun on me.

“Stand up!” he commanded. “Hands in the air!”

“What's this, officer?”

“Do it!” shouted the other. I raised my hands, trying to read Hamilton's face. The second cop moved around the desk and brought my hands behind me as I stood. Hamilton kept his gun on me.

“Officer Hamilton, what's going on?”

“Ed Darvis, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say—“

“Cut that out, Hamilton. What am I being charged with?”

His gun didn't waver until the other cop had the handcuffs locked snug around my wrists. Hamilton nodded at the other, who then shoved me forward.

“C'mon, Hamilton, what are you booking me for?”

Pushing open the door in front of me, he shoved me toward the patrol car. He glared at me as if he wanted to spit in my face, but instead spoke in a barely audible growl.

“For the abduction and murder of Officer Jonas Frederick.”

They led me straight to the sweat room. I'd tried various angles of protest and feints for information on the ride down, but both officers were mum. That is, Hamilton was mum. The other cop took some pleasure in describing what he looked forward to doing to a cop-killer. Lucky for me he waited outside the room while Hamilton and the plainclothes detective, who followed us, prepared their own strong-arm. I needed Bertie Albanese.

Hamilton wore a look of utter rage and contempt. The plainclothes, maybe ten years older, sized me up coolly. They began with the standard question: “Where were you last night? I started with the drive out to the Hanady place, including seeing Frederick's car in the driveway. I related what I had seen of the house, my run-in with Meeki. And that Tom Hanady
was
at home and had, in fact, purpled my jaw—with the help of Meeki, of course. The detective leaned over to examine the lump on my head, shrugged at me, and sipped on some coffee. I walked them through the morning, and told them about my plan to meet Bertie.

“He's chief inspector, District 9. He's probably at my office now, wondering where the hell I am.”

“Joe,” the plainclothes officer said to Hamilton, “go see if you can reach Bertie Albanese.”

“Do you buy all this bullshit?”

“I don't know. But Bertie's a good start.”

I sighed. Hamilton left the room and closed the door. It was just the me and plainclothes.

“Listen, Detective…?” I waited.

“Marconi.”

“Detective Marconi. Bertie and I go a long way back. I used to be police, foot patrol, District 3”

“Yeah? When?”

“During the war.” Marconi smiled and passed off a kind of snort.
Yeah,
I thought,
I was an irregular, unfit to serve my country overseas. Don't mention it, asshole
. “So, Detective, you ever walk the Three? In uniform?”

Marconi just looked at me blankly.

“Lookit, Bertie can vouch for me. He also knows everything I know so far about this case.”

Marconi raised his paper cup, peered at the bottom, then flung it into the trash, splashing some dregs on the grey wall above the can. “I'm inclined to believe you. But you're staying put until we get a hold of him.”

“I expected that.” I waited again. “What happened to Frederick?”

Marconi sighed and pulled out a cigarette and lit it. He held another towards me. I wiggled, still handcuffed behind my back. He sort of smiled and put the cigarette back in the pack.

“We know he was shot. Once in the back of the head. That's all it took.”

“.45?”

He scowled. “Yeah, how did you know?”

“I told you. That's the make that Meeki guy carried. Plus, I just remembered. He said something about Frederick being ‘taken care of'.”

Marconi shook his head, loosing out a stream of smoke. “Goddamnit. His face was fuckin' blown apart.”

“Where did you find him?”

He regarded me a moment. “In the woods along the outer road, unincorporated West Lou. Two hunters found him.”

More guys with guns
. “Any witnesses?”

“No.” Anticipating another question, Marconi continued, “He was face down. No other signs of violence to his body.”

“How did you guys make me for a suspect?”

“Tom Hanady called it in. He said you had been up to the house threatening him.”

Jutting my jaw forward, I asked, “Did he mention how he treats his house guests?”

“No. He said that his bodyguard escorted you back to your car.”

I grunted at that. “Some escort. Did he mention Officer Frederick's car?”

Marconi was going to respond when Officer Hamilton strode back in. He paused and looked from me to Marconi. He looked like he had stepped into the wrong room. As green as he was on the force, this was likely his first time dealing with a suspect in this way. I hoped to God it was his first and last time dealing with a slain partner.

“I reached Detective Albanese. He'll be down in a few minutes.”

“Good. Let's just keep Mr. Darvis in here until then. I'm going to wait outside. If you—”

“I'm going to stay in here, Detective.”

Marconi looked as though he were going to say something else, then stopped. He stubbed out his cigarette and left. Officer Hamilton sat in a chair next to the door. He faced me, his seething not yet under control. From the quivering of his lips, I could tell a deeper emotion was threatening.

“Listen, Officer Hamilton—”

“Zip it, okay?” His voice came out in a tremble.

“I'm sorry … about your partner. Jesus, I—”

“I said shut up!” He jumped up, and in one quick stride, fist drawn, punched my sore jaw. The impact knocked me out of the chair, and with my hands cuffed I could do nothing to break the fall. I should have expected this. I don't know that he did. It hurt like hell and I felt my eyes water. He pulled me up roughly and thrust me back onto the chair. The door burst open and Marconi came in.

“Officer
H

Hamilton! Come with me.”

I watched as Hamilton followed Marconi like a chastised teenager. Right before the door closed, I heard Marconi growl, “Go to your desk and get some goddamn cof—.”

If someone had told me an invisible felon had drilled wet plaster into my brain, I'd have believed them. I couldn't make sense of anything. Except that Tom Hanady had called in and pointed the finger at me. Where was he now?

The door eased open a minute later, and in stepped Bertie Albanese.

“Ed. You look like hell.”

“I'm in it. Any chance you could persuade them to take the bracelets off?”

Marconi strode in behind him. He nodded to Bertie and came around behind me. Finally, my blood reacquainted itself with my fingers.

“Thanks, Detective.” I turned to Bertie. “Bertie, what's going on?”

Bertie shrugged. “No one's at the Hanady place except the cook. She confirmed that Mrs. Hanady was at the house last night and left early this morning. She didn't know Mr. Hanady was on the premises, nor did she see this Meeki. We dispatched two officers to the house. No cars. We found Officer Frederick's cruiser parked along the outer road.”

“Any evidence in Frederick's car?”

“Not exactly. There was a faint chemical smell, though.”

“Chloroform?”

“Could be. We think he was knocked out and then shot elsewhere. The highway patrol has taken part in the investigation now.”

“What about Tom Hanady? Detective Marconi said he had called in.”

Marconi nodded. He took a seat and looked from me to Bertie.

“We think it was him. But he's nowhere to be found.”

“Anyone check Limited Imports?”

“Hamilton surveiled it last night. He said the secretary you described left around 5:45.”

“With anyone else?”

“Hard to say. She pulled her car to the back of the building before leaving. She appeared to be alone when she left.”

“Bertie, I had the feeling Tom Hanady was squirreled away in his office when I spoke to her.”

“Could be she snuck him out.”

“Does Hamilton know?”

Bertie glanced at Marconi. “No, he doesn't. He followed her for a while and then,” he raised his hands, “lost her in traffic.”

“Shit,” I said.

“We'll have someone out there today,” Marconi interjected.

I glanced back and forth at both men. “You think Hanady blew town?”

Bertie sighed. “The way this thing is going, I think he blew the country.”

I was released ten minutes later and told to keep my nose out of the investigation. It seems I was still a suspect. Bertie offered me a ride back to my office.

In the car he was quiet and tense. I peered out the window as we passed through a suburban area. Some guy was keeping the zoysia neutered to a harmless carpet in front of his house. That looked like a decent life. What in hell was I doing with mine? An old woman in a house dress scowled as we passed her home and rolled through a stop sign. Yeah. That shook me out of my self-pity.

“Talk to me, Bertie. My brain is mush.”

“What do you want me to say, Ed?”

“Anything. As long as it doesn't include my complicity in this.”

He looked over at me. “All right. I think Meeki killed Frederick. Under orders … from Tom Hanady.”

“Why him? Why not kill me?”

“Is that your ego talking?”

“It's the pragmatist. I'm deeper into this than Frederick ever was. Unless he got close to something.”

“Could be. We'll never know.”

“Has anyone reached Hanady's secretary?”

“Not that I know. They've got someone on it, though.”

“I think your hunch is right about Hanady.”

“Which one? That he blew town?”

“Yep. And I think he went to Colombia.”

He looked over at me again. I met his eyes briefly before he made the turn into the industrial court. “I'm gonna find that secretary myself. I want you to stay put until I reach you. Got it? Go home. And clean up for god's sake. You look like shit.”

I laughed and said, “Thank you for noticing.”

“Seriously, Ed, go home and get some sleep. Take some meds for your head.”

I grinned at that. “What kind?”

He chuckled grimly. “Aspirin. You're too late for a fuckin' shrink.”