Hit on the House (4 page)

“What it is, Fogarty,” the man said. He grinned. His breath was stunning.

“OK, Steeple Head, what's your real name?” Hal asked, kneading his foot.

“Mowfitang,” the man said.

Hal didn't get it. “Mowfitang? What kind of name is that?”

“Tha's mah name, bro. Maffitan.”

“Maffitan? Malfitan? That it? Malfitan? So, what brings you to this cheery camp, Steeple Head?” Hal slipped the shoe back on and set his foot on the floor.

“Drinkin’, bro,” Malfitan said. He looked at Hal and waited, yellow and black stumps of teeth showing in his slack mouth.

Hal looked disgustedly at him for a long moment, then said, “Yeah . . . I'll see what I can do . . . brother.” Malfitan nodded and moved away.

Not long after, they were mustered into a long line in the courtroom itself and several young attorneys began to work the line, asking, “Need representation? Want an attorney?” When one of them reached him, Hal said, “Yeah. I want representation. What's the deal?”

The lawyer, a young fellow in a pin-striped suit, took him by the arm and drew him out of the line. “What's your name?” he asked.

“Fogarty.” Hal tried to act a little dull, as if still slightly drunk or badly hung over.

The lawyer consulted a clerk. He turned back. “OK, Fogarty, it's public intox. They don't seem to have any record on you. You can plead guilty, and I can probably have you out of here in fifteen minutes. OK?”

“How much?” Hal asked, groggily, fingering the hundred-dollar bill in his pocket.

“Including my fee, probably fifty bucks,” the lawyer said.

Hal nodded. “OK. Also my buddy back there . . . Malfitan.” He nodded toward the black man. The lawyer glanced at Malfitan, then to Hal, and raised an eyebrow, but he went to talk to the man. He returned shortly. “It'll run you a hundred.”

“Do it,” Hal said.

A half hour later he was standing on the street in downtown Detroit, near 1300 Beaubien, police headquarters. He carried a manila envelope that contained the necktie, wallet, and ballpoint pen that belonged to Henry J. Fogarty. There was more than a hundred dollars in the wallet, along with credit cards. Mr. Fogarty appeared to be a businessman from Youngstown, Ohio, probably attending a convention, Hal surmised. He flipped through all the stuff while he waited for his buddy Steeple Head. It amazed him that no one had bothered to compare the picture on Fogarty's driver's license with Hal's face. The signature was no problem—Fogarty had been far too drunk to sign anything legibly, and Hal had not attempted anything fancy.

Malfitan appeared on the street. He looked a little surprised to find Hal waiting for him. He approached warily. “Hey, bro, thanks for jumpin’ me out,” he said.

Hal smiled and laid his hand on Malfitan's shoulder. It was thin, almost birdlike. Hal dug his fingers in, deep. The smaller man groaned and tried to pull away, but Hal held him fast.

“It's good to have brothers,” Hal said. “I'm glad I could help.” He dug his fingers in deeper. Malfitan fought down a cry of agony. Then Hal waved a bill in front of the man's face. “You recognize this dude, Steeple Head? It's Ben Franklin. I look just like Ben, don't I? Don't I? That's good.” He released the pressure and tucked the bill into Malfitan's hand. “Just remember, Steeple Head, if anyone asks, I look a lot like Ben.”

Within the hour Hal was eating sausage and eggs with hash browns at a little restaurant at Metropolitan Airport and perusing the morning
Free Press
. There was a ticket to Chicago O'Hare in his pocket,
made out to Henry J. Fogarty. He put the paper down and sipped his coffee. He was fatigued after his long day and night. But he didn't feel bad. He felt good, in fact. He had faced up to a regular nightmare of problems, starting with his journey to Detroit in the first place, the meeting with Big Sid, the call from the Fat Man, the hit, the arrest, the escape . . . He had seen one hell of a day, and he'd coped right down the line. If he weren't so damn tired, he had every right to jump and dance and shout, “Hallelujah!”

In retrospect, he had only one regret. He hadn't killed Steeple Head. If only he'd had a gun. At one point he had even considered asking Steeple Head to get a gun for him. He had no doubt the man could have done it. But it would have involved more people, more time, more complications in an already hideously complicated day. And then he would have had to find a place where he could kill the son of a bitch . . . No, he had done the right thing in simply giving the man money. It wasn't the ideal resolution, but it was the best under the circumstances.

Four

M
ulheisen wasn't so sure he'd done his men a favor in wheedling the investigation out of Homicide. Roman Yakovich's statement was unhelpful. He had no trace of powder or nitrates on his hands, indicating that he had probably not fired a gun lately. He had a valid permit to carry the Thermodynamics .357 revolver. Helen Sedlacek's statements supported his story that he had run out of his apartment at the back of the house only after the shootings. He had appeared in the house almost immediately. There was nothing to hold him on.

Detective Sergeant Maki had been to the hospital to interview the young man who had driven into Sid's fence. This fellow knew nothing. All he'd seen was a car drawn up to enter a driveway. This had been no problem to him, but then a man had run out into the street, waving his arms. The kid had swerved to avoid hitting the man and instead had struck the parked Suburban. He couldn't recall a thing after that, not even hitting the fence. He had not regained consciousness until he was in the ambulance. He had heard no shots. He hadn't seen anybody but the man waving his arms, and he couldn't even say for certain where that man had come from, although he naturally assumed that he'd come from the car by the gate. He had a vague impression that the interior lights of that car were on, that doors were open, and it may be that the driver was standing outside his opened door, . . . but he couldn't be sure. Maybe he'd dreamed it.

Sergeant Maki's preliminary report lay on Mulheisen's desk. The kid was almost certainly not a party to the shooting, but Maki was a methodical man who would dig until there was no longer a reason to dig. But as far as Mulheisen was concerned, the kid was already in the clear.

Jimmy Marshall, sitting across the desk, pointed out the importance of the kid's statement that he was quite certain he had not seen any vehicle other than Big Sid's car approaching or preceding him on the block.

Mulheisen agreed. “Sid was running. He was shot in the street. Maybe the killer was in the car with Sid when they drove up. Maybe he pulled a gun. Maybe Sid jumped out and ran. The killer gets out, shoots, and then does this eye-shooting business. But if he was in the car, why would he wait until just that moment to make his move? No, he was on the street, at Sid's gate—a perfect place to wait for his target. Obviously Sid was set up. The killer would probably have a car waiting, perhaps with a driver, on the next block or something, Maybe not. Jensen and Field made a list of every car parked within two blocks, just in case the killer wasn't able to get to his car before the patrol arrived on the scene—which was how quick, do we know?”

Jimmy consulted a sheet on which he had constructed a rough timetable of events. “Sager and Barnes were cruising up Mack, just a few blocks away. They were at the scene within one minute of being called. The Big Four also entered from Mack, a minute or two later.”

“That's quick,” Mulheisen said. “That's a long block. If you only have a minute to run or walk it . . .Well, Jensen is running a check on the computer now for something interesting on the cars. It's a long shot, but . . .” He picked up a sheaf of papers and flipped through them. “Now, here's a half dozen so-called witnesses picked up in the area. None of them saw anything. It looks like Dennis just scooped up anyone he saw walking.” Under his breath he muttered, “
Schwachkopf
.”

“Beg pardon?” Jimmy said. He was a slender man with a V-shaped face. His eyes itched from Mulheisen's cigars, and he wanted desperately to go to the bathroom and rinse his contact lenses, but he didn't want to say so. “Is that German?”

“NATO Deutsch,” Mulheisen said. He flapped the sheaf of witness
reports. “This is what comes of designating the Big Four as detectives.” This was a sore point with Mulheisen. The unit in question consisted of squads of oversize plainclothes officers who cruised around town in big Chryslers with a Thompson submachine gun on prominent display in the front seat. All of the members were at least six feet four inches in height. Mulheisen understood their function as intimidators but resented their status as detectives. In the Ninth Precinct the Big Four was led by Dennis Noell.

Jimmy Marshall riffled through the Big Four's list of pickups. “Nothing familiar here,” he said, “but they got there pretty quick. One of these people ought to have seen something.” He stopped at one page. “Here's a guy named Good. Just a prelim. Did you talk to him?”

“Never heard of him,” Mulheisen said. He looked at the sheet. “It doesn't say he was discharged. No statement. Check it out, Jimmy.” He quickly sifted the remaining reports. “Nah. Not even Dennis the Menace would let a professional killer slip through his paws. These guys—and one woman, who was walking her dog, for crying out loud—they look legit. They saw nothing . . . but each other. Anyway, we've got their addresses.” He paused again at the report on Hal Good. “Good's the one who's staying at a motel, out on Eight Mile? Doesn't say what he was doing in the neighborhood. Taking a walk.’ “

“If you want, I can ask Stanos about it,” Jimmy said. Stanos was the Big Four driver and Jimmy's former patrol partner. It was a curious relationship; the two men had nothing in common but a few months of sharing a squad car. But on one evening, responding to a man-with-a-gun call, Stanos had shot down the man just as the man was about to shoot Jimmy. It was not something Marshall would ever forget.

Mulheisen nodded. “Look into it. Where is Dennis, anyhow? He should have followed this up. Maybe he's talking to the guy right now. What you and I need to concentrate on is the mob end of this. I've got to talk to Andy, down at Racket-Conspiracy, but that'll have to wait until tomorrow. What time is it, anyway?”

“It is tomorrow,” Jimmy said. “Nearly three.”

Mulheisen sighed and got up. “Make a note to find out from Sid's girlfriend if he was over there this evening and what time and who was with him. It would be nice to know where he'd been just before he
almost got home. And Roman, he said something that seems odd to me.”

“What's that?”

“It doesn't sound like much, but he said all the doors of the car were open when he came down the drive toward it. He saw the bodies and he retreated to the house.”

“You mean why didn't he go to his boss or at least go check out the street?”

“No. I think he understood the situation immediately. No way he was going out there. But he said all the doors were open. Then he corrected himself. Only the right front door was not open. Now that suggests—”

“There was a third man in the car,” Jimmy said. “The killer wasn't on the street. He was in the car.”

Mulheisen shook his head. “I don't see it. If he's in the car, even if for some reason he wants to do it at the gate, why let Egan out, or Sid? Why not shoot them both, Egan from behind, before they get out? Egan actually had his gun half out of his holster when he fell, you know.”

“Well, you've always said that these hoods aren't as smart as people seem to think,” Jimmy observed.

“That's true,” Mulheisen said, “but contract killers can be different. I don't think you've had any experience with hired killers, have you? They're not necessarily Mensa members, but at least a few have the sense not to associate full-time with the mob, which argues a certain intelligence. It wouldn't pay to underestimate them. What this guy was up to we may never know, but it looks like something went wrong. It's too soon to speculate.”

“We should have brought the broad in,” Jimmy said. “She's not telling us everything. She had to have seen something.”

“She's not a broad,” Mulheisen said. “And anyway, we can always talk to her tomorrow. Let's finish this up and get out of here. Let me get some coffee first,” he said. As he went out the door, Jimmy followed and locked it behind him before nipping down the hall in the opposite direction.

Out in the reception area there was little going on. An officer stood
listening to a heavyset black woman, who was bending his ear about “bad boys.” Otherwise there was just a white woman sitting on a bench beyond the railings, dozing as she waited for someone. Mulheisen glanced at her. She looked rather attractive, although with her head down it was hard to tell. He went on behind the desk to the squad room. Detectives Jensen and Field were hanging around a computer terminal. They looked up and shook their heads, simultaneously, as they did most things.

“What about the grounds search?” Mulheisen asked, draining a cup of sludgelike coffee from the urn.

“Ayeh's on it,” Jensen said.

Mulheisen sighed and went out. As he passed the reception area, he took another look at the white woman. She lifted her head wearily. She was very attractive, he noted. She appeared to be in her early thirties and was well dressed in a modest, middle-class style. But her bearing was different from that of most people one saw in precinct lobbies—rather prim, but in a disciplined, acquired manner, as if she were a professional model, perhaps. She wore a new raincoat, which almost managed to conceal her figure. A bright kerchief was folded in her clenched fingers. A mass of champagne-blond hair surrounded a soft, pretty face, which was drawn with concern. She had nice legs, Mulheisen noticed.

She looked familiar, but not in any usual sense, not as if she were a woman he had seen any time in the past few days or weeks. He was sure he would have remembered her face if he had seen it before. Rather, he felt a kind of visceral lurch, as of something recollected from years before. It wasn't a pleasant feeling somehow, and he repressed it, walking on with only a faint nod in the woman's direction, as if he were embarrassed.

Jimmy had reopened the office and sat waiting. Mulheisen slumped down behind the desk. He started to say something but couldn't remember what it was. He thought about the woman. She was familiar. It seemed to him now that she was familiar in the way public personages seem familiar: you don't know them, but you've seen their faces so often—on television, on magazine covers—that you know their features better than you know those of your Aunt Polly, who moved
to Cleveland ten years ago. No doubt that accounts for the notorious hesitancy of the rube who spots a famous movie star in a restaurant: “Hey, didn't you used to be . . .”

He got up and went to the door and peeked down the hall. There was no one there, just a line of chairs with a shiny stripe of grease on the wall above them, where the heads of suspects and witnesses had rested. The reception area itself was not visible from this vantage.

“What is it?” Jimmy asked.

“Nothing. I'll be right back.” Mulheisen walked back down the hall and looked around the corner.

The woman looked directly at him, then her face lighted up. “Mul!”

Mulheisen still didn't recognize her. She got up and walked toward him. The raincoat flowed open, and he noticed right away that it had, indeed, concealed a good deal.

“Oh, Mul,” she said, coming right to him, “I'm so glad to see you.” She was glad, too. Her eyes shone.

“Uh; yeah, good to see you, too,” he said. “Is it . . . is there something . . . ?” She was a little older than he'd thought. Maybe thirty-five, possibly even his own age. But she wore it a lot better than he did. He knew he knew her, he just couldn't place her. But there was that little kick in the gut again.

“It's my husband, Eugene,” she said.

“Unh-hunh. What's the problem?” The woman was fairly beaming at him, though a shadow of concern still played across her face.

“Do you work here?” she asked. She looked uncertainly from him to the desk sergeant, who was looking on.

“This is Mrs. Lande, Mul,” the desk man called across. “She's been waiting for her husband since . . .”–he glanced up at the electric clock over the door—”. . . about nine o'clock.”

“Nine o'clock!” Mulheisen raised a hand to forestall the woman, walking aside with the desk man. “What's the deal, Larry?”

“Lande was one of the witnesses on that, uh, accident,” the sergeant said in a low voice. They had their backs to the woman, who waited beyond the railing.

“Where is he now?” Mulheisen asked. He was still racking his
brain, trying to figure out if he knew any Mrs. Lande. He couldn't think of any and wondered how in hell he could forget a face and a body like hers.

The sergeant shrugged. “I just came on shift at midnight. Barnes said he was . . .” He nodded toward the detectives’ rooms.

Mulheisen turned back to the woman. “Mrs. Lande, I understand your—”

“Mul! You don't recognize me, do you?” She looked disappointed. “It's Bonny. Bonny Wheeler.” She smiled at him plaintively.

He recognized her instantly, painting a teenage face over the one before him. It wasn't remarkably different, except that it hadn't been so poised twenty years ago, so well made up, so . . . glamorous. Bonny Wheeler's hair had been a darkish blonde, not champagne. But then she'd had that same plaintive look of helplessness, a maddening self-deprecation that had undermined her beauty. Mulheisen had hated that look. It evoked unworthy feelings, a kind of unjustified annoyance, even anger. He found himself wanting to admonish the girl, even scold her, for so idiotically denying her beauty.

Bonny Wheeler had made boys think bad things. No doubt it wasn't her fault, but there it was. She confused men. She seemed at once alluring and debased. There was an underlying innocence overlaid with an aroma of sensual experience. Bonny Wheeler had caused a lot of anguish to more men and boys than just Mulheisen.