Until Proven Guilty (16 page)

“Oh,” Carstogi said. From the look on his face, Carstogi was beginning to grasp the seriousness of his situation.

After dropping Peters off, Carstogi and I headed north on Highway 99. Aurora Avenue, as it is called in the city, has its share of flop-houses and late-night recreational facilities. Carstogi recognized the Aurora Bridge, but that was all. He had no idea where they had turned off. He and Gloria had apparently played kissyface in the backseat. He said he dozed on the way back, that he didn’t remember any landmarks. We wound through the narrow streets around Phinney Ridge and Fre-mont, to no avail.

“If I could just remember something about that cab,” Carstogi said, more to himself than to me.

“I wouldn’t count too heavily on that,” I countered.

“Why not?”

“Prostitution is illegal in this state. If they say you were with them, they’ll blow their little business wide open. I’d guess, from the sound of it, that they’re probably a group of free-lancers, independents. If we don’t get them, the Mafia will.”

“You mean they’d lie and say I wasn’t with them?”

I looked at Andrew Carstogi with some sympathy. The young man seemed ill-equipped to deal with the real world.

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

Carstogi hunched miserably in the front seat. “But I didn’t do it. I would have taken her back. I wanted to kill Brodie, but never Suzanne. I still loved her.”

I shook my head at my own stubbornness. “Alibi or no, I believe you.”

“Thanks,” Carstogi said, his voice crackling over the word.

“It’s cold comfort,” I acknowledged. “That and fifty cents will get you a cup of coffee.”

“Not at the Warwick.”

I laughed at his small joke, and he did too. I think he felt a little better when I dropped him off, but I didn’t. I figured it wouldn’t be long before the room at the Warwick would be traded for somewhat plainer accommodations in the city jail.

I
stopped by the Doghouse and had a cup of coffee after I dropped Carstogi at the hotel. I talked with the waitresses, the cashier, the bartender. I asked them all the same thing. Did they know of a gum-chewing cabbie who might be involved in a prostitution ring? No one mentioned anybody right off, but then I didn’t expect them to. I had at least gotten the word out. That was worth something.

The apartment was close by. I went up just in case Anne was there. She wasn’t, although the subtle fragrance of her perfume lingered in the room. I lingered too, drinking it in. Anne Corley secondhand was better than no Anne Corley at all.

I went back to the department. There was a message on my desk saying that Peters, Watkins, and Powell were having a meeting in Powell’s office. I was expected to join them as soon as I returned. I looked at my watch. It was four-forty on Wednesday afternoon. It didn’t take a Philadelphia lawyer to figure out what the topic of discussion might be. If we arrested Carstogi right then, he wouldn’t stand a chance of getting out before Monday. By the time his seventy-two hours were up, it would be right in the middle of the weekend.

“Where’ve you been?” Powell growled as I came into the room.

“With Carstogi. We were looking for the place he went night before last.”

“I’ve checked with vice, Beau,” Peters said. “Gloria seems to be a popular professional name these days. At least ten have been booked for soliciting in the past three months. How about bringing Carstogi in to look at our pinup collection? Of course, all of them will just jump at the chance to have the book thrown at them one more time.”

“I’ll bet they will,” I said.

“Look,” Watkins interjected. “This Gloria story won’t hold water and you know it. Why’re you so dead set against Carstogi being our suspect?”

“He didn’t do it,” I insisted.

“Oh, for Chrissakes!” Powell was exasperated. “Whose side are you on, Beaumont? He’s got motive, no alibi, physical proximity. What more do you want? I say book him. We’ll never get a confession out of him while he’s down at the Warwick living in the fucking lap of luxury. What if he blows town while we’re standing around arguing about it? Let’s get him in here and ask him some bare bones questions.”

“What about Brother Benjamin?” I countered. “He lives nearby. Did we get anything back from Illinois on him? What if he had the same kind of beef with Brodie that Carstogi did?”

Watkins shuffled through a sheaf of papers. “Benjamin Mason alias Clinton Jason. Wonderful guy. Ex-junkie, ex-small-time hood. According to this, he stopped being in trouble about the time he hooked up with Brodie. At least there haven’t been any arrests since then.”

“Is that when he stopped renewing his driver’s license?” Peters asked.

Watkins consulted the paper. “Looks that way. How’d you know that?”

Peters shrugged. “Lucky guess,” he said.

Powell had been sitting quietly. “Now wait a minute. What’s all this about Brother Benjamin? You got anything solid that points to him?”

“We’ve got as much on him as we do on Carstogi,” I said.

“Brother Benjamin didn’t have a plane reservation to leave town yesterday. Carstogi did. I want him in here for questioning. Is that clear?” Powell was in no mood for argument.

“It’s clear, all right.” I could see I was out-gunned. “But I think you’re making a hell of a mistake.”

A newspaper had been lying open on Powell’s desk. He picked it up. “Talk about mistakes. Since when do investigators become personally involved with someone from a current case? Maxwell Cole is having a field day. Who is this broad anyway?”

“She’s an author,” I said maybe a tad too quickly. “She’s collecting material for a book. That’s why she was at the funeral. It has nothing to do with the investigation.”

“Right,” Powell said, dragging the word out sarcastically. “If you’re going to have a little roll in the hay, I’d suggest you do it a little less publicly.”

Peters rose to his feet, placing himself between Powell’s words and my flaring temper. “All right, we’ll go down and bring him in,” he said.

We waited for an elevator. I was still fuming. “You know, Powell does have a point,” Peters said. “Maybe you should cool it for a while.”

“Mind your own fucking business,” I muttered.

We started for the Warwick in silence. In my fifteen years on homicide, I’ve developed a gut instinct. I know when it’s right, and when it isn’t. This wasn’t. Carstogi wasn’t a killer. He didn’t have the killer instinct, the solid steel core it takes to pull the trigger. I knew I did. I had done it once. Maybe it takes one to know one.

“Wait,” I said. “I want to go see Jeremiah. Before we pick up Carstogi.”

Peters clicked his tongue. “You are one stubborn son-of-a-bitch, Beaumont. I’ll say that for you.” But he headed for Ballard.

The traffic was snarled on Fifteenth. We had to wait for the drawbridge. “You almost blew it on the driver’s license thing,” I said. “The only way you could have put that together was from the sermon on the tape.”

“Sorry,” Peters said.

I had written Jeremiah’s address in my notebook. We found it without difficulty. Jeremiah was sitting on the front steps of a tiny bungalow. He watched us get out of the car.

“Your folks in there?” I asked, approaching the steps where he was sitting.

He shook his head without getting up. I sat down beside him. “I’m here alone,” he said.

“How are things?”

He shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”

“You been in any more hot water?”

“Probably am now,” he said. I knew he meant for talking to us.

“Were your folks both home Monday night?”

“You mean after we left the church?”

I nodded. He continued. “Someone asked me that yesterday. I already told him.”

“Tell me, Jeremiah.”

“We were maybe the last ones to leave. Mom and I waited in the car for a long time.”

“Was your stepfather upset when he came to the car?”

Jeremiah nodded gravely. “He and Mom had a big fight. They yelled at each other.”

“What did they fight about?”

“Someone at church.”

“What did they say?”

He called one of the ladies a…” He groped for the word.

“A whore.”

“Which one, do you know?”

“Sister Suzanne.”

“Do you know if he left the house again? Later?”

“I don’t know. I went to sleep.”

Peters had been listening to this exchange. Now he became a part of it. “Does anyone call Benjamin Uncle Charlie? Have you ever heard that?”

Jeremiah shook his head.

“You ever hear of an Uncle Charlie?”

“Only Angel’s.”

“Does he belong to Faith Tabernacle? Is he a member?”

“No. I never saw him. Angel said he lived far away from here. She said he was nice, that he promised sometime he’d take her for a ride in his van. Some of the other kids thought she made him up.”

We asked Jeremiah for more details, but he clammed up. He kept watching the street nervously, as though afraid his folks might drive up any minute. We beat a hasty retreat so they wouldn’t see us talking to him. I didn’t want them to know we had been there. I didn’t want Jeremiah to have to suffer any consequences.

When we got in the car, Peters asked, “Where to?”

“I guess we go pick up Carstogi.”

Peters started the motor. “You think Benjamin’s voice is the one we heard, not Carstogi’s?”

“I don’t know what to think,” I replied.

Carstogi wasn’t surprised to see us. I think he knew it was inevitable. When we came into the room he was sitting on the side of the bed, shoulders hunched, face buried in his hands.

“You’ll have to come with us,” I said.

Peters brought out the cuffs. Carstogi stood up and pulled away. It was reflex. I caught him by the shoulder and swung him around. “Don’t do anything stupid,” I warned him. “Things are bad enough for you already.”

Carstogi came with us quietly. Peters read him his rights. I didn’t have the stomach for it. The public wanted a fall guy, and it was Peters’ and my job to provide them with one. We herded him through the booking process. He reminded me of a steer being driven to slaughter, numb with fear and unable or unwilling to help himself. He didn’t ask for an attorney.

Once he was dressed in the bright orange jail coveralls, we began to question him. First Peters would grill him and then I would. He sat at the table in the tiny interview room, gazing at the floor while we asked him our questions. His story never varied, but it didn’t improve, either. He stuck to it like glue. The questioning process went on for hours. We finally sent him to his cell about nine o’clock. I left right after he did, without saying good night to anyone, including Peters. There was nothing good about it.

I walked my usual path down Fourth. I needed to think, to separate myself from the stifling closeness of the interview room. I didn’t like the feeling that I was part of a railroading gang. What we had on Carstogi was totally circumstantial, but I was afraid it might stick. After all, any port in a storm, and Carstogi didn’t have much of a cheering section in this part of the world.

What about Brother Benjamin? According to Jeremiah, he wasn’t the mysterious Uncle Charlie, but he was certainly a likely suspect with Brodie and Suzanne. The questions circled in my head, but I was too tired to draw any conclusions.

I opened the door to my apartment hoping Anne would be there. I more than half expected that she would be, but she wasn’t. I tried calling the Four Seasons and was told Mrs. Corley wasn’t taking any calls. That pissed me off. I poured myself a MacNaughton’s and settled down to wait. And sulk.

It must have been three drinks later before she called me back. By then I was pretty crabby. “I just now got your message,” she said. “Would you like me to come over?”

I felt like saying, Suit yourself. What actually came out of my mouth was, “Sure.”

She was there within minutes, greeting me with a quick kiss. I had drunk enough that I resented her lighthearted manner. “What are you so chipper about?” I groused.

“I got a lot done today, that’s all. How about you?”

“Same old grind.”

We were standing in the entryway. She took the glass from my hand, reached around the corner, and set it on the kitchen counter. Then she took both my hands in hers and placed them behind her back. “Kiss me,” she demanded.

I did, reluctantly at first, still trying to hang on to being mad at her. It didn’t work. My hunger for her reawakened. I crushed her to my chest as the touch of her lips sent me reeling.

“Marry me,” she whispered.

“What?” I asked, thinking I couldn’t possibly have heard her right. I pushed her away and held her at arm’s length.

“Marry me,” she repeated. “Now. We can get the license tomorrow and get married on Sunday.”

I examined her face, trying to tell if she was kidding. No hint of merriment twinkled in her gray eyes.

“You mean it, don’t you!”

She nodded.