Masquerade for Murder

Chapter Twelve

Years ago, when Velda went missing and I was on the hunt, I had headed out to find an upstate farmhouse where she might be held. The only difference this time was the daylight I was driving in, though the grayness overhead all but cancelled that out, the rain coming right at me at a discouraging slant, my wipers working overtime.

At the office, Velda had gathered some info for me from a policewoman contact. A mugshot of Harold D. Strutt, 38, was faxed over to us and gave us what’s what on our man. Strutt had done two terms at Sing Sing, one for armed robbery, another for breaking and entering; several arrests on various charges had not been brought to trial. He was twice divorced with three kids and had been flagged as a deadbeat dad.

I turned off Palisades Drive and caught the Throughway, my Ford heap plowing through rain for over an hour before I swung off again, taking 17K into Newburgh. I went on to Marlboro before stopping outside the city limits at a filling station to ask the way to Harry Strutt’s farmhouse.

The attendant was young and had no idea, but he yelled at an older guy who might know, who came over to give me directions.

He had a deeply grooved face and white hair with a burr haircut, and I just knew he was ex-military, the right age for my war. I wondered what hell he’d gone through only to wind up pumping gas and checking oil. Or maybe he owned the place, and the American dream had worked out for him.

He was looking at me funny, a warrior’s nasty grin in that wrinkled puss. “What do you want with Strutt?”

“It’s your business?”

“No. No. It’s just... he’s awful popular today, for somebody that nobody around here cares for much.”

“Why’s that?”

“He’s a drinker and a bragger and he gets into fights just for the hell of it.”

“You don’t say.”

His nod was slow. “He’s no farmer. Just been rentin’ out that way, last year or so. If you’re his friend, I mean no offense. If you’re lookin’ for him for your own reasons... I just figured you might like the skinny.”

That seemed a funny thing for him to say. Then he said something not funny at all.

“You know, you’re the third... interestin’ feller who stopped here to ask directions out to Strutt’s today.”

I chuckled. “By ‘interesting’ you wouldn’t happen to mean ‘lowlife,’ by any chance?”

His white gas-station uniform was as crisp as his smile was rumpled; both he and his jumpsuit were protected by the canopy over the pumps.

“I recognize you from the papers, Hammer. You’re no lowlife. What I would call the boys who stopped for directions... each in his own vehicle over a kinda staggered bit of time today... is hardcases.”

“Like me?”

His grinned was stained. “I don’t think any other hardcase is quite like you, Hammer. Should I check the paper out tomorrow, you think?”

“Maybe. But sometimes interesting stories fall through the cracks.”

“Like interestin’ fellers do?”

“Like interesting fellers do... sometimes. If I handed you a five-spot, would you be offended?”

“Damn straight I would. I’m the owner. I catch any of my help takin’ a tip, I kick ’em in the ass.”

“I bet you do.” I gave him a little salute, which he returned with that rumpled smile, and pulled into the rain, which was getting more insistent.

The third farmhouse after I took the blacktop into the country had the STRUTT mailbox. Neighbors seemed spaced pretty far apart out here. I slowed a little for a look. A silo and a barn indicated somebody was farming this land, though apparently not the rental resident of the big, rambling, ramshackle house, white faded to gray. A long gravel drive bordered on one side by trees and on the other by indifferently tended grass widened into an apron, where four cars were parked close to a covered front porch.

I drove perhaps half a mile before tucking the Ford into a cornfield’s access, rows of dried brown stalk stumps dripping and leaves shuddering under what was now a near downpour.

For a while, I just sat there. The rain drummed on the roof of the car, steadily, like a drum and bugle corps minus the horns. Thunder would rumble, then roar, and lightning would light up the cornfield, where those leaves seemed to shiver in fear.

What was going on back there?

What could be going on?

My hunch was that Harry Strutt was part of that bank robbery crew, and this was a planning session. But the hardcases who stopped one at a time at that filling station had needed to find out how to get to Strutt’s. Curiouser and curiouser, somebody said.

If Strutt was part of the heist crew, why did they need directions to his place?

What if, now that Kraft was on a morgue slab, they needed a new driver, and Kraft’s pal Strutt had been elected? Thal Lockhart had indicated Strutt was a stunt driver, too.

The rain kept up its rhythm and I just sat there wondering whether to dance or go home. Come back another time, maybe. Or sit it out and wait till Strutt’s guests took their leave...

After all, the bank heist crew, if that’s who these cars belonged to, was not the point of my country sojourn — talking to Strutt was; the goal was getting him to own up to training Vincent Colby for that hit-and-run farce.

What did rounding up some (presumed) bank robbers have to do with the job at hand? Not a damn thing.

But I was an officer of the court, wasn’t I? Didn’t I have a responsibility to check this out and, if my assumptions about them were right, haul their sorry asses in?

Still, I sat there for maybe fifteen minutes sorting through my several shitty options, waiting for the rain to let up, which it never did. I prepared to brave the storm. Should I ditch the raincoat, to give myself more freedom of movement, and maybe leave the porkpie fedora on, to keep at least a little of the rain off me? Out of my eyes, anyway?

But I left the raincoat on, and of course the hat, with the brim down all the way round, and walked down the blacktop with my 1911 Colt .45 in my right-hand raincoat pocket, my left hand gathering the lapels of the coat as tight and protective as I could manage. The only break I got from God or nature or somebody was that I wasn’t walking straight into the rain — it was at my back, and actually seemed to be prodding me, pushing me along.

When I turned down the gravel lane, I veered off along the tree line. That sheltered me somewhat from the downpour, and from getting much water in my eyes for that matter. A whipcrack of lightning would occasionally light the landscape up in momentary white.

When I got closer, I saw that the cars were recent models, their beautiful paint jobs pearled with raindrops — a Chrysler Conquest, a Corvette, a Mustang GT, a Firebird. Parked alongside the house was an older model Camaro — Strutt’s ride, probably.

This might mean the veteran thieves, with their successful run of bank knockovers, were spending money like they won the lottery. On the other hand, the vintage car might indicate Strutt wasn’t part of the crew yet, or at least was its newest member — driving a Camaro ten years older than these ’88 models his visitors had arrived in.

At the end of the stand of trees, I paused, my left hand still clutching the raincoat collars tight, wondering what my next move should be.

Knock?

And when Strutt answered the door, with his guests hiding out somewhere, upstairs maybe, give the guy a story and talk myself inside? But Harry just might recognize his unexpected guest — from my notoriety in the media, or maybe knowing I was involved in the Vincent Colby affair. I was the guy who found his pal Roger Kraft’s body, after all.

Or, hell — when he answered, I could just shoulder in with my gun, ready for whatever might happen!

Neither was much of a plan. Strutt could come to the door with a gun at the ready himself, and his guests could be nearby, also armed and poised to respond. I would never get across the threshold without assembling an impressive collection of slugs of various calibers in assorted locations in my body.

The sun was up there somewhere, but you’d never know it, the growly grayness invaded by swarming black clouds turning late afternoon into near midnight. And the yellow glow from the windows said the lights were only on toward the front of the house, and along one window on this side of the house, at the rear.

I did some recon.

Moving quickly, staying low, hugging the house as best as I could, keeping below the windows, I made my way around the entire structure. Finally I sneaked up onto the typical farmhouse front porch, happy to get out of the rain. The windows were tall with curtains that didn’t quite meet, allowing me to peek in.

The living room was sparsely furnished in a bachelor pad style not suited to the age of the house or its somewhat rundown condition. An overhead light fixture was dim, and an end table lamp didn’t add much. Riding a wall was a velvet painting based on a Playboy centerfold, and hugging that same wall was a projection TV.

No humans present, not even loosely defined.

The only illumination elsewhere was in the kitchen — from a window alongside the rear of the house I could get a low view, looking up, of some appliances and cupboards. And I could hear talk in there, normal levels of speech made murmurs by the pounding rain and occasional thunder. Taking off my hat, I risked standing on tiptoe and doing the window-peeking bit for a few seconds, getting a quick but complete eyeful before ducking back down.

Slamming the porkpie back on, wiping the rain rivulets from my face, I took stock of what I’d seen.

Five men were seated at a round table in a cramped kitchen, including the host, who looked older than his mugshot — though his back was to me, he was talking to the guy next to him. Strutt had dark hair with a pony tail and a scruffy beard, and wore a black wife-beater t-shirt that showed off muscle-builder biceps.

Next to Harry was a medium-size, mustached, hair-gelled guy who thought he was handsome and was wrong, decked out in a green sweater vest, pointy-collared blue shirt and a floral thing that was a scarf suffering under the delusion that it was a tie.

Next door was a skinny, balding, droopily mustached guy, in a well-worn denim jacket and shiny yellow shirt. He had only the barest excuse for a chin. He was smoking a cigarette.

Beside him sat an older guy, tiny-eyed and sporting a Moe Howard haircut, a little heavy, in a suit and tie — probably the leader. Or maybe the Moe resemblance made me assume that. He was smoking, too — a cheroot.

Next, and to my far left as I’d peeked in, was a big burly guy who was obviously the muscle, a blunt-featured butch-haircut dope who was going Miami Vice with a pink jacket over a pastel blue t-shirt that said, you guessed it, Miami Vice.

Spread out before them like a not-quite-big-enough tablecloth was a large hand-drawn map in magic marker. I couldn’t be sure from the gander I got, but I would bet it was of the layout of a bank.

That was the heist crew, all right.

I risked popping up for another look and got more confirmation.

The not-handsome guy had a .38 in front of him near a bottle of Hamm’s, the denim jacket chinless guy had a nine mil near a can of Bud and an ashtray, the Moe haircut bozo a .22 Ruger by a coffee cup, and the Miami Vice dope, who was drinking a Diet Coke, had a leather strap running under prominent pecs that indicated a shoulder holster.

A lot of firepower.

But nobody knew I was here, and a .45 held eight rounds — of course, I only loaded in seven these days, since Velda insisted that resting the hammer on a live round is a really bad idea. With five men at that table, that still gave a spare two rounds... and an extra clip in my left-hand pocket.

Four steps led up to the back door, which opened right onto the kitchen. If it unlocked, I’d be in good shape. I could walk right in and say hello. But if it was locked, I just might wind up dead.

So I considered alternate ways in.

They say it’s better to be lucky than smart, and I was lucky enough to discover that the storm cellar doors were unlocked. I opened one side and slipped in, shut it behind me and then lingered on the wooden steps. Sat on one briefly. I got my mini-Maglite out and had a look around the cellar. Not much of anything — it was a hard dirt floor and not great for storage, but there were a few boxes anyway. A beat-up washer and drier. A furnace dating to the Eisenhower administration.

Also stairs that seemed positioned to open onto or near the kitchen.

I abandoned the sopped hat to the dirt floor, the raincoat, too.

Soon I was heading up those stairs, my trusty gum soles on the old wooden stairs making very little noise — no more creaks and squeaks than the average mouse, and anyway it was probably rats down here.

And above.

With my Maglite switched off and tucked away, the .45 in my fist led the way. When I got to the top step, I was breathing a little hard — not fatigue, adrenalin — and I paused to get my bearings and listen.

I could hear them talking, clear as if they were on the other side of this door, which they were. No idea which voice belonged to who, but the gist of their conversation made itself clear immediately.

“The guard’s over sixty, easily.”

My guess was this was Moe, the leader, his voice resonant, dripping leadership.

Someone else said, “A retired cop, probably.”

The leader again: “Probably. That means nothing, really.”

As I listened, he would speak and another of the crew would respond and then he would speak again.

The resonant voice continued: “Stick a gun in his face, take his weapon, push him to the floor.”

“They close at two?”

“They close at two. We go in ten minutes before that, diddle around making out deposit slips and such, wait for any other customers to leave. Probably someone will politely tell us the bank is closing, and that’s our cue. You each know your jobs. No shooting unless necessary. Harry, did you scope things out?”

“Yeah. Yellow curb in front of the bank, but plenty of parking places on either side of it. I’ll park the car first thing, close as I can. Go back to my hotel room half a block away, and feed the meter all day. Then around one-thirty, I’ll get in the car and I’ll be there waiting for you, motor running, when you come out. And we will haul ass.”

“Perfect.”

“Hey, it’s my first job with you boys, but it ain’t my first time at the rodeo.”

“I bet it isn’t.”

Judging by their voices, as I stood on the top step with the .45 in one hand and the door knob in the other, that table would be right there when I burst in. Of course, the door might be locked, but that seemed unlikely. Why would anyone lock the basement door? Unless it was to keep someone out who broke in that way...

You know — like me.

But if Strutt was that cautious, those storm doors wouldn’t have been left unlocked. Right?

Right?

Still, if this door turned out to be locked, or just stuck because the wood had warped or whatever, I would have to shoulder my way in, putting some real muscle into it... else face a very well-armed welcoming committee...

I thought about what I would say.

“Hands high, fellas — you’re under arrest!” Corny but appropriate. I could always add, “The place is surrounded.” Another old favorite, if a lie.

The door wasn’t locked and I went in quick.

The table of thieves was only a few feet away, and their faces were on me like a lynch mob. I was about to get my prepared words out when Strutt, his frown squeezing in on itself so hard it hurt to look at it, yelled: “Hammer!”

I can’t tell you whether he had warned them about my involvement in the convoluted affair that had cost their driver Kraft his life. Or if this select group just knew me because we were, in a way, in the same business, and mine was a famous face in these kinds of circles. Or if they just read in that one outburst from Strutt a mélange of anger merged with fear underscored by surprise.

In any event, they went for their guns, three of them for the weapons on the table, and the big muscle guy for a rod in his shoulder holster under the Don Johnson jacket.

The quarters could have hardly been any closer, and my only advantage was having my gun already in hand.

It was enough.

I took them clockwise starting with the not-handsome guy, whose head came apart in chunks, like a target-range cantaloupe. The chinless guy in the denim jacket got his in the side of the head and I could see his eyes go blank as much of his brain sprayed out of his opposite temple and splattered a nearby refrigerator with bloody gray goop. Next, closest to me, came the brains of the outfit, who lost a good share of his when his neck swivelled to see me and a slug slammed through his forehead to splat its contents onto, then dripping down, a cupboard, like a great big bug that hit a windshield. The Miami Vice thug almost had his gun out when a .45 slug traveled through his throat and had him gurgling and thrashing, until my second shot, piercing his thick forehead this time, ended his suffering.

The 1911 Colt .45 is a single-action pistol — you cock the hammer before each shot — and the trigger has a short reset. The four bank robbers had died in that many seconds. Strutt might have been a problem, but the indoor thunder of the .45 and the carnage and flying gore had spooked him, and his startled rabbit expression accompanied a hand that hovered over a .38 Police Special but didn’t touch it.

The cordite-filled air was making my eyes burn. I pointed the .45 at him and he raised his hands and was crying. Maybe the cordite. Maybe not.

“This is unpleasant in here,” I said. “I think a couple of these guys shit themselves. Let’s go in the living room where it’s quiet and maybe light a scented candle or something. We need to talk.”

I gestured with the .45 and he swallowed, wiping his tears away with a forearm, and headed glumly into the nearby living room. I could see now that his wife-beater t-shirt had four aces and a pair of dice on it; his jeans were worn and so were his tennies.

With the snout of the weapon I indicated a black overstuffed fake-leather sofa and he sat. I settled into an adjacent matching armchair. On a low-slung coffee table were some scattered girlie magazines — Caper, Escapade, Dude, Swank. Maybe he had mommy issues.

“Jesus, man,” he said. He looked sick. “You killed everybody.”

“Not yet,” I reminded him.

He swallowed. Absently, he scratched a bearded cheek. “What do you want from me?”

“The truth.”

“About what the fuck?”

“About you and Vincent Colby.”

“What truth is that, man?”

“You trained him for that stunt, Harry. Maybe you didn’t know what your buddy Kraft and his client had in mind — faking that hit-and-run ‘accident.’ Maybe you thought it was for a movie or something. Or some elaborate prank. I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

“No idea what you’re talking about, man.”

“You need to think this through. The kind of trouble you’re in.”

His lip curled back taking some mustache with it. “You’re the one in trouble. Break in here and fuckin’ shoot everybody! You’re out of your freaking mind, Hammer!”

I raised my free hand. “First of all, your friends all had guns and were about to use them on me. Second, I’m a licensed private investigator in New York State and heard you fellas planning a robbery. I have nothing to fear from this. But you do.”

He tried not to look alarmed. “What do I have to fear?”

“I’m going to guess your Wall Street pal Vincent has greased your palm but good. You may be figuring that rich-guy money’s gonna just keep flowing. But think about it.”

“You think about it.”

“I have. I think about how Roger Kraft was on the payroll and got killed. I think about how a cop named Shannon looking into young Colby’s homicidal ways got himself killed, too, and you know how much the cops love it when one of their own buys it.”

“Nothing to do with me.”

“A hooker blackmailing Colby got killed last night, and so did a bartender who beat up Vincent’s girl. Anybody who crosses that Golden Boy is on the chopping block. All this went down within a few days. And you’re likely next.”

He sneered again. “More likely you, Hammer. And maybe Roger tried to blackmail Colby or some shit, and got what blackmailers get.”

“Is that what happened?”

He raised his palms shoulder high. “Just sayin’ what might be. I have nothing for you, Hammer. And I’m not afraid of you.”

That was hard to buy, with the coppery smell of his associates’ blood wafting in on cordite waves with just a hint of the fragrance of human excrement.

I said, “If the cops bag your ass, Harry, you won’t be just some guy who trained a rich kid for a prank. You’ll be an accomplice. Probably to murder.”

His smile in the nest of beard was not convincing. “How do you figure, Hammer? Suppose that was a phony accident I helped along. That’s no murder rap.”

“Kraft getting his makes it felony murder, sonny boy.” That was a little thin but I didn’t think Harry here knew much about the finer points of the law. “And for sure you’re obstructing justice in a murder investigation by not coming forward.”

His eyes narrowed. “That’s what you want. Me to come forward.”

“That’s what I want.”

What Pat Chambers would want.

“Okay.” He swallowed. “I’ll do it.”

I had lowered the .45 a little, while we talked, and that must have encouraged him, because he came forward, all right. He dove off that sofa and right at me, taking the chair back and me with it, then with one powerful hand grabbed me by the right wrist and shook the rod out of my grasp, sending it tumbling on the shag carpet. Meanwhile that chair hit the floor, hard, and powerful fists were at me, a right hand to the face, a left hand to the kidneys.

I pushed him off and to one side, onto the floor, then twisted to throw myself on top of him, giving him a knee in the balls and then a right to the nose, breaking it, and a left to the jaw, jarring it on its hinges. He was wincing with the pain only a groin blow can bring, but he was, after all, a stunt man and obviously a muscle builder, so his testicles were probably the size of peas anyway, thanks to steroids. In any case, he had the will and presence of mind to shove his right forearm into my chest with enough power to send me tumbling back.

Then he jumped on me like a wrestler in the ring only not phony, and he was pinning me with a knee and strangling me with two powerful hands. For a moment I wondered if he was the killer with the deadly knee move, but he smelled like pot, not Obsession. Gasping, I caught his pony tail with one hand and jerked his head back while with the other I hit him in the side, and busted a couple ribs because their snap was unmistakable. He cried out and his hands loosened, and I head-butted his chin, which rocked him back, and he stumbled off me and got to his feet and put a little distance between us.

I was still down low and I threw a tackle into him and he went backward, hitting his head hard on the edge of the projection TV. His eyes rolled back and he slid down to the floor and lay in a pile of random bones and muscles in a bag of flesh. Very quiet, but for some dripping blood.

I bent over and checked his pulse. Both his wrist and neck.

Then I stood staring down at him, thinking about what to do. Thinking about my situation.

I had a phone call to make. It would take going to a gas station and making a call, but I would be back.

I wasn’t done here.