A Time for Secrets (19 page)

The orderly took a step toward the door but didn’t leave.

“Mr. Carpinski, I’m Nick Nowak. I’m a private detective—”

“No, you’re not,” Lewis said. “You’re such a kidder.”

I pulled one of my cards out of my pocket and held it out to him. “No, I am a private detective. I’m here to—”

“Stop it. Just be yourself.”

I stopped. I didn’t understand what was happening.

“Lewis, who is this man?” the orderly asked.

“This is Drew, my Drew. Didn’t I tell you he was handsome?”

“Yes, you did,” the orderly conceded.

I stood very still, trying to figure out how to proceed or if I should I even bother.

“Lewis, do you remember a man named Bill Maker?”

“Why do you want to talk about him? We should talk about us. I’ve missed you.”

“Do you remember what happened to Bill Maker?”

His face darkened. “Something bad.”

“Yes, something bad happened. Do you remember?”

“They beat him up. They beat him up and he died.”

“Who are they? Who beat him?”

“The police.”

Suddenly, he looked around the room as though he’d just lost something. “Where’s Drew?” he asked us. “Is Drew coming today?”

“Thank you, Mr. Carpinski. Maybe I’ll come again sometime.”

“Who are you?” he asked.

I smiled and stepped into the hallway with the orderly.

“So, he’s senile,” I said.

“Basically,” the orderly said.

“And it gets worse from here?”

He nodded then said, “He’s better in the morning. You might want to try coming back.”

I shrugged. I couldn’t see all that much point in coming back even if he was better in the morning. I’d reached a dead end.

§ § § §

The sun was low in the sky and smoldering like an ember when I left Our Lady of Benevolence. I grabbed a cab on Kimball to head back to Boystown. I could have taken the Ravenswood El and transferred at Belmont, but I wasn’t in the mood to sweat like a pig in an un-air-conditioned subway car—the new silver ones were air-conditioned; the old green ones weren’t. I knew a green one would show up if I tried to take the El. I was also worried I might have a tail on me. I’d been looking over my shoulder all morning and hadn’t seen anyone, but still.

Switching modes of transportation was one way to shake a tail. If I was being followed, they’d begun on foot and taken the El with me, switching to a cab might help me shake them. Yes, in the movies if the hero is following someone who gets into a cab, another cab immediately shows up and the hero jumps in and says “Follow that cab!” In real life, cabs are often five minutes apart, sometimes more, and even if they’re not, telling a Chicago cabbie to “Follow that cab!” would not be greeted with enthusiasm.

As we drove down Kimball, I tried to think things through. I knew Alderman Thomas Finnegan was responsible for the deaths of at least three men, two of them quite recent. All I had, though, was a journal entry and a police report. The possibility of a witness had just evaporated. The only people still alive or sane who witnessed Bill Maker’s death were the two men who’d killed him.

Then I had an idea. It was a stupid idea, and there was no reason to think it would do any good, but it was the only thing left I could think of to try. I slid forward and asked the driver, “Can you find me a phone booth?”

He shrugged and then made an unexpected turn onto Irving Park Road heading east. About six blocks later he found a Golden Nugget on the corner of Sawyer and Irving Park. When he pulled into the parking lot, I jumped out and said I’d be right back.

The payphone was in the back by the restrooms. There was the faint smell of disinfectant in the air as I dialed information. I told the operator I wanted a listing for Straub, first name beginning with an M. She told me she had a Martin, a Maxwell, and a Michael. Martin rang a bell so I asked for that address. I was fairly certain that Martin Straub was the storm trooper in Meek’s journal. Now I was on my way to see him.

The Straubs lived in Bridgeport on South Keeley Street in a yellow-brick house that was a story and a half. My parents’ house was about a dozen blocks away. The cab dropped me off in front and I walked up the six steps of the concrete stoop. Before I knocked, I looked up and down the street. Things looked quiet. No one had followed me. I went ahead and knocked, then waited.

I was about to knock again when the door opened and a small woman in her late fifties stood in front of me. She wore a pair of jeans folded up at the cuff, a blouse with a Peter Pan collar, and an almost man-ish pageboy haircut. I told her I was looking for Martin Straub and she said, “Marty? Marty’s gone.”

I asked when he’d be back.

“No,” she said. “He’s gone, dead. Gosh, almost five years now. What did you want? Was it something important?”

From the expectant look on her face I wondered if she might not think she was about to get some money. I went ahead and disappointed her.

“I’m Nick Nowak. I’m a private investigator looking into the death of Bill Maker. You might remember him as Space Ranger. He died quite a while ago, and I think Marty may have known something about this death.”

“You’d better come inside,” she said, the look on her face turning dark.

The furniture in her small living room was old but well kept: a Colonial-style sofa, an uncomfortable rocker, a console television low to the floor. She offered me a cup of coffee and I accepted. While she was in the kitchen pouring it, I studied the framed photographs on the television; they were of a towheaded boy in a tap class, a teenager on the cheerleading squad, a young blond man in a polyester pants suit dancing with a girl in a puffy dress in front of a sparkling curtain. They were all of the same person, of course. From the age of the photos, I guessed that he’d be my same age and was very likely the boy who’d so liked
Space Ranger
. I didn’t remember him, but then we might not have gone to the same schools. I went to De La Salle, he might have gone to Tilden Tech.

Mrs. Straub came back into the living room and offered me a cup of black coffee. She saw me looking at the photos and said, “That’s my boy, Arthur. He danced on
The
Lawrence Welk Show
. I can’t believe they took it off the air. Everyone I know loved it.” She picked up the most recent photo and added, “I wrote away for this one. Arthur’s agent sent it to me.”

“Did Arthur and his father get along?”

She shook her head. “Arthur finally ran away when he was seventeen.” Something occurred to her. “Say, you’re a detective. You could find him for me, couldn’t you? I worry about him since the show was canceled. I called his agent, but he wouldn’t give me Arthur’s phone number. Even though I’m his mother. They wouldn’t give it to me.”

“Write a letter to Arthur and send it to the agent. He’ll pass it along.”

“I couldn’t. I’m not good at that sort of thing.”

“Just tell him you love him and that you miss him.” I had the feeling it might take more than that, but it was start. “Can I ask some questions about your husband?”

She nodded.

“Did he ever talk to you about Bill Maker?”

She nodded again.

“What did he say?”

She was quiet for a long moment before answering. “He said they killed him.”

The hair on the back of my neck rose. “Who is they?” I asked carefully.

“Marty and Tommy.”

“Thomas Finnegan, the alderman?”

“Tommy’s done well for himself.”

“Did Marty tell anyone else?”

She shook her head.

“Have you told anyone?”

“Only you. You’re the only one who’s ever asked.”

My head was spinning. I had to admit I’d never been really good with the rules about hearsay. Marty’s confession to his wife was obviously hearsay, as was the journal for that matter. I knew that this information would be enough to reopen the investigation. I wasn’t sure if it was enough to get Finnegan convicted of anything, though. If all I could come up with was two bits of hearsay, I doubted there’d ever be a trial.

“Mrs. Straub, don’t tell anyone, not until I tell you to.”

She looked disappointed but she said, “All right.”

I was almost out the door when I stopped and asked a final question. “How did your husband die, Mrs. Straub?”

She flinched, but then said, “He shot himself in the basement.”

“Oh,” was all I could say.

“Yes.”

I said an awkward goodbye, and a moment later I was on the sidewalk looking each way to see if I could spot any sign of a tail. The street looked just as it had when I went in. I was fairly certain no one knew I’d been to see Mrs. Straub, and that was just the way I wanted it.

I walked out to 31
st
street to look for a cab. It took almost twenty minutes for one to come by.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The television was playing when I walked in to my apartment and found Harker in the living room curled under a blanket watching
WKRP in Cincinnati
. I kind of liked the main guy on the show; they kept his hair nicely blow-dried and his pants good and tight. I was about to sit down and watch the rest of the show, when Harker got up and turned the TV off.

“They arrested someone. Connors called me.”

“Arrested someone for what?” I asked, though I had an inkling.

“Your double murders.”

“Who’d they arrest?”

“Young guy, gay. He placed a personal ad in the
Reader
. ‘Very good-looking gay male, twenty-five, likes older men. Please be over fifty.’ Apparently, he got a lot of responses.”

“So, this guy just showed up and shot them? He didn’t rob them? He didn’t have sex with them? He shot them execution style for the fun of it?”

“Son of Sam just showed up and shot people,” Harker reminded me.

“So, this guy’s a serial killer? Who else has he killed?”

Harker shook his head. “Nipped in the bud. That’s what they’re going to say. They’re so good they can get serial killers before they even get started.”

“Lutz and Brennan make the bust?”

“Bingo.”

“You don’t believe it, do you?”

“Not for a minute.”

“That means some innocent guy who just happens to like older men is sitting in jail.”

Harker nodded. I caught him up with my day, glossing over exactly how I’d found Lewis Carpenski.

“You sure no one saw you at the Straub house?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“You need a real witness, though.”

“Lewis Carpinski would get torn apart in a trial.”

“A good defense attorney would get it all continued until Carpinski’s memory was gone completely,” Harker pointed out.

“There’s Straub’s deathbed confession to his widow.”

“Which might also be a fight to get into a trial.”

“So basically there are no witnesses.”

“If you can find a witness who saw Marker getting into the patrol car with Finnegan and Straub that would be persuasive.”

“There were ten guys in the back of the paddy wagon.”

“And two officers driving?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll start looking for them tomorrow,” he said.

I didn’t object.

Harker asked if I was hungry, and when I said I was, he got off the sofa and went into the kitchen to make a couple omelets. I was surprised by that. I had only seen him order out and re-heat his mother’s leftovers.

About ten minutes later, we were sitting in front of omelets with mushrooms, ham, and cheese. I took my first bite. It was delicious.

“I didn’t know you could cook, Bert.”

“I have my secrets,” he said coyly.

I wanted to ask if Christian was one of those secrets, but that would open the field for him to ask the same sort of questions. I kept my mouth shut. After dinner we watched a little more TV and went to bed. Neither of us slept well.

§ § § §

The next morning, I headed over to my office around eleven. Mrs. Harker had shown up at nine-thirty, and we’d glared at each other over coffee. Given that I was once again in a position where someone might stop by to kill me, I wondered if Harker should tell his mother to stay away for a while. Not that I really thought she was in any danger, but it would be nice to feel comfortable in my home. As it happened, I didn’t mention it to Harker, but instead took a long shower and slunk out the door while the two of them watched a morning talk show.

Three blocks later, I was in front of my office. I slipped through the unmarked door and up the narrow staircase. When I got to the second floor I saw someone slumped in a lump in front of my door. It took a minute to recognize him, since the first time we met I hadn’t spent much time studying his face. It was Wilson, the young police officer from the Y.

“Been waiting long?” I asked when I got to my door.

“Couple hours.”

“Next time bring a deck of cards.”

“You really fucked things up for me,” he said.

“Did I?” If he thought he was going to get sympathy from me, he was sorely mistaken.

“They all think I’m queer now.”

“I can’t say I disagree with them.”

“I’m not. I’m not queer.”

I shrugged. “Okay, I believe you. But you might want to tell that to your cock.”

I wasn’t expecting it, but I should have been. Wilson jammed me up against the wall and got in my face. “I’m not fucking queer.”

I hooked a foot around his right ankle and pulled, hard. His feet came out from under him and he went down. Unfortunately, he had a good grip on my jacket, and I went with him. I ended up smack on top of him, nose to nose. I could feel his stiff dick poking into my hip.

“Why don’t you stop being such an asshole,” I said.

And then he kissed me, deep and angry. He grabbed hold of me, and I think if he could have pulled me any closer, he would have. I let him kiss me for a while, long enough to get him good and interested, then I pushed myself off of him and stood up.

Taking the key out of my pocket, I opened my office door and invited him in. I barely got the door closed when he was back on me, kissing me desperately, making me feel like I was a puddle of water and he’d just walked across the desert.

One of the things I liked about my office was the extra floor space. The two of us made good use of it. He pulled me down onto the sculpted brown carpet. As soon as I was down there I realized I should have asked the landlord to change it out. It was pretty gross. Of course, I didn’t think about that long since Wilson was pulling at my zipper and shoving his hands into my pants. I pushed him away and asked, “Just for the record, do you have an alibi for August third?” I asked.