Murder in the Air (13 page)

One night, the woman heard a commotion outside. It was close to two
A.M
. She often suffered from insomnia and that night was a particularly bad one for her. Glad for an excuse to get up, she slipped into her robe and went to see what was going on. The Cadillac had pulled into a parking spot and then backed up onto the curb, knocking over several metal trash cans in the process. Trash littered the street behind the car.

The woman could make out two pinpricks of light in the front seat. She assumed Peggy and her date were smoking as they sat and talked. For whatever reason, nobody made a move to right the cans and pick up the mess. A minute or so later a man erupted out of the driver's door. He was tall, wearing a dark raincoat and narrow-brimmed felt hat. As he rushed around to the front of the car, she noticed that he wasn't very steady on his feet. She assumed he'd been drinking.

After flipping on a flashlight, the man spent the next few minutes critically examining every inch of the left front fender. The headlight was out, but that was all the old woman could see that might be wrong. The whole situation seemed sort of odd because it was the left
rear
fender that had hit the garbage cans.

On his way back to the driver's-side door, the man stopped and leaned against the hood. She wasn't sure, but through the open windows, she thought she heard him crying. After a few moments he returned to the front seat and slammed the door shut.

Since the old woman was wide-awake now, she kept her vigil at the window. She got herself a glass of milk and waited to see what would happen next. The car sat there for a good half hour before the passenger door opened and
Peggy got out. She just stood for a long time looking at the man inside the car. The engine was running, but he made no move to drive away. The young woman didn't wave, or smile, or say a word. Nothing cheerful. Nothing romantic. She just stood there. Finally, she stepped back and pushed the door shut. The car immediately lurched forward and skidded into the street. In a second it disappeared around the corner. The old woman said that after that night, she never saw the Cadillac again.

Dallas agreed that it was an interesting story, but he had no idea what to make of it. He thanked the old woman, and said that if he figured out what it was all about, he'd let her know.

During the next segment Dallas drove over to visit the priest who'd witnessed the murder. He found him in front of the church, shoveling snow. The man seemed credible and sincere—yet a little too sincere for Dallas's liking. He had a hunch the guy wasn't telling the truth. The problem was, how was he—or some high-paid defense attorney— supposed to impugn the testimony of a priest on the witness stand? The man was adamant about what he saw, and there were no inconsistencies in his story.

On his way back to DuFour's Bar, Dallas stopped for a sandwich at a popular downtown restaurant. As he was about to pay the bill and leave, he felt a hand grab his shoulder. It was an old friend, a well-connected criminal type named Walt Rollins. Rollins had his finger on just about everything that happened in Mill City. Taking Dallas aside, he warned him off the case. He said Dallas didn't know what he was getting himself into. The Big Guys were involved with this one. That meant only one thing to Dallas: Organized Crime.

“You saying the murder was a hit?” asked Dallas.

“I'm not sayin' nothing,” replied Rollins. “Just keep your nose clean and back the hell off. It's the only way you're gonna live to see forty.”

As Dallas left the restaurant he was immediately jumped by two men who dragged him into an alley. Even though he fought valiantly, he was beaten up and left bleeding and
unconscious. As the episode ends no one is even sure Dallas is still alive.

Bravo, thought Valentine, tossing the script down on the table next to his cup. Greveen had used many of the standard old techniques, just as he had in the first episode. A rapid succession of short scenes. Complete freedom of location. And lots of narration. As far as Valentine was concerned, the genius of radio was that it got inside your head the way no other medium could. The narrator, in this case, Dallas, had your ear. It was a fabulous part and it was all his. And even better, this episode was an old-fashioned goddamned cliffhanger. Greveen knew what he was doing. But organized crime? Where the hell was he getting his facts? As far as Valentine knew, Collins's murder was a simple crime of passion.

Not that it mattered. Valentine knew a gold mine when he was sitting on top of one. He'd always been a believer in free enterprise, and damn if he didn't have something to sell.

Rising from the table, he walked over to a wall phone right outside the men's rest room and quickly placed a call.

He waited until he heard a familiar voice and then, using his best highbrow English accent, said, “I daresay, I'm delighted to find you in. I do so hope you have a moment. I rang your flat earlier, but no one was home.”

“Who is this?” came an impatient voice.

Valentine moved into a sturdy, metal-voiced Cockney. “Aye, gov. It's me. Don't you recognize me voice?”

“Who the—”

Next came a Southern accent. A soft, womanish voice this time. “Ma daddy used to tell me to be polite, but I declare, you're makin' this as hard as a Georgia peach—or is that an Alabama walnut?”

“Look, you've got one second—”

This time, Valentine used his own voice. “It's me. Valentine Zolotow. I assume you got my message, so this call shouldn't come as a surprise.”

Silence. Then: “What the hell do you want?”

“I'll get right to the point. Twenty-five thousand dollars. In small bills, just like last time.”

“That was forty years ago!”

“Listen, friend. You and I both know you got a problem. I could create a real mess for you—if I wanted. But hey, look at it this way. A few thousand dollars every forty years isn't such a bad investment.”

More silence. “Once a thief, always a thief.”

“Let's not get nasty.”

“You're as mixed up in this as I am.”

Valentine chuckled. “There are levels of guilt. I got you the gun. The way you used it was up to you.”

“I wasn't even there when Kay Collins was killed!”

“Okay, fine. Whatever you say. But you paid me to lift it from Cedric's office. I've had years to work it all out in my head. Here's my theory. You wanted to teach Justin a lesson, but things got out of hand. Collins got shot. Who cares who pulled the trigger, friend. All our hands are dirty.”

“Stop calling
mefriendl”

“Sure, friend, sure. Except, you have to admit that your hands are worth more than mine. Your involvement would be a national headline. Mine would be a minor story on the back page. So let's get back to the matter at hand, shall we? We've got twenty-five thousand dollars on the table. The fact is,
you've
got a hell of a lot more to lose than I do if this all comes out.”

“We'd both go to prison.”

“Hell, no. Not me. I was just a pawn in your game. Just doing a friend a favor.”

“Right. For money.”

“Damn straight, for money. Come to think of it, twenty-five thousand dollars is a pittance to keep your good name out of the tabloids. I want thirty.”

For several seconds all Valentine could hear on the other end was heavy breathing.

Finally: “All right. How do you want me to get it to you?”

Valentine's lips thinned into a self-satisfied smile. “I'm being interviewed this afternoon in the lobby of the Maxfield
Plaza. A reporter from the
Star Tribune
should be there around three. I want the bills placed in an unmarked manila envelope and delivered to me before the interview. Got that?
Before.
If I don't have the money in my hands by three, that reporter is going to get an earful. Do we understand each other?”

More silence. “We do. But one word of caution. After today, the bank is closed. I don't want to hear from you again—ever. You'll get your money, and that will be the end of it.”

“Of course,” said Valentine sweetly. “Hey, you can trust Valentine Zolotow. If you couldn't, you'd be in jail right now.”

March
9,
1959

Dear Mother:

For the last two months, fear has been my constant companion: It went to bed with me at night, dominated my dreams, and then woke me in the morning. All day it sat on my shoulder and taunted me.

But here in this apartment, Vve finally found a refuge. When I go out, I'm not looking over my shoulder every minute wondering who's following me. Yet though the fear has retreated somewhat, in its place I feel something even more powerful. In a word, anger. It's like no other emotion Vve ever experienced before. Since I can't do much now except rest, Vve watched myself sink into a kind of furious bitterness. I spend whole days obsessing about how my life's been stolen from me. Sometimes I actually feel like two different people. While one is slipping into fury, the other is aloof watching the disintegration,
waiting with a kind of detached patience. But waiting for what? I have no answer to that question, and yet I know there is one.

Sometimes the depth of my anger terrifies the observer in me. At what do I direct my anger, you ask? At an arrogant man, one who is wholly unscrupulous and evil. How am I ever supposed to come to terms with what's happened to me, especially while that bastard is still enjoying a life of affluence and freedom?

What's even worse is that a friend, someone I trusted, betrayed me, and I don't even know who it is. I try to think it all through. I devise scenarios and solutions, but then that's just theory, isn't it? Worthless, impotent conjecture. Not knowing eats away at me. All I know for sure is that it's one of the people you work with at the station. George, Valentine, even Mitzi-

My worst fear, one I've resisted until now, is that my Judas is Alfred. What if my own brother sold me down the river? We were never close, and there's always been that stupid rivalry between us, but surely he wouldn't condemn me to a life of wandering, of fear and emptiness? Do you know what the mark of Cain is, Mom? It's something I've been thinking about for months. I think it's cynicism. I was always such an idealist, such an optimist. Now I understand the world better. I bear the mark of Cain in my soul.

It's hard to keep any perspective when all you have are your own thoughts
—
and an active imagination
—
pounding away at you, day after day, night after night. Yet perspective is what I crave. That's why I want to continue with my story today. I have nothing but time on my hands now, Mom, so I hope you'll understand that I want to take it slow. Fm writing the story of what happened last fall and early winter through the eyes of the observer I have become. This account is as much for me as it is for you.

If you recall, I wanted to find out the truth behind the Landauer hit-and-run so badly I could taste it. I was never
assigned anything really big at the paper, I was too young and inexperienced. But this case had the potential to make my career
—
if I could solve it and then break the story. The problem was, even though I'd begun dating Kay
—
and had quickly made friends of both Sally and Jonnie
—
I knew approaching Sally directly was out of the question. I'd already tried that once and failed. I had to come up with another plan.

For most of October into early November, Kay and I, and Sally and whoever was currently tickling her fancy, double-dated at least once a week. Jonnie usually stayed home, her nose in a book. She didn't go out much other than to work and to school. During those dates, I talked privately to Sally's steady stream of new boyfriends, usually over a drink at the bar while the girls were in the ladies' room. Unfortunately, none of them seemed to know anything about Sally's former beaux.

I was starting to become frustrated. There had to be some way I could find the information I wanted. Sometime in mid-November I suggested we throw a party at their apartment. I figured it might provide me with the perfect opportunity to meet more of Sally's friends. I needed to find a confidant, someone who wasn't so ignorant or reticent about Sally's past love life.

Kay and I started planning the party right away. She loved the idea, said it would be a great chance to “show me off. “ I suppose I was flattered. By then, I was sure that I loved Kay. Anything she wanted was okay by me.

I know what you're thinking, Mom. What about Mitzi? That was my number-one problem. With each passing week she was acting more and more like my fiancee. I know she wanted a ring for Christmas. “Wanted” isn't the right word. She “expected” it. I was in a jam. I had to tell her the truth, but she was so happy. You were so happy. Everybody, it seemed, was happy-happy-happy. Everyone, that is, except me. Alfred asked me a couple of times if we'd set a date. He really liked Mitzi. Said that he envied me. I was getting a great gal. Cedric kept suggesting
“romantic spots” for a honeymoon. I never felt so trapped in my life. Mitzi wanted to spend every night with me, cook my dinner, watch TV together snuggled on the couch. I used my job at the paper as an excuse to beg off, but in reality, I spent every free minute with Kay.

For most of November, I was miserable. I felt like a fraud. I'd never thought of myself as cowardly before, but when it came to facing Mitzi, telling her the truth, I lost my nerve. I'd looked at rings and found a simple, elegant diamond, but it was for Kay, not for Mitzi. My plan was to give it to Kay on Christmas eve. I was a man leading two lives. I was excited one minute, depressed and ashamed of myself the next.

I'd determined that on the night of the party, I was going to tell Kay I loved her. If she said she felt the same way, then I'd talk to Mitzi the next day, after Thanksgiving dinner. I guess I needed Kay's strength to go through with it. I would never have married Mitzi, even if there had never been a Kay, it just would have taken me longer to tell her. What made it so hard for me to face was that everyone seemed to be lined up behind Mitzi. If I broke it off, I was not only the bad guy in her estimation, but in the estimation of my entire family. Except, isn't it better to tell the truth? Even if it hurts someone you love? I did love Mitzi, Mom. Just not enough.