Triple Pursuit (9 page)
Tuttle's days were now filled with trepidation as well as the excitement attendant upon having been handed the case of the half-century by Skinner the assistant prosecutor. The trepidation was caused by Hazel, late of Tempting Temporaries but now, as she put it, freelance, who had come to the office and in effect hired herself as general factotum.
“General what?”
“I will make your life orderly and efficient.”
“Hazel, in the present state of my practice ⦔
She held up a hand. “You are going to clean up with the Gallagher suit.”
This vote of confidence was welcome, but Hazel's presence was not. He could not afford her. He did not want her even if he could afford her. Years ago he'd had a regular secretary but a time had come when cutting back was imperative and he had let her go. Ever since, the office had been a bachelor haven. It was here that he and Peanuts Pianone, an officer in the Fox River Police thanks to the influence of his powerful and equivocal family, whiled away hours, feeding, communing in silence, dozing off. Hazel had gotten a glimpse of Peanuts, but he had gotten a glimpse of her as well, and he did a 180 in the hall and headed back to the elevator.
“Who's he?”
“Peanuts. Pianone.”
“He related to the crooks?”
“He is my closest friend.”
Hazel looked at him but said nothing. Clearly her plans for his future did not include Peanuts. But then, what of those golden hours spent with Peanuts eating Chinese in his office, exchanging information in their scarcely articulate way, feet on the desk, hat on his head, litter all over the place from the sent-in meal? Such idyllic scenes would certainly be irrevocably over if Hazel continued to camp herself
in the outer office, a place Tuttle no longer recognized. It was neat and orderly; she knew where everything was. She fired up the computer and had proved to be a whiz with it.
in the outer office, a place Tuttle no longer recognized. It was neat and orderly; she knew where everything was. She fired up the computer and had proved to be a whiz with it.
“Was this brought over on the
Mayflower
or what?” She was drumming her fingers, waiting for the computer to perform an operation.
Mayflower
or what?” She was drumming her fingers, waiting for the computer to perform an operation.
“That is practically new.” Tuttle did not like to think what he had paid for it in an imprudent moment. He was to learn that computers have no resale value.
“A computer is obsolete before you get it out of the box.”
“When we need a new one we'll talk about it.”
A fatal remark. It sealed their bargain. “We”? Good God. But she had put together and made sense out of his inquiries into the Gallagher case, handing him a manila folder filled with a fat sheaf of very important looking papers, the gist of which was that Austin Rooney had punched out Jack Gallagher twice at the St. Hilary senior dance. Armed with these, he set out on phase two, acquiring Jack Gallagher as a client.
Always in favor of face-to-face contact, preferring a rebuff from one he could see to a long-distance kiss-off, Tuttle drove to the condo in Western Sun Community where Jack Gallagher was living his twilight years. It was an elegant little community, with a guard at the gate, shoveled drives, Christmas decorations already atwinkle in the late afternoon dusk.
“Mr. Gallagher,” Tuttle called to the suspicious-looking fellow in the guard shack.
“What about him?”
“I'm going to call on him.”
“Is he expecting you?” Tuttle was wishing that he had brought Peanuts along to handle this Keystone Kop.
“Do you know who I am?”
The fellow stepped from the shack, crouched, and looked in at Tuttle.
There was a look of indecision in the guard's eye. Tuttle reached out and patted his arm.
There was a look of indecision in the guard's eye. Tuttle reached out and patted his arm.
“I'll tell Jack you're doing a helluva job, Rawley.” Tuttle had finally made out the nameplate which hung askew from the uniform blouse. He eased up on the brake and his car moved forward. Rawley stepped back. He was in. In the rearview mirror, he saw Rawley go back into his guard shack. Did he have a phone in there? If he called Gallagher, the point of just dropping by was lost.
He found the number of Gallagher's condo and parked. He walked up the shoveled walk to the door and hit the buzzer. A woman who had been exercising her dog came up the walk.
“Who are you looking for?”
“This is Jack Gallagher's apartment, isn't it?”
“Yes, but I doubt he's in. This time of day he is always at the club.”
“The club?”
She pointed into the gloaming and Tuttle saw a low building with windows all aglow.
“I'll check over there.”
“If you give me a moment to put Richelieu inside, I'll come with you.” Richelieu was the dog. The woman was of indeterminate age, but given his recent experience with Hazel, Tuttle was wary. But she was his entrée to the club. He waited while she went inside. She was back in a minute, an expectant smile on her face. “He hates being alone.”
“Jack?”
She laughed. “I meant Richelieu, but you're right. That's true of Jack too.”
She got in on the passenger side and seemed to be waiting for Tuttle to close the door. He was already behind the wheel. He reached across her and struggled to reach the door handle but it eluded his grasp. The lady against whom he was pressing began to laugh.
“A gentleman waits for the lady to get in and then closes the door after her.”
“I'm no gentleman.”
Giggling, she gave him a little push and he sat upright. The car complained before starting, but then they were on their way to the club and, with luck, Jack Gallagher.
Music emanated from the club, there was now the promise of snow in the air, and the lamps lining the development's streets glowed softly. The woman waited for him to open her door when he had parked. Tuttle went around and opened.
“At your service, Mrs. Richelieu.”
“Call me Isabel.”
She took his arm and they entered the club. There was a huge fireplace in which gas logs were burning merrily. There was a bar, tables and booths, maybe twenty-five people steeling themselves for the night ahead.
“There he is,” Isabel said.
Jack and a young woman were seated near the fire, a small table and not much else between them; she followed what he was saying with fascination. Isabel hung on Tuttle's arm as they advanced toward the couple by the fire. Neither Jack nor the woman looked up until Isabel spoke.
“Jack, I've brought someone who wants to see you.” To Tuttle she said, “Take off that hat.”
He had some of the business cards Hazel had ordered in the hat. He handed one to Jack Gallagher. “Skinner at the prosecutor's office suggested I speak to you.”
“Skinner?” Gallagher was annoyed at the interruption, and given the looks of the girl, Tuttle didn't blame him.
“No need to interfere now, Mr. Gallagher, but the sooner we get together, the better. I share Skinner's view about Austin Rooney.”
This caught Gallagher's attention. He studied the card. “You're a lawyer?”
“Can we meet sometime tomorrow?”
“Are you free in the morning?”
Tuttle closed his eyes in thought. “What time?”
“Be here at eleven and we can talk. By âhere' I mean my apartment.”
“Eleven o'clock.”
“Aren't you going to introduce me, Jack?” Isabel said in lilting tones.
Tuttle got out of there, but not before he heard Gallagher growl, “Aggie, Isabel. Isabel, Aggie.”
He stopped at the guard shack on the way out and gave Rawley a buck. “So you'll remember me tomorrow morning.”
“I don't work mornings.”
Tuttle felt like asking for the dollar back.
Even weeks afterward, the fate of the young woman who had been pushed into oncoming rush-hour traffic from a crowded sidewalk continued to be a source of conversation in the St. Hilary rectory.
“Even if it was an accidental bump, the person who did it should have come forward,” Marie said.
“Maybe it wasn't accidental,” Father Dowling said.
“That's why he didn't identify himself.”
“âHe'?”
“Whoever.” But Marie was certain it had been a man. The witnesses who had become unsure from being sure had spoken of a man, so doubtless Marie was right. But it had struck a philosophical node in the housekeeper's brain. “Just think of it, walking along, going where you're going, and then suddenly, the Particular Judgment.”
Marie's expression was pensive and sad. How fragile life was. A person wasn't even safe on a public street. Death was everywhere.
“People keeling over from heart attacks.”
“Some die in their beds after prolonged illnesses.”
“I don't want to talk about it.”
“You brought it up.”
Marie went back to her kitchen, doubtless to meditate on the Four Last Things. Edna had told Father Dowling that the old people at the
Center were obsessed with the accident too. The skirmishes at the dance had taken momentary precedence, but now they had returned to it.
Center were obsessed with the accident too. The skirmishes at the dance had taken momentary precedence, but now they had returned to it.
“Many of them sense resentment of their age on the part of younger people. All this talk of euthanasia and grumbling about what those still working could expect from Social Security causes apprehension among the elderly.”
Father Dowling pondered all this, wondering if he could address it in a homily in a way that would reassure the regulars at the Senior Center. Cy Horvath was the only one who still hoped the bulletin they had sent out would serve to locate the missing fiancé.
“Not a chance,” Phil Keegan said. “Cy hates loose ends; it's what makes him such a great detective. But that guy is gone with the wind.”
Father Dowling asked Cy out to the rectory in order to hear the lieutenant's thoughts on the matter. Their trip to Linda's parents in Wisconsin was a spur Phil Keegan did not have.
“If he is found, those witnesses will get their memories back,” Cy said. “They probably think he is lurking around and are afraid he'll shove them into traffic too, if they sound too sure about what he looks like.”
Cy had pieced together an account of the relationship between Linda and Harry. She had moved to Fox River a year before the accident, and it was here that she had met Harry Paquette, who was driving the cab she hailed one rainy dayâfor her, a luxury. He had driven her to her door before she realized he hadn't turned on the meter. On the way, she had babbled on about herself as one will to strangers. When he parked, he turned and looked over the seat back, and asked if she'd like to go somewhere for something to eat. It was all so improbable, she had thought it romantic.
Her work in a local motel on the housekeeping crew put her on the
margins of a more interesting life than she led. Harry was the first guy she had gone out with since coming to Fox River, and he became a staple of her conversation with the other girls at the motel. Harry too had come to Fox River, not long before Linda herself. Two uprooted people had found one another, and she, at least, regarded it as the fruition of her reason for leaving the small town in Wisconsin for the excitement and promise of a larger city. Chicago was too large, but Fox River had not been as intimidating.
margins of a more interesting life than she led. Harry was the first guy she had gone out with since coming to Fox River, and he became a staple of her conversation with the other girls at the motel. Harry too had come to Fox River, not long before Linda herself. Two uprooted people had found one another, and she, at least, regarded it as the fruition of her reason for leaving the small town in Wisconsin for the excitement and promise of a larger city. Chicago was too large, but Fox River had not been as intimidating.
The fact that Harry had given Minneapolis as his place of birth was either another lie, one he had used again on his application at the license bureau, or maybe an opening into his true identity.
“Maybe he went back there,” Father Dowling suggested.
“We'll see.”
Harry had lived in an obsolete motel that had been turned into a kind of rooming house for men like himself. Special weekly rates. What kind of future had Linda imagined with him?
“From things she told the girls at the motel, he apparently wanted her to move in with him, but she was holding out for marriage. He told her they were engagedâwasn't that something? But she wanted a wedding. She wanted it to be legal.”
There were times when Father Dowling felt an infinite sadness at the lives people led, at the things that moved them, at the ineradicable sense of right and wrong that survived the most demanding tests. Linda Hopkins's upbringing in Appleseed continued to have its effect. Had the girl been tempted by Harry's offer that she become his live-in girlfriend? Not enough to accept it, apparently, but living with him as his wife had certainly attracted her.
It was odd that a tragedy undergone by a stranger could eclipse the events in his own parish. Or perhaps Linda Hopkins's death put things into perspective. For some days Father Dowling had been concerned with this quarrel among two old men for the attentions of an elderly lady, a concern that had been magnified when he learned that someone
in the prosecutor's office threatened to turn it into a cause célèbre. The industrious Skinner had been overridden by his superiors and had become the object of mockery by Phil Keegan. But not by Cy Horvath.
in the prosecutor's office threatened to turn it into a cause célèbre. The industrious Skinner had been overridden by his superiors and had become the object of mockery by Phil Keegan. But not by Cy Horvath.
“If it weren't for Skinner, I would have been told to forget about Linda Hopkins,” Cy said. Beyond that he did not go. It certainly wasn't a blanket endorsement. But Skinner had confided to reporters about the Hopkins death and that had kept the matter before the public. Did Skinner hunger and thirst after justice, or was he, as Phil said, trying to secure his foothold in the prosecutor's office? Father Dowling knew nothing of Skinner, but his admiration for Cy Horvath was unbounded, an attitude he had first learned from Phil Keegan, whose protégé Cy was. There was something dogged and matter-of-fact in the huge Hungarian's unwillingness to write off Linda Hopkins's death.
“I saw her body in the morgue,” Cy said in explanation.
No one of Harry Paquette's name was known in Minneapolisâhe certainly had never driven a cab thereâbut Cy had been in contact with a similarly dogged detective in the Twin Cities and this produced the first movement in the investigation.
“It's the handwriting,” Cy explained. “Not a strong basis, but Nelson is sure that the man who signed the chauffeur's-license application here is a man who has a record there.”
“What name do they know him under?”
“Lloyd Danielson. Of course they have prints. Nelson has sent out an APB on Danielson.”
These routine inquiries were exchanged by the thousands between the police departments of the nation, and Cy was not sanguineâonly hopeful. Father Dowling thought of the WANTED posters in post offices, of the pathetic pictures of lost kids on milk cartons and at stations on the tollway. The APB on Danielson was like a ticket in the lotteryâbut it was less far-fetched than hoping that some department would turn up the man under the name of Harry Paquette.
“Has Tuttle been out here?” Cy asked Father Dowling.
“I think Marie said he dropped by the other day.”
“Skinner wants him to persuade Jack Gallagher to bring a civil case against Austin Rooney.”
“Good Lord.” His estimate of Skinner had risen slightly, but now it plummeted.
“Would Jack be such a fool?” Father Dowling asked Austin later that day.
“Not if he thought it wasn't foolish.”
“He hasn't been back to the Center since the night of the dance.” Austin's own infatuation with Maud Gorman, if that's what it was, had cooled, and Desmond O'Toole was back in the ascendancy.
“Do you know Cicero's
De senectute,
Father?” Austin asked.
De senectute,
Father?” Austin asked.
“Only the title.”
“I found rereading it salutary.”
That was all, but reading a Stoic meditation on old age had apparently helped. Austin winced now at any reminder that he had actually floored Jack Gallagher because Jack wouldn't let him cut in on Maud at the dance.
“I used to think age brought wisdom.”
“Wisdom is a gift.”
“Of the Holy Ghost.” And Austin rattled off the Seven Gifts of the Holy Ghost, memorized long ago when he had prepared for confirmation, right here in St. Hilary's school.
“âFear of the Lord' is the one I never lost.”
The remark seemed to refer to the possibility that he would be sued by Jack Gallagher for assault and battery and public humiliation.
Jack Gallagher sat in midmorning in the living room of his apartment, drapes pulled, breakfast done, dressed and ready for another day. The
phone was off the hook. His mood was one of depression. The supposed fling with Aggie had turned out very differently than he had thought it would. Bringing her to the clubhouse here where he lived had been done in a spirit of bravura, to give the other residents something to think about.
phone was off the hook. His mood was one of depression. The supposed fling with Aggie had turned out very differently than he had thought it would. Bringing her to the clubhouse here where he lived had been done in a spirit of bravura, to give the other residents something to think about.
When he had awoken this morning she was long gone, having left a note on the kitchen table:
Mmmmmm. Aggie
. It unnerved him that he had not heard her get up and go. He felt no triumph in his conquest, perhaps because he had been the conquered one. It had become clear that he had become a project of hers, a target of opportunity, and the delusion that youth had returned made him susceptible. What he felt now did not qualify as remorse; it was more like embarrassment and shame. The girl was younger than Colleen. Colleen!
Mmmmmm. Aggie
. It unnerved him that he had not heard her get up and go. He felt no triumph in his conquest, perhaps because he had been the conquered one. It had become clear that he had become a project of hers, a target of opportunity, and the delusion that youth had returned made him susceptible. What he felt now did not qualify as remorse; it was more like embarrassment and shame. The girl was younger than Colleen. Colleen!
He could not forget the little smile they had exchanged the afternoon he had left the offices of Mallard and Bill with Aggie on his arm. Colleen had assumed that Jack was going to read Aggie the riot act about Tim. Aggie had mentioned Tim, not Jack, and then only glancingly. The topic of their meetings became Jack Gallagher and his stellar career. It seemed to him now that he had been wooed and won. That he was a trophy of sorts was made clear when Aggie called.
“Thanks,” she breathed, without feeling any need to identify herself.
“Aggie?”
“Who else?”
“I didn't hear you go.”
“Oh, I'm good at that.”
“What time was it?”
“When will I see you again?”
“I'm still half asleep.”
“Have a rough night?” She laughed throatily.
“Don't you remember?”
“Mmmmm.”
“So that's how to read your note.”
“Call me later.” She hung up.
Call her? In the shower he had stood in water as hot as he could tolerate, wanting to wash away all memory of her. A metaphor of confession. How long had it been since he had knelt in the confessional and whispered his sins through the grille? That act always made him feel like a boy again, bringing back his adolescent confessions when he had knelt in agony, willing to listen to any scolding or gentle advice, if only the priest would give him absolution and he could get out of there, out of the church, and be just good old Jack Gallagher again. And so it had been whenever he had confessed a serious sin.
He had the living-room blinds pulled so he could not see the pictures of Julia, his wife, of Colleen, of Tim and Jane and their kids. Maybe, if Aggie had noticed those photographs and made any comment on them at all, he would have had the sense to give her a drink and then send her on her way. He would have taken her home in order to get rid of her. But she had been in control from the moment he had let them into the apartment. Five minutes after the door shut behind them they were in bed, their clothes scattered about the room. He almost felt that he had been raped.
The doorbell rang and he jumped to his feet. For a crazy moment he thought she was back. He put his eye to the viewer and recognized the little fellow who had come to his table with Isabel. Tuttle the lawyer. He opened the door.
“Mr. Gallagher.”
“Mr. Tuttle.”
He came into the room still wearing his hat. His unbuttoned overcoat had lost its shape and the green sports jacket looked as if he had slept in it. Scuffed shoes, of course. But he promised diversion, and at the moment Jack Gallagher needed diversion from his conscience.
Tuttle plunked down in a chair, still wearing his overcoat. He did take off the hat. “As I mentioned last night, Skinner in the prosecutor's office referred me to you.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Do you remember Skinner?”
“I don't think so. Would you like some coffee?”
“Only if it's made.”
“I just made this for breakfast.”
Tuttle followed him into the kitchen, talking as they went. Skinner was the eager young prosecutor who had hoped to bring a criminal suit against Austin Rooney for striking and humiliating Jack Gallagher before dozens of witnesses at the St. Hilary senior dance. The prosecutor's office had decided against proceeding, but Skinner continued to think that something should be done.
“That's why he came to me.”
Tuttle had accepted his mug of coffee and then waited for Jack to precede him back to the living room. Before sitting down, Jack opened the drapes.
“So what's the proposition?”
“A civil suit, demanding a considerable sum of money.”
“Rooney has no money.”
“There you're wrong. He taught until a year or two ago. During those years he amassed a retirement benefit close to two million dollars.”
“Austin?”
“This is common with professors. They pay a certain percentage of their salary over the course of their career; their institution matches, even doubles it. Month after month, year after year. It goes into a national plan. The total amount of money sounds like the national debt. In recent years the book value of those benefits has skyrocketed. Austin Rooney has money.”
It turned out that Tuttle had already engaged in preliminary investigations. “To see if it was worth our while, to see what kind of witnesses could be called. You do realize that Father Dowling saw the whole thing.”
“You'd call him?”
“In a shot. He would be reluctant, but he would tell the truth. And
the truth is devastating. Other witnesses would serve to add color to what the priest had said.”
the truth is devastating. Other witnesses would serve to add color to what the priest had said.”
Tuttle no longer looked like an impecunious buffoon. And wasn't he just the sort of lawyer you would want for such a suitâshifty and hungry?
“How much do you mean by âa considerable sum'?”
“Two million dollars.”
“A million a punch.”
“We won't get that, of course. But we should get at least a million.”
“âWe'?”
Tuttle looked at him. His lips were moving but no sound emerged. Then he said, “I'll ask twenty-five percent. That is below standard, but like Skinner I don't think this sort of thing should go unpunished. Furthermore, I will work on spec. All you need do now is give me one dollar and I am your lawyer and we are under way.”
Jack Gallagher gave Tuttle a dollar. The prospect of punishing Austin Rooney seemed a way of compensating for the fool Jack had made of himself with Aggie.
“Who was that beautiful young woman you were with last night?” Tuttle asked when he rose to go. There was a man-to-man smile on his face that Jack did not like.
“A friend of my daughter's.”
“Lovely girl.”
And then he was gone. The sound of his car not starting went on for a while but then the battered Toyota wended its way through unplowed snow, back to the entrance of the development.
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