The Ninth Man (17 page)

I shrugged again.

“The prosecution rests. But thanks for the offer.”

Ed reached over and put his closest hand on my leg, easily, casually.

“Well, if I can’t be a suspect, is there anything I can do to help?”

“You’re doing it,” I said. “At the risk of sounding maudlin, it means a lot just to be able to talk to someone.”

“You can always talk to Tim,” he said, half-teasing.

“You know what I mean,” I said, and immediately wished I hadn’t.

“I know,” he said quietly then quickly took a long drink.

We sat in embarrassed silence for a minute or so, and I found my mind, as always, wandering back to the case.

“If only I knew…” I said aloud.

Ed looked at me.

“Knew what?”

“The kid with the ice-blue eyes. Who the hell is he?
Where
is he? Is he the murderer, or the next victim?”

“You’ll find out.”

“I hope so,” I said. “I dread the thought of getting another phone call from Tim. I’ve got to find that kid, one way or another. I’d hate to think somebody else might die because I goofed somehow.”

Ed set his drink down, reached over and took me by both shoulders, turning me toward him.

“Now, look,” he said, his voice and face serious, “I don’t know you well enough yet to butt into your affairs. But I know damn well you can’t blame yourself for Rholfing’s death, or for anything concerned with this case. You’re doing the best you can, and I know you’ll have all the answers soon. Just stay detached. They’ll come. I know it.”

“Thanks, coach,” I said, grinning sheepishly. “I really appreciate it, and that’s no bullshit.”

Ed grinned and released me.

“That’s the boy,” he said. “Oh,” he added, “I nearly forgot—not to change the subject, which might be a good idea anyway—but I’ve got to make a trip to Chicago for a couple of days. We’ve just opened our new facility at O’Hare, and there are some bugs with the VIP lounge. They’ve been after me to come out there and take care of things, and I’ve been putting it off.”

“When are you going?” I asked, surprised by my negative gut reaction to his news. I didn’t want him to go, damn it.

Oh, come on, Hardesty, you’re not fifteen anymore.

He took another sip before answering.

“Probably day after tomorrow, unless I can put it off again—which I doubt. I’ll only have to be gone a couple of days, though. Should be back before the weekend. Think you can get along without me?”

“As Henry Higgins says, ‘I’ve grown accustomed to your face,’” I said, “but I’ll try to survive.”

We both laughed, but I had the definite impression neither of us found it all that funny.

*

I was at the Hall of Records when the door opened
the next
morning. If you’re ever looking for a fun way to spend the better part of a day, a trip to the Hall of Records isn’t it. How anyone ever finds anything there is a wonder.

It was well after lunchtime, a fact attested to by the periodic rumbling of my stomach echoing through the vast chambers, when I finally found what I was looking for.

The property at 2012 Hutchins Avenue was purchased on June 16 three years previously by the Elsinore Condo Corp. from one Klaus Schmidt, 9312 Roosmeer Street, this city.

I returned the 50-pound volume to the surly-looking guy behind the desk who’d had his beady prison-warden eyes on me every minute lest I mark, mar, write upon, fold, staple, or otherwise mutilate the sacred documents. He obviously kept in shape toting the ponderous volumes back and forth from the stacks, but he had the vaguely haunted look of one who sensed microfilming was on the horizon, and that his job was in imminent—that is, within ten or fifteen years—danger.

A check of the phone directory in the library’s main hall showed no listing for a Klaus Schmidt. Damn!

My stomach was growling and muttering—I knew I should have had breakfast before I left the apartment—but it would just have to wait. The address 9312 Roosmeer was much more important right now, because 9312 Roosmeer would hopefully hold Klaus Schmidt, who would, in turn, hold the final key to eight deaths.

*

Ninety-three-twelve Roosmeer was a construction
site.
Girders and beams and cranes cast long shadows over what remained of a quiet residential neighborhood of solid, stolid, early-part-of-the-century working-class homes. It’s a good thing I’ve always hated to see a grown man cry, because I considered that possibility for a split second.

The site occupied a good half of the block, but five or six houses still remained, looking as though they were being shouldered out of the way—which, in fact, they were. I chose the house closest to where 9312 would have been and knocked on the front door.

A little old lady, her hair in a bun and wearing—I swear—a black knit shawl over her neat but shapeless black housedress, appeared at the locked screen door. She looked like an ad for Ellis Island.

“
Ja
?” she asked, inspecting every inch of me from top to bottom.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” I said, for some reason feeling like a twelve-year-old paper boy trying to make a collection, “but I’m looking for a Mr. Klaus Schmidt who used to live at ninety-three-twelve. I wonder if you could help me.”

Her face, which had been a study in suspicion, suddenly burst into a full-sunrise smile.

“Klaus? You are a friend of Klaus Schmidt?”

“Well, not exactly,” I said. Then, taking a cue from her reaction, I added, “But I understand he’s a wonderful man.”

“Vonderful? Vonderful? Klaus Schmidt iss a saint! Forty-two years Klaus Schmidt liffed on this street und forty-two years he iss best friend to my dear Otto, bless his memory.”

I sincerely hoped she was blessing Otto’s memory and not Klaus Schmidt’s.

“Vot you vant from Klaus Schmidt?”

“I, ah…I represent a company that has a proposal Mr. Schmidt might find interesting—and very profitable,” I lied. “Do you know how I could get in touch with him? It’s really very important.”

She looked me over again, slowly, from head to toe then back again. Apparently drawing a satisfactory conclusion, she nodded once, curtly.

“Sure,” she said, decisively. “Sure. You vait here. I get you hiss address.”

I watched as she moved through the small, cluttered-but-neat living room to the archway-adjoined dining room. Opening the top drawer of a solid-looking, hand-carved mahogany credenza, she searched it for a moment then came up with an envelope. Holding it in front of her like a lady-in-waiting with a fan, she carried it over, unlocked the screen and opened it just wide enough to hand the envelope to me.

“Dis I got from Klaus last veek. Ve write often, now my Otto iss gone.”

I took the envelope and looked at the return address: 4851 W. Winchester, Chicago, Illinois.

“He liffs now in Chicago,” the old lady said. “Two years ago now he sells his house here. Klaus iss getting old, he vanted to be near his niece.”

“He lives with his niece now?”

Her laugh was warm and rich, not at all what I might have expected.

“Ach, no! Klaus, he liffs mit no one! He iss much too…how iss the vert…independent. He hass hiss own house there, ja, but near enough hiss niece so she can look after him.”

“Do you know if he has a phone? Perhaps I could call him.”

She shook her head.

“
Nein, nein
. Klaus cannot hear so goot any more. No phone.”

“How about his niece?” I said, hoping. “Would you know her number—or her name?”

The old lady thought a moment.

“Mueller. Krista Mueller. But her husband’s name I do not know, and for sure vere they liff I am not certain.”

There were probably ten pages of Muellers in the Chicago phone book, I was willing to bet. Still, I had Schmidt’s address. The key was almost in my hand. I hoped!

“Thank you so much, Mrs…” I looked at the envelope “…Breuner. You’ve been a great help.”

She opened the screen door again and extended her hand for the envelope, which I returned to her.

“You vill go to see Klaus?”

She was one step ahead of me, but she was right.

“Yes,” I said. “I think I will.”

“You giff him a big hello from me, ja?”

“It’ll be a pleasure,” I said, backing away from the screen door. “Thanks again.”

She smiled her goodbye, locked the screen door, and disappeared into the house.

*

“Chicago?” Ed said, and I hoped I detected more than
a l
ittle enthusiasm in his voice. “You’re kidding! That’s great! Tell you what…let me pull a few strings around here, call in a few favors owed. Maybe I can get you a comp flight.”

“Hey, no!” I said, hoping I sounded convincing. “I don’t want to cause you any trouble, Ed. That’s not why I called.”

Ed was, fortunately, insistent.

“Look, buddy, I haven’t worked fourteen years for Pan-World not to be entitled to a few perks. Just leave it to me. We can probably go on the same flight, if that’s okay with you.”

“Sure,” I said. “I’d really like that. You’re sure it’s no—”

“Just leave it to me, I said. You want to come by my place tonight? I should be home around six.”

I glanced at my watch. It was already four-thirty.

“Great,” I said. “I’ll just have time to run home and change. I must smell like a laundry bag full of dirty sweat socks by now. I’ll see you about six, then. S’long.”

It sure is nice to have friends in high places, I thought as I hung up. Still, I felt a little guilty. I really hadn’t meant to impose on Ed’s position with the airline. But I was glad he’d offered. God knows I needed to get out of town, even for a day, and the prospect of traveling with Ed didn’t exactly sour my mood.

I was just getting ready to leave for home when the phone rang. Hoping it wasn’t Tim with news of another body, I picked up the receiver. “Hardesty Investigations.”

“Hi, handsome.” Tim sounded reassuringly cheery. “It’s me, but don’t worry—your blue-eyed friend hasn’t shown up. Just thought I’d pass on the latest poop.

“Lopez’s death still leaves the cops standing firmly on Square One. They haven’t come up with a single thread connecting the victims other than their all being gay. I get the impression they’re all holding their breath for the murders to stop so they can slam the whole thing into the ‘unsolved’ file and get on with meeting their parking ticket quotas.”

I ran my hand through my hair, wiping the sweat off my forehead in the same motion.

“They’re not the only ones holding their breath,” I said.

“Anything new from your end?” Tim asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “A lot, finally. I’ll fill you in on the details later, but I may be going to Chicago for a day or so. All eight of the victims lived in the same building about four years ago. I tracked down the owner of the building, and he’s living in Chicago. He’s an old guy and apparently deaf, so the only way to find anything out is to go there and see him in person.”

I omitted mentioning Ed, his offer, or the prospect of our traveling together.

“I’ll keep my fingers crossed,” Tim said.

“Do that. And I’ll call you the minute I get back to town.”

“Hey…”

I waited through Tim’s pause, and appreciated the sincerity in his voice when he finished the sentence.

“…you take care of yourself, hear?”

“Thanks, Tim. I will. Talk to you soon.” I hung up and left for home.

*

“It’s all set,” Ed said as he handed me a drink and sat
down beside
me. “I hope you don’t mind my doing all this without checking with you, but we’re right at the peak of a rush period, and I didn’t have much choice.”

He looked at me for approval, and I gave a lead-on gesture with one hand. He looked relieved.

“Good. Anyway, we catch the twelve-fifteen tomorrow, do a quick stopover in Omaha, and get into O’Hare at six-twenty-two. If you wouldn’t mind our staying together…” He looked at me again, and I just shook my head and grinned. “…the airline has an arrangement with a couple hotels, so we could stay for practically nothing. You prefer the airport area or downtown?”

I shrugged.

“Whichever,” I said. “Pick one.”

He gave me a quick, embarrassed grin.

“I already did,” he said. “The Wellington Inn on the near north—it’s new, and it’s my favorite. But I’d have changed it if you’d had anything specific in mind.”

We each took a belt from our drinks then sat in comfortable silence for a minute or two.

“So, what happens when you find him?” Ed asked.

“Who?” I asked, puzzled. “Klaus Schmidt, the kid with the ice-blue eyes, or the murderer—assuming we’re talking about three people rather than just two?”

He took another sip.

“The killer.”

I sighed and stared into my glass.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Well, on whether I really do find the killer, for one thing.”

“You will,” he said confidently.

I nodded.

“Yeah, I suppose I will. In that case, it depends on the situation—whether I ever actually come face-to-face with him or not. Look, getting a name is one thing; finding the guy it belongs to might be another problem—he could be anywhere. And then actually proving that he did it…

“Obviously, the thing to do is the minute I get his name, turn it over to the cops and let them take it from there. But if I were to do it that way, I’d probably never find out why he killed those guys, and I really want to know. I’d like to at least talk to him, if I could.”

“Did you ever consider that might be kind of dangerous?” Ed asked, watching me.

I grinned again.

“Yeah. I guess it might.”

“Well,” he said, “this might be pretty presumptuous on my part, but if you need any help when the time comes, I’d sort of like to be there.”

I met his eyes and locked on them.

“Thanks,” I said.

“You’re welcome,” he replied.

His hand was resting on my leg, and I found myself reacting, as I always did, to his touch. He looked down at my crotch and smiled.

“I think I know how I can help you with at least one of your immediate problems,” he said.