Hit on the House (16 page)

He considered doing a deep search—tearing up floors, dismantling the furnace and the heating ducts—but he had a feeling that if there was more money to be found, it wouldn't be much. Certainly not millions. There might be additional interesting information, but it wasn't worth the time it would take. Hal—or Art, as Joe was beginning to think of him—was supposed to be a professional, but Joe was leaning toward the view that he had been more lucky than anything else. He hadn't really covered his tracks very well, and he wasn't as careful as a working hitter should be. How had the man ever gotten into the business? Through a client he had defended, perhaps? It was a mystery. His obscure life-style had helped tremendously, and if he had a good liaison with the police, as it seemed, that, too. would be helpful. But Joe didn't see Art lasting much longer, whatever happened.

Anyway, the job was done. Joe had found his man, if not the money. He didn't want anything else here. The fifty thousand in the shoe box was owed him, he figured, for past services and for overfulfilling the contract on Hal. Not that he would mention the money to the Fat Man. It was of no use to Hal, that was for sure, and it obviously wasn't the skim that the Fat Man wanted. He decided to leave the two pistols, as well as the similar pistol that Hal had tried to use on him. They weren't his kind of artillery, and heaven only knew what crime scenes they had once adorned.

A light flickered through the darkened living room and caught Joe for a second. A horn tooted. Joe froze. The living room had two large picture windows in it, and the drapes were open. Joe darted to the edge
of the window and caught a glimpse of the lights of a police squad car as it continued down Black Street. He realized it was just an ordinary patrol. Obviously some pals of Art Holbrook. They would have seen the upstairs light on and would, perhaps, have suspected what Art was up to. He glanced at his watch. It was barely two o'clock. He was surprised. He felt as if he had been in the house for hours.

Could the patrol have seen him standing in the dark room? Nah, he told himself. But it was time to move.

What to do with Kathy? She was a wonderful witness. She could definitely identify him—if he were ever brought before her (he had no police record, no photos or fingerprints on file). It would be a shame to kill a pretty, innocent girl like Kathy. But a sensible, careful man like Joe—unlike Art—had to think about such things. He sighed. This job was not unbounded fun. It struck him all of a sudden how convenient it would be if Kathy would just go blind. Of course, she could be blinded . . . Nah. Too stupid for words. Hell, when you considered it, damn-near everybody in Iowa City had seen him, including the woman across the street, Rita. He'd even been to the cop shop, asking after Hal Good. Should he go across the street and murder Rita and her wise-looking daughter? Should he kill the lady cop in the license bureau? Maybe he should kill everyone in Iowa City and track down that goddamn racist salesman who had given him a ride to Coralville and kill that son of a bitch, for sure. He laughed out loud. No, no, there was no need. They'd never make him. He was sure of it. But they were sure as hell going to have a terrific mystery on their hands for a while. They'd never begin to solve it. But, he thought sadly, he would never be able to come back to Iowa City. Such a pretty little town.

He got a can of Coke out of the refrigerator and took it upstairs to Kathy. She cowered when he opened the door, but she quickly realized he was just being thoughtful. “Hey, I'm taking off now, babe. You be cool, OK? I'll give the cops a ring in about a half hour, and they'll be by to let you out.”

He gathered up the shoe box and let himself out the back way. He walked into the park and stopped for a minute to urinate. There were some noises in the underbrush, a scuffling of old leaves, and he was startled to see two enormous, fat opossums rummaging about. They
looked like overgrown rats but seemed oblivious to him. He zipped up, noticing that a light was still on in Rita's house, upstairs. Maybe she was reading in bed, or maybe the kid had to have a night-light.

Just then a squad car drove up rather quickly from Governor Street and pulled to the curb in front of Art Holbrook's house. Joe backed into the shadows of the trees and watched as a slender, black man in plain clothes got out and, accompanied by a uniformed policeman, approached the front door. It would take only a glance through the unshaded window to see the late Art Holbrook, Joe knew.

He walked to his car and drove calmly away. He had noticed Merilou's phone number in Art's book, and he'd planned to call her and tell her to help her friend Kathy, but now the police had forestalled that kindly gesture. Joe was disappointed.

Hours later he dropped the car at Midway Airport in Chicago and took a bus downtown, where he booked a roomette on the Amtrak to Detroit.

Thirteen

“C
adillac Communications Consultants,” said a pleasant female voice. Mulheisen asked for Helen Sedlacek and was asked to give his name, then politely put on hold while Simon and Garfunkel sang a few bars until the voice returned to say, “I'm sorry, but Miss Sedlacek is on another line. Would you care to hold?”

Mulheisen grudgingly agreed to hold, and he listened to a few more bars of “Mrs. Robinson” before noticing that another light on his phone had lighted up. He put Sedlacek on hold and punched the operator's button. “A Miss Sedlacek for you,” he was told. Mulheisen punched the second button. “Miss Sedlacek?” he said.

“About time, Mulheisen,” a woman's voice said sharply. “Listen. What have you been doing about my father's murder? You know, we're citizens, too. My mother is distraught. She can't sleep, she can't eat, she-”

“Miss Sedlacek, we're doing all we can. I'm work—”

“Oh, sure,” she cut in, “you're busting your butt to solve the mystery, only there is no damn mystery. My father was shot down by one of Carmine's goons, and you damn well know it. I know it. The whole world knows it!”

“Do you have some evidence that I don't, Miss Sedlacek?”

“If I did, you'd never know it. You've never even questioned me, except for a few minutes at the house.”

“As a matter of fact, I was just calling you to make an appointment,” Mulheisen said.

“Sure,” said the basic Detroit cynical voice.

“Your secretary has me on hold this minute.”

The phone made a noise and Simon and Garfunkel sang, “DiMaggioooo,” and then Helen Sedlacek was back. “Sorry,” she said without seeming at all sorry. “What did you want?”

“I told you—an interview.” Mulheisen laughed. “Now tell me, do you have any information about Carmine?”

There was a measure of silence, then: “What if I did?”

“If you do, it's your duty to come forward and inform the police.”

“And get blown away myself?”

Mulheisen laughed again. He didn't really sound amused this time. But after a moment he said, “All right. If you have something, I want to know it. If you just
know
that Carmine is behind this, then I'm not going to waste my time.”

“I might.”

“You might. Should we meet? Are you staying at your fa— . . . er, mother's?”

“Don't come there, for heaven's sake. And not the office, either. Mmmm.”

They bickered for a few minutes over a suitable restaurant before settling on Tom's Oyster Bar, out on Mack Avenue.

After they'd disentangled their phone lines, Mulheisen sat and stared at a list of witnesses and others who had been hauled in on the night of Big Sid's murder. He wasn't really looking at it; he was thinking of Helen Sedlacek, trying to remember exactly what she looked like. He unconsciously rubbed his chest, where she had punched him. Then Jimmy Marshall called from Iowa City.

“Well, we're a little further along, Mul. The girl has given us an Identikit picture of the hired killer. We took a lot of latents. We ransacked the house. Found some coke, some guns—.22's. Holbrook was an expert shot, a marksman—he belonged to a local gun club and used the firing range regularly. I'm beginning to get a pretty clear picture of him.”

Mulheisen was fascinated by Jimmy's account. “Could this guy really have been a professional killer?”

“I'm sure of it, Mul. Pretty unusual, but there it is. He was in private law practice—mostly deeds and wills, that sort of thing—but he was a cop buff, and he liked to hang out with them. They welcomed him as a kind of house lawyer. He did a lot for the guys for free. Used to ride around in the squad cars, got invited to the picnics. Hell, when I showed them the picture, they said right away, ‘Art!’ “

“What about the girl?” Mulheisen wanted to know.

“She's all right, a little shaken, but she said the killer was—get this—'a real gentleman'! He was very cool, Mul. He just sat and waited till Holbrook showed up, then blasted him. The way the girl puts it, though, is that he didn't mean to kill Holbrook, just talk to him. She says Holbrook snuck in with a gun and was going to blast the killer, but he beat him to it. Now this is a little puzzling, Mul. I mean, she just got out of bed with this Holbrook, and now she's taking the killer's side. Is this the Stockholm syndrome?” Jimmy was referring to a syndrome in which hostages come to identify with their captor and speak well of him, or even assist him.

Mulheisen was skeptical. “Maybe he was nice to her,” he said, “and maybe Art Holbrook was not so nice. Also, it may have been just as she said.”

On the way to Tom's Oyster Bar, Mulheisen stopped at Bon Secours Hospital in Grosse Pointe. Bonny was out of surgery but not receiving visitors. Lande was presumably with her, but Mulheisen didn't inquire. He left some flowers and went on.

Helen Sedlacek was more attractive than Mulheisen had remembered. She was small, but her head looked large. It was her hair, a black cloud streaked with silver. He hadn't noticed the silver streaks before—they were very dramatic. Her face was pale, with a straight mouth and very strong, dark brows. She wore a dark gray suit with wide, padded shoulders. They stood in the sawdust at the bar and sipped ice-cold Polish vodka. Miss Sedlacek declined the oysters—“I never eat oysters when I'm more than five hundred miles from the ocean,” she said.

“What does a communications consultant do?” Mulheisen asked.

“I find out why people don't talk to each other at work and why they hate their bosses. Mostly, it has to do with parking.”

“Parking?” Mulheisen sniffed at the oysters. They smelled good, but Helen's seafood theory was too plausible.

“Who has a parking spot and where it is in relation to the office,” she said. “I do this for many small firms in Detroit.”

“There must be more to it than that,” Mulheisen said.

“Of course, but people tend not to tell the consultant about nepotism, love affairs, harassment, jealousy, and inadequate pay—at least not initially. They prefer to complain about minor things. Eventually it all comes out. Then I have to decide how to pitch it to the boss, who is paying my bill. He doesn't want to hear that he shouldn't be feeling the girls up or promoting his nephew over more qualified people. There's a world of resentment in most workplaces. I have to let him know, subtly and painlessly, that he's an asshole, that the women who work for him don't love him but loathe him, that he's a fool, and if he doesn't watch out, he's going to be indicted.”

“Nice world,” Mulheisen said. They agreed to move to a quieter spot, away from the hubbub. They found a reasonably secluded booth.

“I've been unfair to you, Sergeant,” Helen Sedlacek said. “I suppose you're doing your best. I have one little item that may help.”

“Let's hear it.”

“I'm afraid it isn't very much . . . It's not really clear in my mind. That evening, when I heard the car crash into the fence, I ran to the window. I saw the car in the fence, and I saw Papa's car. I saw a man near the car, on his hands and knees, moving. What I wonder is could it have been Mickey? Or was it the killer?”

“On his hands and knees? It couldn't have been Egan. He was dead. There was no indication that he had moved after being shot. The medical examiner would have found gravel or dirt on his hands I think, and he didn't mention it. Where did the crawling man go?” Mulheisen asked.

“I didn't see. Mama ran in and I went to her. Then Roman came in.”

Mulheisen considered this. “Are you sure you didn't see the kid in the wrecked car? He was getting out of his car. Maybe you saw him and unconsciously transferred him mentally to your father's car.”

Helen Sedlacek thought about this and nodded. “Yes, it's possible. I must have seen Mickey, but if he wasn't moving . . . Gee, I don't know. I didn't think it was Mickey at the time. I didn't really think anything. It was only later it seemed to me it might have been the killer.”

“I've had a problem with this myself,” Mulheisen said, “trying to get it clear in my mind. I decided the killer was not in the car. Why? All the evidence indicates that no shots were fired in the car, although if the killer had been riding with your father and Mickey, it would have been the simplest and smartest thing to do the shooting before anybody got out. But Mickey was out, and your father was fifty feet away. This strongly argues a killer standing on the sidewalk or nearby, waiting. He must have known the car would have to stop at the locked gate and Egan would get out. The only thing I can think, from what you are saying, is that the killer shot Mickey in the chest first, mortally wounding him but not necessarily stopping him from crawling, and then finished him off with two shots to the eyes after he shot your father . . .”

Mulheisen's voice trailed off. The woman was gazing at him with a look of appalled distress. “Sorry,” he said.

She shook her head, her heavy hair surging about. “No, no, it's all right. I have to think about it. I have to see it.” She ducked her head, letting her hair hang like a curtain before her, but she soon looked up. “I guess it was Mickey I saw. I just didn't think so. I guess when I turned away, to hug Mama, I missed the killer.”

Mulheisen nodded. “Have you ever heard of a man named Hal Good?” he asked.

She brightened with interest. “Hal? Yes. I met him. Papa brought him to the house a few times.”

“Recently?”

“Yes. He seemed like a nice guy, not like most of them. Friendly. Ordinary. Good looking, too. He flirted a little. Papa gave me the sign.”
She raised an eyebrow, shaking her head slightly. “I knew what that meant—forget it. Why? What about him?”

“Let's get out of here,” Mulheisen said.

They left the bar and began to walk along Mack Avenue. It was raining again, not much more than a mist. “What about Hal?” she demanded after a half block. A steady hiss of traffic flowed along the wide street. The streetlights had already come on.

“I'm fairly certain that Hal Good killed your father and Mickey Egan,” Mulheisen said. “He was picked up in the area that night, but he managed to get away. He was found dead yesterday, in Iowa City. He'd been hit in his own house.”

“Christ,” Helen muttered, striding along with her hands deep in the pockets of an expensive trench coat. She looked up into the mist, then shook her head. “So he was the one?”

“I'm pretty convinced,” Mulheisen said.

“So I guess I'm supposed to be pleased,” she said. “You solved the mystery. Papa can rest easy!”

“Well . . .”

She shook her head, moisture flying from her hair. “It doesn't work that way.” Her voice was tight and angry.

Mulheisen sighed. “I thought you'd be . . . well, not pleased exactly, but a little more at ease.”

“It doesn't solve anything,” she said. They reached the end of the block and paused, looking around. She turned to the right, and they began to walk along a residential street. “I have my obligations,” she said.

“Obligations?” Mulheisen asked. “What obligations? We found the killer. He's dead.”

“You wouldn't understand.”

“It's not easy,” he admitted. “But then, I'm a cop. Every society seems to find it necessary to have police. It's not a new thing. I imagine they even have police in Yugoslavia, or whatever they're calling it these days, and people are not expected to go out and take an eye for an eye.”

“Things are very eye-for-an-eye in Serbia these days,” she said, “but this isn't Serbia. There's more to it.”

Mulheisen hesitated, then said, “The word is that Sid was about to leave town.”

“Papa? No, no,” she said. “What do you mean?” She stopped on the sidewalk before a little frame house with a wire fence. The lights were on, and a kid's gaudy skateboard lay on its side next to the concrete porch.

Mulheisen looked down at her anguished white face. “We have very good indications that Sid was planning to emigrate to South America. With Germaine Kouras.”

“No,” she said vehemently. “He would never leave Mama. You didn't know him. My father might keep a whore like that, but he would never leave Mama. I know my father, Mul. He was not exactly a pillar of respectability, but he was a man who deeply respected my mother. He loved her . . . and me. There was no hint that he was running out on us. It's slander. He was a man of honor. He was betrayed. Probably by that slut.”

They walked on. “What do you know about Germaine Kouras?” Mulheisen asked.

“She's a whore,” Helen said simply. “Papa was a man. That's the way men are. He liked a pretty girl. She's pretty, I guess. A Greek,” she said with contempt. “Younger than me. She's not even a good singer.”

“Apparently she's left town,” Mulheisen said. They turned a corner and walked on in the rain, which had gotten heavier now.

“Of course,” Helen said. “Carmine sent her away. She betrayed Papa, and Carmine sent her into hiding . . . or killed her. I hope he didn't kill her.”

Mulheisen looked at her inquisitively. “I've tried not to entertain that possibility.”

“I'll kill her,” she said.

“Oh, hell,” Mulheisen replied.

“Oh, yes,” she said calmly. “Not right away, but eventually. I'll find her and kill her. The slut. It has nothing to do with you. But Carmine, . . . Carmine has to pay.”