Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 140, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 853 & 854, September/October 2012

A Path to Somewhere by Lou Manfredo

Lou Manfredo began his Gus Oliver series in EQMM with the August 2009 story “Central Islin, U.S.A.” and continued it with January 2012’s “Home of the Brave.” This new episode brings in characters from his non-series 2006 story “The Alimony Prison.” In it, Oliver is presented with a case involving the former madam of a New York City brothel who has come to live in his small town in Long Island. Lou Manfredo’s latest novel is Rizzo’s Daughter (Minotaur 3/12).

Early Wednesday morning, March 2, 1960, Gus Oliver sat in the jury box of the county courthouse with eleven fellow citizens, quietly awaiting the judge’s appearance. The courthouse was located in the Suffolk County seat at Riverhead, Long Island, New York.

Gus finished the Newsday article he had been reading. He shook his head grimly, reflecting on the story: A crowd estimated at over one hundred thousand had given a rousing, confetti-strewn welcome to Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev as he rode through the streets of the capital city of some strange country called Afghanistan. Apparently, the United States had offered only a few million dollars in aid to the Afghans. The Soviets had then stepped in with 300 million more in aid and material to strengthen the Afghan army in its struggle with neighboring Pakistan.

Gus didn’t possess great insight into international affairs, but he knew this much: The news could mean only one thing — trouble for the U.S. somewhere down the road.

He folded the newspaper and dropped it to the floor. Idly, he began looking around the courtroom. After a moment, he smiled. Well, now, he thought. That’s mighty interesting.

Superior Court Justice Robert Basil Maull gazed across the large mahogany desk in his chambers. Sitting before him were County Prosecutor Jack Daino, prominent Long Island attorney Andrew Saks, and Gus Oliver.

“Mr. Oliver,” Judge Maull began. “As a prospective juror in this case, you have been challenged for cause by Mr. Saks. What that translates to is, he does not wish to use one of his limited peremptory challenges — one which would excuse you from consideration for no specifically stated reason. Instead, he has chosen to use one of his unlimited challenges for cause by raising the issue of your thirty years’ service as town constable in Central Islin. He believes your law-enforcement background may inadvertently

prejudice you toward the prosecution. How do you respond to that, sir?”

“Well, Judge, as everyone here knows, I retired some time ago. I’m just a local farmer now, and Central Islin has hired itself a police chief and two patrolmen.”

“Yes,” Saks said from Gus’s right. “But since your retirement, Mr. Oliver, you’ve been involved in two private investigations, and with some spectacular results, I might add. As far as my clients’ interests lie, you are, sir, still active in law enforcement.”

Prosecutor Daino spoke up. “Now hold on, Andrew, that’s just nonsense. Are you going to challenge every citizen that ever supported his local police department? If you want Oliver off this panel, you use one of your peremptories. I will not agree to—”

Judge Maull held a palm up and outward as he spoke. “All right, just relax, Jack, hold your horses.” He turned to Gus before continuing. “I think we can settle this matter easily enough if you’ll answer me one question, Mr. Oliver.”

Gus shrugged. “Sounds reasonable, Judge. Go ahead. Ask.”

“I was delayed for a bit in my robing room. After you and the other prospective jurors were seated in the box, you had some fifteen minutes before I came into the courtroom.” The judge sat back in his seat, his large blue eyes twinkling with what Gus believed to be mild amusement.

“Tell me, Mr. Oliver. From your experiences as a policeman, did you happen to draw any inferences as you sat there? Notice anything that might be, shall we say, an impediment to your impartiality?”

“Funny you should ask, Judge,” Gus said, returning the man’s smile. “I did sorta make an assumption or two.”

Judge Maull nodded. “I suspected as much. Would you mind telling us what they were?”

“Well, now, Judge, I believe you said I’d have to answer only one question, and by my count that one’s number three. But... no, I don’t mind one bit.”

Gus turned slightly to his right, addressing both attorneys.

“We were told this here was a drug case. That young fella sitting at the defense table is accused of sellin’ narcotics to some of those rich city folk who’ve been coming out to the Hamptons these last coupla summers and partying a lot. Now, I don’t have much experience with drug dealers per se, but I ain’t stupid either. That young man out there has a codefendant, also represented by Mr. Saks, only he’s not present in the courtroom. You folks are trying one defendant and one empty chair. I also noticed the county sheriff’s deputy sittin’ way across the courtroom reading a magazine, not payin’ the slightest bit of attention to the defendant. That means the young fella is out on bail, not incarcerated, so that deputy ain’t at all concerned about a possible escape. Now, you’re pretty well known, Mr. Saks, and I’m figurin’ your services don’t come cheap. That there wristwatch you’re wearin’ is probably worth more than my fifty-nine Edsel. So, what have we got? A local young man accused of sellin’ drugs who somehow has enough money to A) post his bail and B) hire himself a big-ticket lawyer. Plus, we got a second defendant who isn’t even here. That sorta puts a bee in my bonnet, gentlemen. I’m thinking that second young man musta posted his bail too. Then he skipped out, forfeiting every dime. If he gets acquitted, he comes back to town and apologizes. ‘Oops, sorry. I forgot.’ If, on the other hand, he gets convicted, good luck findin’ him. Either way, he’s not real concerned about that lost bail money.”

Andrew Saks, color coming into his cheeks, interrupted. “Now you look here, sir—”

Gus waved a friendly hand at him. “Take it easy now, Counselor, just relax. Seems to me I’m gettin’ you that challenge for cause you’re looking for. A really good lawyer knows when to dummy up.”

Saks considered it. “Go ahead then,” he said.

“Well, here’s what I’m startin’ to suspect. We got us a coupla big-earning drug dealers on trial here. Now, can I be wrong? Sure can. But — somebody’s maybe gonna have to prove to me I’m wrong. That might be you, Mr. Saks. And the law says the defense never has to prove any damn thing. That’s the prosecutor’s job.”

Gus turned back to the still-amused face of Judge Maull. “So, your honor, what do you think? You ready to swear me in just yet?”

Maull chuckled. “You are excused for cause, Mr. Oliver. With our thanks and, I might add, my compliments on your powers of observation. Please, sir, report back to Central Jury. And, under punishment of contempt of court, do not discuss any aspect of what has transpired here with anyone. Am I understood?”

Gus stood and reached for his folded copy of Newsday.

“Perfectly, Judge. Couldn’t be clearer.”

Later, sitting on a hard-backed bench in Central Jury, Gus again tossed down the newspaper and sighed.

“World can’t get much crazier than right now,” he said softly.

“And why is that, Mr. Oliver?” he heard. Looking up, he saw Andrew Saks standing beside him. He smiled up at the lawyer.

“Well now, Mr. Saks, I just read that baseball fella, Willie Mays, has signed a new contract with the Giants. Eighty-five thousand dollars, it was. For playin’ a game every young boy in the country is playing for free.” He shook his head. “It’ll never get any crazier than that.”

Saks glanced around nervously. “Mr. Oliver, may I ask a favor? I’d like to speak to you. Privately. As you can imagine, Central Jury is the last place a lawyer on trial is supposed to be. The clerk is a friend, he allowed me in, but I must leave immediately.” He handed Gus his card. “Please, call me. Perhaps we can set up a meeting, at your convenience and at a location of your choosing. But I’m afraid I must ask that it be soon, quite soon.” He leaned downward, lowering his voice. “A woman’s life may well depend on it,” he said.

Gus glanced at the card, then raised his eyes back to Saks’s.

“Well then, guess I don’t have much choice,” he said. “I’ll call you later this evening. How’s five-thirty sound?”

It was six o’clock the following evening. Gus sat at a rear table in The Green Lantern Tavern on Central Islin’s Main Street. Sitting across the red-and-white-checkered tablecloth was Andrew Saks.

“I guess you’re accustomed to more fancy eating than this, Mr. Saks,” Gus said. “As for me, this is my favorite place. Food’s simple and cheap, but very good. I hope you’ll like it.”

“May I call you Gus?” Saks asked. “And I’m Andrew.”

“Sure, Andrew.”

Saks nodded. “Good. And as for The Green Lantern, I grew up in East Patchogue on the South Shore. Real blue-collar town. My dad worked a charter fishing boat for thirty-five years, my mother was a housewife. I think you may have the wrong impression of me.”

Mabel Taylor, owner-operator of The Green Lantern, approached the table, a large serving tray in hand. Balancing the tray on the table’s edge, she placed two sirloins, baked potatoes, and tossed green salads before them.

“Enjoy it, gentlemen,” she said. “More beers?”

Both said yes, and she hurried off to get their drinks. They seasoned their meals and arranged their napkins. After Mabel had left them a second time, Gus, cutting into his steak, spoke casually to Saks.

“Well, Andrew, maybe I have misjudged you. Didn’t know you came from humble beginnings. I figured you for a New York City hot-shot transplant.”

“Nope. Born and raised right on Long Island. Been practicing law here since day one.”

“So,” Gus went on. “What can I do for you? Who is this woman whose life you fear for?”

“She’s a client of mine. Her name is Lily O’Rourke. Are you familiar with the name? It’s been in the papers.”

Gus thought for a moment. “No, it’s not ringing a bell.”

Saks put his utensils down and patted at his lips with the white linen napkin. He cleared his throat before going on.

“Gus, you’re aware of the kind of practice I have — I make quite a good living.” Here he smiled. “Nearly as good as Willie Mays, and I’m not the greatest center fielder in baseball. But here’s something you may not know: I often do pro bono work. Are you familiar with the term?”

“Sure. You take on cases for free.”

“Exactly. When I believe in a defendant’s innocence and I know they can’t afford me. Especially when there are other considerations.”

“Such as?” Gus asked.

“Such as societal pressures — prejudices or preconceived police notions.”

“Is this O’Rourke some kinda victim here, Andrew? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes. She’s a victim of her own past. Lily is fifty-nine years old. O’Rourke is her maiden name. In nineteen twenty-seven, she was known as Lily Cosenza. She was married to Big Dominick Cosenza, a low-level gangster and owner of a speakeasy called The Alimony Prison. Ever hear of it? It was in New York City, Greenwich Village, specifically.”

Gus shook his head. “No, can’t say as I have. Back in those days I was just a young kid doin’ a three-year hitch in the Navy. I did my drinking legal, all over Europe, not in some New York speakeasy.”

“Lily had some shady days back then. In fact, she was the madam of a brothel her husband ran at The Alimony Prison. When Prohibition ended, Mr. Cosenza branched out into other rackets. In nineteen fifty-two, he crossed the wrong man and was shot to death. Lily’s life has been — shall we call it — colorful. Then a couple of years ago, she moved out to the town of Shirley, about fifteen miles east of here. She bought a small cabin and has been making do with local work: supermarkets, clothing stores, things like that. In fact, that’s how I came to be involved. She once worked at a dress shop my wife frequented, and they became somewhat friendly. When Lily was arrested, my wife had me go see her, and after I did, every bit of my experience told me she was innocent. She’s been around, remember: She knows you never lie to your lawyer. Not if you want to win at trial anyway.”

Gus considered it, cutting more steak. Then he raised his eyes to Saks’s. “Unless, of course, she figures she’s better off with you representing her under a false impression than some kid from the public defender’s office with the truth. And, maybe she figures you’d only take the case pro bono if you figured her innocent.” Gus took some steak, chewing it slowly. “You ever consider that angle?”

Saks’s face was impassive, and Gus couldn’t tell for certain, but he strongly suspected that the lawyer had not, in fact, considered it.

After the briefest moment, Saks replied. “Yes. I have, and I’m still convinced she’s not responsible for this murder.”

Gus nodded but remained silent. After a few seconds, Saks leaned closer to Gus, his voice intent as he spoke.

“Lily’s certainly been no angel. God only knows what she’s done in the past. And the police are aware of that. But now she’s all alone in the world, just growing old, barely making ends meet. The police are blinded by her history. I’m telling you, Gus, she’s not guilty. Private investigators, particularly the ones I generally use, are expensive. Lily can’t afford them. I’m willing to do my part with free legal representation, and I’ll even agree to pay you for your time if we can come to a reasonable fee. I know what you’ve done in the recent past, Gus. Two wrongly accused people freed by your efforts, and two murderers brought to justice.” Saks paused, picking up his knife and fork once more. “Will you take a look, Gus? That’s all I’m asking.”

Later that evening, Gus Oliver sat at a desk in the plush law offices of Andrew Saks. Spread before him lay photocopies of Suffolk County Police Department’s file contents relating to the murder of Francis Dermott McAdams. Included were numerous eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-inch photographs of the body, crime scene, and various objects and locations deemed pertinent to the investigations.

On October 7, 1959, some six months earlier, in a heavily wooded area beside a gravel road near the Poospatuck Indian Reservation, within the small Long Island community of Mastic, a man’s body was found. The victim had been shot to death.

County investigators, working with the two-man Mastic Police Department, soon learned that the deceased was a sixty-four-year-old retired New York City police captain, Francis McAdams, who had recently moved to Shirley, a town not far from where the body had been found.

It was later learned that the victim’s house was located less than a quarter-mile from that of another former New York City resident, Lily O’Rourke.

The Suffolk County investigators visited McAdams’ home where, accompanied by Shirley police chief Gene Worthy, they methodically searched the house.

The divorced McAdams had lived alone. Found among his belongings was a thick, battered scrapbook. Curious, Worthy sat at the small kitchen table leafing through the scrapbook, its yellowed, dog-eared press clippings dating from the early nineteen twenties until McAdams’ retirement in 1956.

One series of articles in particular caught the chief’s eye. In 1927, at what had apparently been an infamous and legendary New York speakeasy, thirty-two-year-old McAdams, then a lieutenant, had been involved in a deadly face-to-face shootout with a known associate of Lucky Luciano, thirty-year-old Guiseppe Cataldo Rudialaro, a.k.a. Joe Rudi. The shooting had taken place inside the second-floor brothel of the speakeasy where Rudi served as bouncer. There had been only one eyewitness present: Lily O’Rourke Cosenza, the twenty-seven-year-old wife of the establishment’s owner, Dominick Cosenza.

Chief Worthy quickly turned pages, finding follow-up stories detailing how, after sworn testimony from both McAdams and Lily, the Grand Jury reached its decision: Not only was the shooting deemed justified, but in slaying Joe Rudi, Lieutenant McAdams had saved his own life, and most probably Lily’s. But with careful reading, those same articles hinted at the possibility of a somewhat more sinister and unspecified scenario.

“Hey, Inspector,” Worthy had called. “I think you need to see this.”

As the current investigation continued, it was discovered that Lily had often been seen in McAdams’ company since his recent arrival in Shirley. Inquiries to the New York City Police Department provided details of the checkered, criminally themed life of Lily O’Rourke Cosenza, as well as indications of a somewhat less than noble police career for Francis McAdams.

Tire tracks found in the mud near the body proved unreadable as to tire type or wear but did reveal that the car that left them had a front-wheel track width of 58.0 inches and a rear track of 58.8.

The 1955 four-door Chevrolet Bel Air registered to Lily O’Rourke had identical dimensions.

A search warrant was issued, the car examined carefully, however no forensic evidence was found. A search of Lily’s house turned up two unregistered handguns, a .22 automatic and a snub-nose Colt .38 revolver. Although McAdams had been shot twice with a .38, the recovered bullets did not match Lily’s weapon.

Autopsy indicated the body had been lying in the woods for not less than five, nor more than ten days, and that McAdams had initially been murdered somewhere else and his body merely dumped in the woods. Examinations of both his and Lily’s homes were negative for traces of blood or other forensics.

Gus continued to read through the file, finishing up with a long, detailed report from the New York City police. When he was done, he slipped off his reading glasses and rubbed at his weary eyes.

He needed to meet this Lily O’Rourke.

On Friday morning Gus visited the women’s wing of the Suffolk County jail, Lily O’Rourke sitting opposite him at the table in an interview room. Her matronly prison garb seemed oddly at opposition to her pretty grey eyes and medium-length chestnut hair, only lightly speckled with grey. Despite the slight facial puffiness indicative of a heavy drinker, she was an attractive woman with a touch of sensuality emanating from her. Gus Oliver found it easy to believe that a man in his sixties, such as Andrew Saks, would find Lily alluring and, Gus speculated, perhaps easy to believe.

“So, Gus,” she said, “welcome to the club.”

“The club? Which club is that, Lily?”

She smiled with her answer. “The ‘Let’s help the poor girl get outta jail’ club. I guess if Andrew Saks is the president, you must be second in charge.”

Gus shrugged. “I haven’t joined any club, Lily. Tell you the truth, after reading the case file, I doubt I’ll be applying for membership.”

“Look,” she said, “I’ll tell you what I told Andrew. If they throw me in the gas chamber for this, it’s not exactly Joan of Arc going to the stake, you know? Maybe I even deserve it — hell, I’ve done some hurt in my life. But — if right and wrong mean anything to you, then I’m telling you: I didn’t kill this guy. Twenty years ago, if it became necessary, yeah, maybe I would have. But now I’m fifty-nine years old and all I wanna do is watch Dobie Gillis and Rawhide on TV. If I start missin’ the good old days, maybe I’ll tune into The Untouchables. I watch TV, sip some bourbon, and go to bed. Alone, thank God. No more need to have some hairy ape pawing at me.” She smiled. “No offense.”

Gus nodded. “None taken. So, you’ve made your speech. Want to hear mine?”

“Sure. Case you ain’t noticed, I really got nowhere to go.”

“The way the police see it, you had means, motive, and opportunity. You were seen with the guy plenty, no doubt you knew him. In fact, far as the police can find out, last time he was seen alive he was with you. You own two illegal guns, probably know how to use ’em. Maybe even had a third that’s now at the bottom of Moriches Bay. You’re no stranger to violence or criminal behavior, and it sure was no coincidence that McAdams decided to move out of the city and, of all the places in the world, buy a house close enough to yours he can hit it with a rock. Then there’s the tire tracks. Pretty good match for your Chevy.”

“You maybe want to read that file again, Gus. It should tell you I’m the only person out here he knew. Who else would he have been seen with? And remember, the tracks don’t match, only the track widths match. You know how many Chevys there are on the road?”

“No. Plenty, I guess.”

“Yeah. And the cops don’t even know what date he was killed, so I have no opportunity to alibi myself. And as for motive, I know what the cops say. NYPD told them all the rumors of how I skipped out of New York and dropped Cosenza from my name because I was carrying a ton of mob dough in my pocket, dough I supposedly robbed from the boys. So the cops figure McAdams was crooked and maybe sent out to find me, then decided, ‘What the hell, I’ll just rob the dough from her and skip.’ Or, if the jury don’t like that one, the cops figure they’ll just say McAdams was gonna blackmail me, threaten to tell the goombas where they could find me. So I killed him. Let me ask you something, Gus: How stupid do you figure I am? If I did kill him, don’t you think I’d know the cops would be knockin’ on my door in under twenty-four hours? Hell, I even look good as a suspect to myself. You think I don’t realize that? Believe me, if for some reason I had to kill McAdams, he would have accidentally drowned in his tub or tripped down his staircase or maybe swallowed some pills to end it all. I sure as hell wouldn’t shoot the son of a bitch and dump him two miles from my house.”

Gus pondered it. “According to the reports, when the police first came to see you, you said, ‘Well, what kept you? I’ve been expecting you boys.’”

She nodded. “Yeah. I said that. See, I had no idea McAdams was dead. I just always figured sooner or later the local cops would somehow find out about me and pay a visit. Maybe ask me to get out of town.” Now she smiled. “Or maybe shake me down for some of the millions I’m sitting on.”

“What about this money the New York police say you have?” Gus asked.

She snorted with her answer. “Damn, Gus, you think I’d be ringing up groceries and selling girdles if I had a pile of dough? I never once held a legit job until I kissed the old life goodbye and moved out to these sticks to grow old and die. Hell, I’ve made more money on my back than any ten women you know ever made standing on their feet. And I spent every dime as fast as I made it.”

“That’s it? That’s your answer?”

“Look. After my husband got murdered by the Brooklyn mob, they took over everything, every one of his rackets. And Big Dom Cosenza didn’t believe in stocks and bonds, Gus. Every cent he had was cold, hard cash. You wanna know where that dough is? Go ask Tommy Boy Alfredo in Brooklyn. He’ll tell you where it is: In his back pocket, that’s where. If he thought I was holding out on him, he’da beat the truth out of me and then tossed me in the river.”

Gus thought for a moment. “What about the guns?”

“Twenty-two was a gift,” she said with a shrug. “For my thirtieth birthday from that jackass I was married to. The thirty-eight was his. What should I have done with ’em, tossed them in the trash? Given ’em to the cops? When I walked away from everything, I just put them in my suitcase.”

“How do you explain McAdams moving out here? Did you tell him where you were?”

“No. Last thing I wanted was a man around.” She gave Gus a wink. “But, since I’m being honest, that’s a fairly recent concept for me. See, back in the day, I’d always be stringing two, maybe three guys along. I had a big appetite. Francis McAdams was just one of those men. After Dom was killed, Francis started coming around again, but I short-circuited any idea of picking up our affair. So, he gets divorced and starts thinking about me. I was the kind of dame a guy tends to remember. He tracks me down and moves out here. Stupid bastard brought me roses the first night he knocked on my door.” She shook her head. “I might have been happy to see him if it was a quart of Wild Turkey.” She curled her lips. “Roses,” she said dismissively.

Gus stood up. “Okay, Lily. I’ll be in touch. Or may Andrew will be.”

She smiled up at him, her grey eyes twinkling. “Well, now, ain’t that the smoothest brush-off I ever got.”

“Not sure yet, Lily,” Gus said. “I need to nose around some, make a few calls. We’ll see.”

“Maybe you believe me?”

“Lily,” he said, his voice cold, “I figure I’m standing in the shoes of a whole bunch of men who maybe believed you. And that might not be the smartest place to be standin’.”

She laughed out loud. “Damn, Gus, I like you. Refreshing change from the morons I spent most of my life around.” She let her smile fade, and her eyes grew sad. “I understand, Gus,” she said. “Whichever way it goes, I’ll understand.”

Late that same afternoon, Gus sat in Andrew Saks’s office.

“So, Gus,” the lawyer asked. “What have you learned with all your phone calls?”

Gus kept his face neutral with his reply.

“General Motors’ legal department told me almost eight hundred thousand nineteen fifty-five Bel Airs were sold new. All with the exact same track measurements. Plus, well over a million more GMs, Fords, Chryslers, Ramblers, and Studebakers had the same or damn near same measurements. The NYPD Internal Affairs tell me Francis McAdams was always known as a shady policeman. Nothing ever proven, but he seemed to have mob ties dating back to that long-ago shooting at The Alimony Prison.”

“I know that,” Saks replied.

“Seems to me,” Gus went on, “this is one hell of a circumstantial case against Lily.”

“Yes, it is. But it’s perfectly legal to convict on circumstantial evidence. And as you know, Suffolk County juries consist of farmers, fishermen, housewives, tradesmen, and small-business owners. How do you think they’ll react to a lurid tale involving a gun moll and brothel madam who came out here from New York City and murdered a crooked cop and God knows what else?”

“Well, now, one of my two sons is a lawyer. I assume you tried to suppress Lily’s past from being heard by a jury?”

“Of course. But her relationship with McAdams goes back at least thirty-three years. The judge agreed with the prosecutor — it’s all very relevant to motive and, therefore, admissible.”

“Andrew, you may be up against it here. Tell you the truth, I’m not sure why you’re so convinced she’s innocent.”

“Gus, I’ve met thousands of people in trouble. My hunches are rarely wrong.” Here he gave Gus a smile. “That jury you were screened for, the drug case. Those two boys hadn’t been in this office two full minutes before I knew they were guilty. I believe you came to the same conclusion simply by looking around the courtroom.”

Gus nodded. “Yes. But that sort of thing can be a two-edged sword. I bet the police are convinced, based on their gut feeling, that Lily is guilty. That could lead to a little ‘creative’ testimony from them at the trial. That’s one reason the law requires more than gut feelings. The law requires proof. And, to tell the truth, I need a little myself. Proof she’s not a murderer.”

“I understand, Gus. Have you learned anything else?”

“Weather Bureau says there was a lot of rain in late September and early October. The body was found October seventh and had been there five to ten days. The crime-scene photos show tire tracks made in very muddy ground, so sloppy muddy the treads couldn’t be effectively cast. What I’m thinkin’ is, why would someone drive off a nice solid gravel road and risk getting stuck in the mud with a dead body in their trunk? Why not just dump the body at the side of the road and drive away? The police think it was because Lily wanted the body hidden in the woods and wasn’t strong enough to wrestle it outta the car and drag it thirty yards to where it was found, so she drove her Chevy in closer.”

“Or,” Saks offered, “as I intend to argue, those muddy tracks were made before or even after the body was left. By a hunter or a couple of teenage lovers. Made by one of those two million or so other vehicles with the same front and rear track measurements.”

“Yeah,” Gus said. “Maybe. And maybe the real killer did leave his car on the gravel road and did drag the body into the woods, with all telltale signs of it washed away by rain.”

“Exactly.”

Gus sat silently, thinking. After a moment, he raised his eyes back to Saks. “Can you call Suffolk PD? Arrange for me to have access to both Lily’s and McAdams’ places? I’d like to nose around some.”

Saks reached to his intercom. “Agnes,” he said when his secretary responded. “Get me Inspector Clarelli, Suffolk County Police.”

“Yes, Mr. Saks.”

Saks smiled at Gus. “I’ve got a good feeling here, Gus. Very good.”

The next morning, Saturday, March fifth, was crisp and clear, the moist, salty Long Island air stirring the senses. Gus Oliver slowly drove his powder-blue 1959 Edsel north on Central Islin’s Main Street. Just past Dominick’s Shoe Repair, he swung the long hood of the car into a perpendicular parking spot in front of the Optimo Tobacco and Candy Shop.

“Hello, Fred,” he said as he entered.

“Morning, Gus,” the man answered from behind the counter. “Where’s little Joey? Ain’t it time for your usual Saturday mornin’ breakfast together over at the drugstore?”

Gus shrugged. “Not this week, Fred. I had to disappoint my grandson. Got some errand I need to run.”

“Too bad. What can I get you?”

Gus reached for his wallet. “A ten-pack of Polaroid film for my 80A Highlander.”

Leaving, Gus turned the Edsel south and drove out of town. After passing Eddie’s Texaco station, he turned east onto Motor Parkway. The powerful V-8 sped him quickly to the small rural community of Shirley.

When he arrived at Lily O’Rourke’s four-room cabin, he was met by Shirley Police Chief Gene Worthy.

“Seems to me, Gus, it oughta be Chief Carson from over in Mastic handlin’ this,” Worthy said. “After all, the body was found in his town. Not mine.”

Gus smiled as he took the house keys from Worthy. “Yeah, well, that’s sure enough true, Gene. But seems like you got him outnumbered some, what with the suspect and the victim from right here in your town.”

Worthy snorted. “Damn, Gus, they’re two city folk. Got no more to do with this here place than the emperor of China.”

Later, with no discernible evidence in hand, the two men left the cabin.

“McAdams’ place is close enough to walk,” Gus said, and they strode along narrow, tree-lined Heston Street.

The late Francis McAdams’ house was considerably larger than Lily’s cabin. It was well set back from the road on a heavily treed three-quarter-acre lot. The structure sat on unlandscaped, natural grounds, a blue gravel driveway leading to a weathered garage. An old, unused outhouse was visible some sixty feet behind the house, its door hanging loosely on one hinge. Gus and Worthy climbed the five front steps of the house and crossed the sagging boards of the covered front porch. Gus unlocked the door.

“Waste of time, you ask me,” Chief Worthy said. “The county boys been all over this house, same as the woman’s. Anything of value, they already found. I’ll take my oath on that.”

Gus looked around the darkened foyer. “Well, now, Gene, that most surely is true. But I’d kinda like to cast my eyes around some anyway. You never know.”

Worthy shrugged. “If you don’t mind, Gus, I’d just as soon be on my way. You can drop both sets of keys at my office after you’re done. I can’t see wastin’ my Saturday pokin’ around in a dead man’s house when the murderer is already locked up.”

Gus nodded. “Suit yourself.”

Worthy turned to leave. “Just give the keys to my deputy. If he ain’t there, toss ’em on the desk. Guess they’ll be safe enough.” He shook Gus’s hand and left.

Much later, Gus exited the rear of the house and gazed around the expanse of land surrounding the back porch. The property was bordered by thick woods, early buds beginning to sprout on some of the mockernut hickory trees. Gus’s eyes fell upon the abandoned outhouse. He stepped off the porch deck and crossed to it.

After a cursory examination of the dank, cobwebbed interior, Gus closed the door and turned away. His eyes fell on the woods to his left, at the very rear of the property. There, where wild shrubbery met the property line, the nearly obscured opening of an old, long-unused footpath was visible. Gus’s eyes narrowed as he gazed at it.

Born and raised on the rural, pristine lands of Long Island, Gus had spent many childhood hours exploring the woods, streams, and lakes surrounding his hometown of Central Islin. He had learned something as a very young boy: A path in the woods always led to somewhere. A tadpole-and-frog-laden pond, a clear, cool-water swimming hole, a shimmering crystal stream, or a scary, haunted-looking hunter’s cabin. Somewhere.

Gus crossed the property, noting the remnants of an old-fashioned, homemade cinder-block barbeque pit now choked with weeds. It seemed identical to the one he recalled behind his grandfather’s old green-and-white bungalow on Connetquot Avenue.

Smiling with his memories, Gus set out onto the path, following its meander for some hundred feet through the woods. The path was heavily overgrown, having not seen regular use in many years; Gus reasoned it dated back to the days when this house and property had most likely served a growing family. As he neared the end of the path, his suspicions were further confirmed. Some twenty feet above him appeared the remains of a roughly built treehouse, constructed from differing sizes and types of lumber, the skeletal remains forming a rough triangle amidst three ancient oak trees. The lumber was mostly rotted away, dangling in some places from large, heavily rusted ten-penny nails.

Gus stood there looking upward at the sight for long moments. Long ago, as a boy, he and his cousin had built just such a treehouse. Their constant foot traffic to and from that treehouse had created a path through the woods very similar to the one where he now stood.

Glancing around one final time, he noticed something else. A few more yards ahead, the woods seemed to open up. He followed the path a bit farther.

An old dirt lane, heavily rutted and about ten feet wide, ran parallel to the rear of the McAdams property. Its existence did not surprise Gus. Long Island was veined with many such lanes, none of which appeared on road maps. They served the hunting blinds and trout streams, fishing holes and hidden copses of hardwood trees that provided locals with firewood for long, snowy winters.

Most had originally been cut through the woods as fire breaks and access routes for local fire-district volunteers. In the event of a wildfire, the lanes allowed pumper trucks and personnel to get in close to fight the flames.

Gus had seen many such lanes in his lifetime and knew they always intersected with main roadways. Much like the narrow, winding footpath he had just trod, the narrow dirt lanes always led somewhere.

Glancing around, he saw a flat expanse of grassy area bordering the lane. It was some fifteen feet long and just wide enough to accommodate an automobile.

He ambled over to it. Unlike the badly rutted lane itself, this patch of flat, weed-strewn grass had once been pristine. But now, as Gus frowned down at it, his eyes narrowing in thought, it was not.

Cut into the flat ground were what seemed to be a set of tire tracks. Though worn and weathered from months of exposure, they remained quite visible. Under the warm March sun, the tracks were dried out but appeared to have been originally cut at a time when the ground had been soft and muddied.

Gus recalled the weather-bureau information he had gathered: Around the time of the murder, there had been an abundant accumulation of rain.

Something about the tracks seemed very odd to Gus, and he bent to one knee for a closer look. After thirty years of policing, he had seen his share of crime-scene tire tracks. But nothing quite like these.

Based on dried remnants of sprayed mud, Gus was able to identify the vehicle’s drive wheels. But, as he knew, a car had only one drive wheel, either left or right rear, depending on car make and model. The spray pattern he was looking at indicated two drive wheels, not just one. And even more perplexing, they each appeared to turn in unison as front-steer wheels do. The mud splatter fanned out to the left in a broad, semicircular pattern. The way Gus read the tracks, the car had first pulled off the lane and onto the clearing, then at some point had accelerated sharply away, spinning its wheels forcefully and spraying grass-clumped mud some ten feet into the low-lying surrounding brush. But the drive wheels appeared to be at the front of the vehicle — the steering wheels, not the fixed rear wheels.

Gus examined the rear tire tracks. They sat slightly inside the front tracks, indicating a narrower rear track width, and no mud spray was visible. Gus, still kneeling, scratched at his head. If it had been a four-wheel-drive vehicle, such as a Jeep, all four wheels would have sprayed mud. But that clearly wasn’t the case here. So what else could possibly explain drive wheels which also steered the car?

Gus stood slowly thinking. It was a long shot at best that these tracks had anything to do with the McAdams case. But, by the same token, someone had parked here, and someone had left in a pretty damn big hurry.

That someone had driven a unique vehicle. One Gus had never come across before, one potentially easy to identify.

And that vehicle surely needed identifying. Gus turned to the path, heading to his car, still parked at Lily’s place. He needed the Polaroid camera and measuring stick from his tool case.

When Gus arrived at Eddie’s Texaco and Repair Shop in Central Islin, he parked and walked across the oil-stained concrete to the Bell System phone booth nestled at the side of the repair bay. He deposited a dime and dialed the Central Islin Police Department. His friend, Chief Bill Carters, answered.

Gus quickly filled him in, then got to the point. “I need you to take a look at the county aerial photograph survey maps, Bill. Specifically, the town of Shirley. Just east of the six hundred block of Heston Road there’s a dirt lane that don’t show up on any street maps. I need to know if it leads to anything and where it hits main paved roadways. Can you do that for me?”

“Sure, Gus. You figure this is important, do ya?”

“Could be. We’ll see. Check it out, then call me back. I’m over at Eddie’s Texaco. I need his opinion on somethin’.”

“Okay. Call you back A-Sap.”

Sitting behind the station’s grease-stained counter beside an ornate and ancient NCR cash register, Eddie Jacobs bent and carefully studied the six Polaroid photos Gus had placed before him. With a musty oil-and-gasoline tinged odor touching at his nostrils, Gus spoke up.

“Tell me, Eddie: What the hell does that look like to you?”

The mechanic shrugged. “Tire marks in dried-out mud. What’s it supposed to look like?”

Gus pointed. “Take a look at that spray pattern. See where it appears to be coming from? The front of the car — and from both wheels. And look, see how those two wheels turn, steer the car out off that lane-side cutaway and out onto the lane itself? Now, how in the hell is that possible?”

Eddie studied the photos once more. “Well, it ain’t a four-wheeler, like a Jeep or a Dodge Power Wagon. See here, the rear wheels are just followin’ along meek-like. They don’t appear to have spit out any mud.”

“No, and they both track straight, they’re fixed, that’s how I know they’re rear wheels. If they were the drive wheels, they’da sprayed mud straight back, not fanned out in an arc pattern like those steer wheels did. But there’s no dried spray to the rear.”

Eddie nodded. “Yeah, sounds about right. So what you need me for, Gus? Seems you got it all figured.”

Gus shook his head. “I been drivin’ since I first snuck my granddaddy’s Model 20 Hupmobile outta the barn when I was ten years old. I never once seen a vehicle could put down tracks like these.”

Eddie squared the photos into a neat pile with his permanently oil-stained right hand and gave them back to Gus. “No, I don’t figure you woulda, ’cause the vehicle that left them tracks was a front-wheel driver. Back in the thirties, Cord made a few front drivers. Built ’em upstate somewheres. They only lasted a coupla years and cost as much as a damn Cadillac. See, Cord figured front drivers was gonna be the next big thing, but hell, who wants a car with the front wheels drivin’ and steerin’ it? Makes steerin’ real tough, like drivin’ a damn snowplow.” He shrugged. “You’ll never see them again, Gus. Not in this country, anyways.”

Gus thought for a moment. “What do you mean, not in this country?”

Eddie, a World War II veteran who had served as a motor-pool sergeant, shrugged again. “Well, now, when I was over in France, I come into possession of an old Citroën. French-built car, real piece a crap and the ugliest machine on God’s green earth. But it beat walkin’, so me and a buddy of mine fixed that old car up, got it runnin’ again. It drove even worse’n it looked, real bad heavy feel to the steerin’, ‘torque-steer’ we called it, felt like drivin’ a bulldozer.” Here he paused, smiling. “Served us pretty well with a coupla local Frenchie gals, though, as I recall. Far as I know, Citroëns are still front drive.”

Gus dug a slip of paper from his pocket. “I measured the front and rear track widths best I could. Front track is wide, close to sixty inches. Rear track is a lot narrower, more like fifty, fifty-one. That mean anything to you?”

Eddie screwed up his lips as he replied. “Now I can’t say certain, but the Cord was a pretty big car. That rear track seems way too narrow for a Cord. Hell, a Ford Fairlane has a wider rear track than that.”

“Yeah,” Gus said. “And a Chevy Bel Air, too.”

The phone rang. It was Chief Carters calling for Gus.

“That’s a fire-break lane, Gus, for the South Haven Fire District. It runs parallel to Heston Road for a ways, eventually meets up with the Sunrise Highway on the north, County Road Eighty on the south. It just serves as access in case a wildfire breaks out. It doesn’t actually go anywhere.”

“County Road Eighty goes somewhere,” Gus said, more to himself than to Carters. “Goes straight to the Poospatuck Indian Reservation where the body was found.” After a slight pause he asked, “Where exactly does it hit Eighty, Bill?”

There was a pause as Carters rustled with maps, looking. “Quarter-mile east of the Strandvold farm near Clifford Road.”

Gus nodded. “Okay, thanks. I’ll be in touch.”

He turned back to Eddie. “You seen any Cords around lately? Any Citroëns?”

“Hell, no, Gus. You lookin’ for a Cord, you better start in the museums or the junkyards. And Citroën? Nobody around here is fool enough to buy a foreign-built car, ’specially one looks like a torpedo comin’ at you backwards.”

“Any other front-wheel drivers you know of?”

“I never hearda none, but I can’t say sure. Now that I’m thinking about it, Citroën mighta invented front drive. Back before Cord, even.”

“Thanks, Eddie. You’ve been a big help.”

“My pleasure. And just so’s you know, it’s been awhile since your last tune-up and oil change. You better take care of that Edsel of yours, Gus. Keep it runnin’ till you get your money’s worth out of it. You’ll never be able to sell it to anyone else, that’s for sure.”

On Monday morning, Gus Oliver waited as the head librarian of the Lake Ronkonkoma library unlocked its front door. He gave her a few minutes to get settled, then made his inquiry.

Two hours later, surrounded by piles of back issues of Hemmings Motor News, Gus had the information he sought.

The last Cord automobile had been built in 1937, some twenty-three years ago. Because of Lily O’Rourke’s speakeasy background, Gus had reasoned that, despite Eddie Jacobs’ “museum” remark, there could very well be a fancy old car involved here somehow.

But further investigation had shown that, as Eddie had suspected, the Cord would not have left such a narrow rear track.

Instead, certain Citroëns available in the U.S. bore a front track width of 59.1 inches and a rear track of 51.7, nearly identical to the approximate dimensions Gus had taken behind the McAdams house.

And the Citroën was very expensive, priced higher than a top-of-the-line Lincoln or Cadillac.

Combining its foreign nature, unique front-wheel-drive configuration, and modest styling with its steep purchase price, United States Citroën sales figures had been very low. In fact, without available automatic transmission or power steering, it was unlikely that upscale Americans would purchase such a vehicle in any meaningful quantities, even despite the fact that both Frank Sinatra and Lucille Ball had recently done so.

If the vehicle that had lurked behind the McAdams place had indeed transported the murderer, it was very possible that Gus could eventually identify that murderer by first identifying the vehicle itself.

Later, at the law offices of Andrew Saks, Gus gathered the notes he had compiled from working the telephone and entered Saks’s private office. He took a seat opposite the lawyer at the wide, polished desk.

“There are only two Citroën dealers in the whole country. One is out in Los Angeles. The other is at 300 Park Avenue, New York City. According to the sales manager at the New York office, since the cars were introduced in the U.S., they’ve only sold a couple hundred of ’em. A lot of those were shipped to buyers in the snow-belt areas. Apparently this here front-wheel-drive thing gives a vehicle much better traction in the snow. Second-largest sales volume is in L.A., thanks to a few celebrities settin’ a trend. For models matching the track widths we have here, only twenty-two have been sold in the New York metropolitan area.”

Saks nodded. “Did you arrange for a list of buyers to be sent to us?”

“The guy wouldn’t go for it. Said he’d have to check with his legal department first. He did tell me one thing, though: Nobody from Long Island has ever bought one from him.”

“And you really feel this can be important, Gus?” Saks asked.

“I do. It’s a long shot, sure, but to tell you the truth, it seemed a long shot Lily was innocent in this to start with. The way I see it now, this was a pretty sloppy job if she did do it. Hell, the police went straight to her. But if she didn’t do it, then what have we got? A clean shooting, no forensic evidence, no known motive or suspect, nothing. Now if McAdams was a crooked cop, like it seems, maybe a pro killed him. Somebody tied to that New York mob stuff. They probably don’t know or care that Lily lives out here. Somebody tracked McAdams down specifically to kill him.”

“That’s highly speculative, Gus.”

Gus nodded. “Okay. Then plead her guilty and try to cut a deal to keep her out of the gas chamber. I’ve got nothin’ else.”

Saks pondered it. “What do you need me to do?”

“Get me that list of buyers from the Citroën dealer in the city. Get a court order from Judge Maull if you have to. We go over the list, show it to Lily and the New York police, see if a name jumps out at anybody. At the least, this buys us some time. Maybe Maull will agree to a continuance on jury selection. Push the trial back some. Then, if this hunch of mine turns out wrong, we’ll still have time to look for another angle.”

Andrew Saks smiled. “Gus, maybe it’s you who should have been an attorney instead of your son. I like the way you think.”

He reached for his intercom button.

“Agnes,” he said to his secretary. “Please get me Judge Robert Basil Maull on the phone. It’s quite urgent.”

“So,” Gus said to Lily O’Rourke. “What I’m thinkin’ is, some pro comes out from the city. He drives around, cases the area. Probably at night and while it’s raining. Not many people notice that car he’s drivin’. He finds the fire lane running behind the McAdams place, sees it leads out to Route Eighty and that nice, quiet deserted area around the Indian reservation. So he goes back to McAdams’ place, parks on the side of the dirt lane next to that footpath through the woods. He knows no one has reason to be on that rutted lane at night, especially with all the rain. See, people drivin’ rear-wheel-drive cars more’n likely would be afraid of gettin’ stuck in the mud. But the killer — he’s got front drive, he’s not worried ’bout any mud. So he somehow gets into the house, maybe just knocks on the door and McAdams opens up. The killer shoves a gun in his face, walks him out to the Citroën, and shoots him. Then he drives to the Poospatuck Reservation. Once he gets there, he can’t afford to leave any tire tracks near the body, so he parks his car on the gravel roadway and drags McAdams’ body into the woods. The only tire tracks that are found are the unrelated ones in the dirt near the woods, and they just happen to match your Chevy. Along with a coupla million other cars.”

Lily smiled. “So you do believe me, eh, Gus?” Her grey eyes twinkled in the harsh lighting of the jail’s interview room.

Gus hesitated before responding. “Let’s call it givin’ you the benefit of reasonable doubt. Believe is kind of a strong word.”

“Well, hell, Gus, at my age, with these damn crow’s feet, I’ll take whatever I can get from a man, I guess.” She let the easiness of her tone fade when next she spoke. “So after he dumps the body, he disappears. Just a big coincidence that I get my tail caught up in it.”

“Yeah,” Gus said. “Maybe. But it seems to line up pretty good. The killer dumps the body, retraces his route back down that fire lane, a pitch-dark, deserted, muddy road through the woods, nice and private. He follows it out to the Sunrise Highway and drives right back to the city.”

“Okay,” Lily said. “What do you need me to look at?”

Gus opened the manila envelope he had placed on the table and extracted the single sheet of paper it held. He turned it to face her and slid it across the table.

“That’s a list of Citroën buyers in New York. Take a look at it. Tell me if a name strikes you.”

It only took a few seconds before Lily looked up, smiling, the twinkle back in her eye. She suddenly looked far younger than her fifty-nine years, Gus thought. Hell, she looked younger than him.

“Well, well,” she said happily. “If it isn’t Liam Behan. A brogue-prattling Irishman ex-cop drivin’ a sissy-ass French car. Imagine that?”

Gus Oliver raised his glass of Pabst Blue Ribbon in toast to Andrew Saks.

“Here’s to the system, Counselor,” he said. “It may not be perfect, but it’s the best one anybody’s come up with so far.”

Saks raised his own glass, smiling. “Yes, it is. And to Gus Oliver. Nice piece of work, Gus. Very nice.”

They sat in silence as Mabel Taylor placed The Green Lantern Tavern’s blue-plate dinner special before them: roast pork loin, gravy, mashed potatoes, and spinach. When she left, Gus spoke up.

“We got lucky.” He turned to the third man at the table, Central Islin Police Chief Bill Carters.

“See, Bill,” Gus said, “that guy Liam Behan. He was a partner of McAdams when they were both cops. Went way back to the twenties together. Matter of fact, the night McAdams shot that bouncer in The Alimony Prison, Behan was second in charge of the raiding party. Once the Suffolk PD investigators checked Behan out, they learned he and McAdams were suspected of working dozens of shady deals together. They poked around deeper and learned that when McAdams retired and left the city, rumor was he disappeared with money that was half Behan’s, proceeds from their illicit schemes. Judge Maull issued a search warrant, and the NYPD turned up blood traces in the trunk of Behan’s Citroën. Not much, but enough to get a type match to McAdams.”

Carters cut into his pork. “So Lily’s off the hook?”

Saks answered. “Well, the judge is weighing my motion to dismiss. First he has to decide if he’ll release her from jail pending a full review. We’ll see. But it looks very promising. And there’s more. You see, two handguns were registered to Behan, both thirty-eights. One was a service revolver from his days on the force. He claims to have sold it when he retired and misplaced the buyer’s information. But he didn’t figure on something. He used that same gun in a fatal police shooting in nineteen fifty. He killed a known gambler, allegedly in self-defense at the time. Internal Affairs had some suspicion it was actually a contract killing for the mob. As a result, they preserved all the evidence. Ballistics on Behan’s bullet was still on file. They matched it to the two slugs taken from McAdams’ body. Case closed.”

Carters shook his head, chewing slowly. “Well, if Judge Maull is satisfied Lily wasn’t in on it, he can dismiss the charges.”

Gus sipped his beer. “Actually, the county prosecutor has some say too. But I’d say, yeah. She’s in the clear. She walks.”

He ate some spinach, then sipped more Pabst. Reaching for a freshly baked biscuit, he smiled across to Saks.

“Still, after meeting Lily... well, a man’s gotta wonder some. Know what I mean, Counselor?”

Copyright © 2012 by Lou Manfredo