The Blind Pig (10 page)

Tired as he was—it was now after eleven—Mulheisen didn't feel like going home. Too much was happening. It would have been unthinkable to head for bed, comparable to leaving a party just when they'd sent out for more beer. That reminded him that he could use a drink. It wasn't far to the Town Pump, he thought. Maybe the whole Vanni entourage would be there.

In fact, there was hardly anyone there. Only a short, dark
man sat at the bar, amiably sipping beer and chatting with the bartender. Mulheisen thought the man looked familiar, but he couldn't recall where he might have seen him. The trouble with being a cop, he often told himself, was that after a while everybody looks familiar. It's because cops spend so much of their time just looking at everybody, watching what is going on around them. He took a seat at the opposite end of the bar. Dick said something to the man and made his way toward Mulheisen, wiping the bar as he came.

“Got everything all cleaned up, I see,” Mulheisen said.

“Oh, sure,” Dick said. “What are you having?”

“Black Jack Ditch,” Mulheisen said.

“You too?” Dick looked at the Jack Daniel's bottle. “
Verdammte
,
” he snorted. “This stuff is going like ice cream on the Fourth of July.” He poured a heavy shot into a glass and splashed a little water over it.

“Well, I spent most of the day down at the police station,” Dick said, leaning on the bar. “I been looking at pictures of hoods so long that they all look alike now.”

“Did you make an identification?” Mulheisen asked.

“I think so. The fella there, what's his name, Lieutenant Deane, big fella with red hair, he got me some more pictures, more up to date. Boy, them noses! Those bums oughta get into another line a work. I recognized ‘em right away. Maio and Panella, the lieutenant says. That's them, all right.”

“So, you spend all day looking at mug shots and here you are back at work,” Mulheisen said. “Don't you have a relief bartender?”

“I got a cousin, he works mornings,” Dick said. “I can't afford a night man. Too expensive. Expensive in two ways, if you know what I mean. I never saw a bartender yet who didn't hit the till on you. And some of them, it's murder!”

He poured Mulheisen another drink. “On the house,” he said.

“What about your cousin, the day man?” Mulheisen said.

Dick shrugged elaborately—a very Gallic gesture to Mulheisen's mind, although Mulheisen had never been to France
or Belgium. “He's only alone for a few hours in the morning,” Dick said. “And, he's family. He won't take too much.”

Mulheisen changed the subject. “You haven't seen Vanni or DenBoer tonight, have you? Or the girl?”

“You're the second guy to ask that,” Dick said. “I'll tell you what I told him. No.”

“Who was asking before?” Mulheisen asked.

“That guy over there,” Dick said, looking down the bar. “Now, where'd he go?”

Mulheisen turned. The man who had been sitting at the bar was gone, though neither Mulheisen nor Dick had heard him leave.

“Let's have another,” Mulheisen said wearily. He took out a cigar and looked at it thoughtfully before clipping the end.

Eleven

Car 9-3 cruised along Conner Avenue before turning east on Jefferson. Jimmy Marshall was driving. Both he and Ray Stanos peered down the avenue to where all the action was still going on at the derailment scene.

“Damn,” Stanos complained. “All hell breaking loose all over the goddamn precinct and we have to pull this crappy patrol.”

The car radio crackled constantly with commands for various units to go to and from the sites of the wreck, Vernor tower or the Cadillac Gage Company. Out of that incessant chatter a different call rang out.

“Nine-three, dispatch.”

Stanos grabbed the microphone eagerly. “Dispatch, nine-three.”

“Go to Collins Street, that's a thirty-five-eleven.” Stanos didn't have to look that one up—3511 was breaking and entering, in progress. “That's 3667 Collins, between Mack and Charlevoix. See the lady. Name is Fox.”

“Nine-three, on the way,” Stanos said. Then to Marshall: “I don't believe it. That's the same address!”

Marshall nodded. They were clipping along Jefferson very
rapidly now, with the blue lights flashing. Stanos had already struggled into a flak jacket and had one ready at hand for Marshall. As soon as they approached Collins, Marshall cut the lights and they cruised silently to a parking place well back from the Fox address. Marshall radioed a 10-97 and he and Stanos approached the house with Marshall still snapping up the flak vest. Mrs. Fox was again on the porch. She was surprised to find that it was the same two young patrolmen who had answered her call a few nights earlier. She motioned both men into her living room. As usual, she was dressed in a bathrobe and slippers.

“I know you won't believe it,” she said, “but I saw someone sneak into Mr. Vanni's house.” While watching the Johnny Carson show on television she had gotten up during a commercial break to get herself a drink of water. As usual, she hadn't turned on the kitchen lights, relying on the little bit of light that came from the living room. She got her glass of water, and while drinking it she saw a man come to the rear door of the Vanni home. The man stood and fiddled with the lock for a moment, then the door opened and he went inside. She thought it was rather strange, since the man obviously wasn't Mr. Vanni and, besides, he hadn't turned on any lights.

“Why couldn't it have been Vanni?” Marshall asked.

“Mr. Vanni hasn't come home yet this evening,” Mrs. Fox said, with the assurance of a woman who knows when her neighbors are home. “Besides, Mr. Vanni is tall and this man was short. And you can see that there still aren't any lights on in the house.” She pointed out the window.

Marshall and Stanos drew aside to confer. They agreed that there was probable cause to believe that a crime was in progress and it would be proper to enter the house, but under the circumstances it might be as well to simply wait for the intruder to leave and arrest him then. They felt that a house is a far more complicated situation, somehow, than a garage. Marshall thought that given what had happened just a couple of days earlier, they ought to call in to the precinct;
possibly the duty officer would be able to advise them. In the meantime, of course, they could watch the house.

They moved Mrs. Fox out of the kitchen, and Stanos went back to the car to get a shotgun while Jimmy kept watch from the window. It was reasonable to assume that the intruder would leave by the same door he'd entered. When Stanos returned, Jimmy suggested that Stanos station himself by Vanni's back door while Jimmy called in.

The duty officer, when he heard the news, promptly referred the decision to Mulheisen, who had just strolled in. Mulheisen listened to Marshall and concurred on the action taken. “You watch the front of the house,” he told him, “and I'll be right over.”

It took Mulheisen five minutes to drive to Collins Street, and another three to find a parking place. He walked casually up the street toward the house, hands in his raincoat pockets. In his right hand was the .38 Chief’s Special.

The house was completely dark and there was no sign of movement. He scanned it carefully without breaking stride and walked on by, even though he had noticed Marshall crouching in the shadow of some shrubs near the porch steps. Once out of line of sight of the house, he turned and came back, using Mrs. Fox's house as cover until he was close to Marshall.

“Nothing doing?” he whispered to Marshall.

Marshall shook his head.

“Stanos still out back?” Mulheisen asked. At Marshall's nod he said, “I'm going back there. After I talk to Stanos I'll signal you, so watch for me. Stanos and I will go in. After I signal, you wait until the lights go on in that back room—I'd guess it's a kitchen. Then you go onto the porch here and wait by the door—not in front of it. Understand? We'll work through the house, turning on lights as we go. When we get to the living room, if nothing is happening, I'll let you in and we can make a systematic search upstairs and down.”

A few seconds later Mulheisen explained the same procedure to Stanos. “One thing that bothers me,” he said, “is that
the door wasn't forced. Whoever went in either had a key or knew a lot about locks. Does this Fox woman seem reliable to you?”

“She was right before,” Stanos said.

“Unh-hunh,” Mulheisen grunted. After a moment he said “Here we go.” He stepped to the side of the house and waved to Marshall, then he and Stanos went up the little back steps and tried the door. It was locked.

“What the hell?” Mulheisen was surprised. He looked at Stanos. “You ever heard of a B and E man who locked the door behind him? Neither have I. This changes things. You stay here.”

Mulheisen went to the front of the house and stepped onto the porch. “Back door's locked,” he said to the surprised Marshall. He tried the front door. The storm door was unlocked, but the main door wasn't. Mulheisen hadn't expected it to be. Since the storm door only locked with a hook, it suggested that someone had gone out that way. He presumed that Vanni normally left the house by the back, to get to his car in the garage.

“Well, do we break in or not?” he said to nobody. Suddenly he heard voices at the back. “Stay here,” he said to Marshall and ran back alongside the house, .38 in hand.

Jerry Vanni stood on the path from his garage, hands in the air, looking frightened at Stanos's shotgun. When he saw Mulheisen he lowered his hands and his face darkened. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded.

Mulheisen sighed and waved Stanos off. “We have a report of an intruder here,” he explained. He filled Vanni in quickly, then suggested they use his house key to enter and check the house. If he liked, Vanni could wait outside.

“I've got a better idea,” Vanni said. “You wait outside and I'll go in and look things over. If there's anything wrong, I'll invite you in.”

“What if the burglar's still in there?” Mulheisen asked. “He might shoot.”

“From what you say, it doesn't sound to me like there's
any burglar inside,” Vanni said, “and from all the noise we're making, I'm sure he knows I'm coming.”

“All right,” Mulheisen compromised, “why don't you and I go in together. Okay? The fellows can wait outside.”

As Vanni had said, there was no one inside. They went through the entire house turning on lights, even checking the attic. When they were back downstairs in the living room, Vanni said, “All clear, Sergeant. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm kind of tired.”

“I've got some questions,” Mulheisen said. He pulled out a cigar and clipped it. “Mind?”

“The cigar? No. The questions, I'm not so sure. All right, go ahead.”

“I've been looking for your partner, Miss Cecil. Any idea where I can reach her?”

“You might try calling her at home,” Vanni said. “I haven't seen her, if that's what you mean. Why?”

“I've been looking for you and your partners, actually, but none of you were home,” Mulheisen said. “I wanted to go over some information about the shooting in the alley and the shooting at the bar. You didn't see DenBoer this evening, did you?”

“No. He took off from work about the same time as Mandy. As for me, I had a date. Satisfied?”

Mulheisen was suddenly too damn tired to fuss with the case anymore. “I'll wait until tomorrow,” he said, “when your partners are available.”

He stalked out and collected his subordinates. He was feeling very irritated with Mandy Cecil at the moment. His irritation was aggravated, he knew, by a vague sense of guilt for not getting in touch with her. He supposed she thought that he had stood her up, but then, where the hell was she? Why hadn't she been home?

He stopped to interview Mrs. Fox. She could provide little information, except that the person who had entered Vanni's house was a short man who moved with great assurance. She was sorry if she'd caused a fuss. Mulheisen assured her that
she had been a good citizen. He also satisfied himself that she was not just a hysteric who was imagining men sneaking into houses. Evidently, someone had broken into Vanni's house, but whoever it was had been very careful and hadn't wasted any time. No doubt he had left the house before Marshall could cover the front door. Mulheisen wondered who it had been and what he'd wanted. He had an uneasy feeling about it. Someone was poking around in things that perhaps they hadn't any right to poke around in.

And with that, he went home to bed. It was after two in the morning before he crawled between the wrinkled sheets of the bed he had not made that morning and he slumped down with grateful relief. He was just about to lose consciousness when he sat up, muttering to himself. Reluctantly he got up and put on his robe. He picked up the telephone and dialed Mandy Cecil's number, one more time.

A man's voice answered. “Hello,” said the voice crisply.

Mulheisen was surprised. “Uh, is Miss Cecil there?” he asked.

“Miss Cecil isn't home at the moment,” the voice replied. “Who is calling, please?”

For a moment Mulheisen did not reply. He was impressed with the style of the person answering Mandy Cecil's telephone at two o'clock in the morning.

“Hello?” the voice said. “Are you there? Can I help you?”

Mulheisen started to hang up, then he considered the situation. “Are you a friend of Miss Cecil's?” he asked.

“Yes, I am,” the voice said. “Mandy isn't home just yet, but she asked me to take any messages. Can I say who is calling?” The voice was deep and smoothly insistent.

“Just a friend,” Mulheisen said, and hung up. He sat there staring blankly at his toes for a moment. Then, with a groan he heaved himself to his feet and began to dress.

It was a fifteen-minute drive to Mandy Cecil's address in St. Clair Shores, a city downriver from Mulheisen's home. He drove down her street slowly, noticing the nondescript Chevrolet parked in front of the small apartment building
where she lived. There was a man sitting at the wheel of the car. He glanced at Mulheisen as he drove past, but didn't seem too concerned or interested. Pretty bold, Mulheisen thought.

The street ended a half block farther on, at the chained entrance to a marina. Beyond the chain a hundred or more boats bobbed in restless water, agitated by a steady breeze off the lake. Mulheisen found a parking place and got out. He walked to the nearest alley and disappeared into its darkness. He found the apartment building without trouble, but now the problem was how to get in without being seen by the sentinel out front? He wondered idly when was the last time he'd had such a long and busy day. What would Dennis the Menace do in a situation like this? Kick the damn door down and go in with guns blazing.

He decided there was no easy way to do it. So he might as well do it the hard way. He walked around to the front of the building, unholstered the .38 and approached the parked Chevrolet. He bent down and rapped on the window with the .38. The driver looked around and his jaw fell open. Mulheisen opened the car door and slipped in. He grinned, showing all of his teeth, and fished out his credentials, which he flopped open for the driver to see, along with the .38, which the driver had already seen and continued to keep well within his periphery of vision.

“What does it say?” Mulheisen asked the man.

“It says ‘Detroit Police Department, Sergeant of Detectives,’ “ the man read. He was young and tall with a short haircut. If he had been scared at first he no longer showed it. Mulheisen leaned over and patted the man's chest, then removed a .38 revolver from a shoulder holster. He slipped it into his own raincoat pocket.

“I'm going to get out of the car now, and so are you,” Mulheisen told the man. “And we're going into this building. Let's not do anything silly, eh?”

“Sure,” the man said calmly. He got out and closed the door carefully, then walked around the front of the car and
preceded Mulheisen to the lobby of the apartment building. Inside, Mulheisen made him lean against the wall on his palms and spread his legs, then worked him over carefully. Apparently the man had carried only the one gun. Mulheisen took out the man's wallet and flipped it open. He read the identification card and gave a soft groan.

“Okay, Agent Deegan,” he said, “you can rest easy.” He handed the man his wallet and his pistol. He shrugged. “Sometimes it has to happen this way,” he said. “Sorry.”

Deegan looked indifferent.

“Who's upstairs?” Mulheisen asked. “Your boss?”

“That's right,” Deegan said. “Agent-in-charge Phelps.”

“I guess I'd better go up and see him,” Mulheisen said.

“I'll wait in the car,” Deegan said, and turned to leave.

“Any special signal?” Mulheisen asked.

“Just two quick jabs on the button,” Deegan said, and left.

Mulheisen turned to the board on the wall of the lobby that listed the names of the occupants with a buzzer next to each one. Mandy Cecil was number 401. He gave the buzzer two quick jabs. Almost immediately the entrance door buzzed and Mulheisen pushed through. The elevator was right there and empty, so Mulheisen got in and pressed the button for the fourth floor. Now it's their turn, Mulheisen told himself. He walked out on the fourth floor with his hands up. Sure enough, a man was there with a gun in his hand.

“I knew that Deegan would lie to me about the signal,” Mulheisen said with a sigh. “Agent Phelps? My name is Mulheisen, Detroit Police.”