Murder Straight Up

22

There was a drive-up phone two blocks away. When I pulled in, I realized I didn’t have the proper change. I had to go next door to a chain drugstore. The clerky little guy didn’t look happy about breaking a five for me. I spent a college summer working retail. In that business you get to hate people, so I couldn’t blame the guy.

Back in my car I called Donna.

After she said hello and before she could say anything else, I said, “There’s a set of twins who just tried to get the tapes from me. They may know about you. To be safe I want you to leave there, go over to that restaurant where we’ve been meeting and wait for me.”

A man’s voice came on the other end of the phone and said, “That won’t be necessary.”

For an awful moment I had an image of the twins standing on either side of her. But how could they have gotten there that quickly?

Then the echoes of the voice told me who I was talking to. Chad. Her ex-husband. That emissary from Country Gentleman whom God had created just to make me feel inadequate.

“Hello, Chad.”

“Hello, Dwyer.”

Nobody would ever accuse us of sounding like long-lost buddies.

“I believe I was speaking to Donna,” I said.

“I’ll give you your nerve, I’ll say that for you.” Despite the deep rich tones of his voice, there was a prissy, judgmental quality to his voice that came naturally, I suppose, with all his money, good looks and tireless self-confidence.

“I’m not following you here, Chad.”

“You’ve involved my wife in a murder. This is the second time. The first time her life was in danger. And now it is again.”

“She’s your ex-wife, Chad. Not wife.”

“That’s between Donna and me and is subject to change.”

In the background I heard Donna say, “Oh, Chad, please let me talk to him.”

“I heard that, Chad,” I said.

“I’m taking my wife to our cabin for the weekend,” Chad said- He used the term “wife” very freely for a man who’d dumped her for a younger woman and then reappeared only when he got bored.

“Chad, dammit, give me the phone,” Donna said.

Chad covered up the receiver. Behind his hand I heard arguing. Finally the receiver sounded free, there was a pause, and Donna said, “I’ve listened to all the tapes now. I’m afraid there’s no really specific information. Nothing more than I told you about.”

“Damn,” I said.

“Just one thing. The last couple of tapes he started dating. You know, when he pressed the record button he’d say ‘March nineteenth’ or something. Anyway, on one of the last dates he says, ‘I made the deal tonight. It will mean I get to go to California. But I’m scared that somebody will find out.’ Do you know what that means?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry.”

There was another pause. Then, in the background, Chad said, “I really don’t want to wait until these twins or whoever they are get over here, Donna.”

Then Donna said to me, “I suppose we’d better be going.”

“I suppose.”

“You don’t sound so good.”

“I don’t feel so good,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“Well.”

“Yeah. ‘Well.’ ” I sounded bitter and sorry for myself. Not exactly becoming.

In the background Chad said, “Donna, for God’s sake, if you can’t hang up, I will.”

“Good-bye, Dwyer.”

“Good-bye.”

Ten minutes later I stopped by Federated. Bobby Lee was typing and listening to Merle Haggard. Him I liked. When she saw me she frowned. “We said we’d call you.”

“I need to get into my locker.” Bobby Lee had the key that let you into the cage. With the twins after me, and God knew who else, I felt in need of the Smith & Wesson that was a holdover from my days on the force. I had stashed it there yesterday, following the murder, not thinking I’d need it.

“Why?”

“I don’t need to tell you why.”

“Then I don’t let you in.”

“We’re talking about things that I happen to own.”

“Tough.”

“Bobby Lee. Somebody’s following me.”

From the doorway Becker said, “Who?” His hands glistened with glue. He was working on his model airplanes again.

“It’d take too long to explain,” I said.

He shook his head. “You aren’t still working on that thing that started at Channel Three, are you?”

“Afraid I am.”

“Dwyer, they’ve got their killer. He’s already in jail.”

“He’s not guilty.”

“Then who is?”

“I’m beginning to think Fitzgerald is.”

Blood flushed his face. “Are you talking about Robert Fitzgerald?” Whenever he mentioned anybody who paid him money, a kind of reverence came into his voice.

“Yes I am.”

“Dwyer, do you realize he’s our biggest client?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re still bothering him?”

“I’m trying to get to the truth.”

“Doesn’t that sound noble, though?” He paused and looked at his glistening hands as if he wanted badly to wipe them on something. Then he looked back up at me. “You’ve forced me into a decision, Dwyer. An irrevocable one. You’re fired.”

“Then I can get into my locker?”

To Bobby Lee, he said, “Get Inspector Kelso on the line.” Kelso was one of his buddies, a very political cop who didn’t like me at all.

“I have a right to the stuff in my locker.”

Bobby Lee started dialing.

“It’s my locker.” I sounded as if I were about five years old.

“Inspector Kelso’s office, please,” Bobby Lee said.

I got out of there. Fast.

He didn’t come on until five o’clock, which meant that I had to hide out in the lobby until then.

When he saw me he looked afraid. He started walking away, dragging his mop and bucket as fast as he could.

I reached him and touched his elbow. “I know you’re afraid. So am I. I only want to ask you a few more questions.”

“They was coming in the other night. They saw me talking to you.”

“They hassle you?”

“Them twins, man, they don’t have to hassle you. They just give you that look.” For the three dollars and change I’d given this janitor the other night, I was sure he didn’t feel he owed me a beating. I didn’t blame him. He put a strong hand to his face and said, “I’m scared to say anything now. They might be watching.”

“Just listen to me. Please.”

Condo dwellers came in and out of the lobby. It was a warm spring evening. They exuded a festiveness I wished I could share.

“You remember the kid we talked about, Stephen Chandler?”

He nodded.

“You remember the night he died?”

“I guess. But he didn’t die here. He died at that halfway house.”

“Falworthy, yeah. But he took the overdose here from what I can gather, and then he went back to Falworthy.”

“If you say so.”

“I want you to think about that night.”

“All right.”

“Do you remember if that apartment had any visitors that night?”

He looked around. Fearfully. Outside the plate-glass windows that fronted the lobby an early twilight was making the world gorgeous and melancholy.

“Yeah.”

I wanted to make sure he wasn’t just being obliging. “Why would you have such a clear memory of that night?”

“Well, for one thing, that’s the night the Chandler kid died. I saw his picture on TV. I figured the cops would ask me questions, but they didn’t. ’Nother reason was the guy with the limp. I ain’t likely to forget him. ’Specially the way he talked to me. Real arrogant when I asked him if I could help him.”

“Tell me about him.”

“I don’t know. I only saw him once. Like I said, he was kinda mean, that’s why I remember him and that night ’specially.”

“Which, means that Stephen Chandler let him in, right?”

“Yeah. He must have buzzed him up.”

“Why wouldn’t the twins have buzzed him up?”

He shrugged. “They was gone. Out for a good part of the night.” He smiled. “They got a lot of lady friends.”

“How long did he stay?”

“The guy with the limp?”

“Yeah.”

He shrugged. “Half’n hour maybe.”

I wanted to make sure. “Can you describe anything else about the guy?”

“Not really.”

“Think about his hair.”

He closed his eyes a moment. This was the worst part of police work. People just didn’t notice things.

“Dark, I guess.”

“Anything else?”

“About his hair you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“Uh, could’ve been curly.”

“How tall was he?”

“That’s one thing I do remember.”

“What’s that?”

“He wasn’t tall at all. He was short.”

Short with dark curly hair and a limp. There couldn’t be many Robert Fitzgerald look-alikes around.

He snapped his fingers. “Shit, now I remember. The kid had another visitor that night, too.”

“Who?”

“This blonde.”

“Before or after the guy with the limp?”

“After.”

“Can you remember anything about her?”

“I couldn’t see her face. I tried.” He offered me a sly smile. “You know, even at my age I like to look at the ladies.”

“Short or tall?”

“Medium, I’d say.”

“Younger or older?”

“Like I said, I couldn’t really tell.”

“But she definitely came after.”

“Yeah.”

“And she was blond.”

“Very blond.”

An image of Marcie Grant formed. I saw her walk, the way her blond hair swung with such glistening casualness.

“You ’bout done?” he said.

I nodded. “Thanks.” I patted my pocket, reached down to see if I had any money.

“Forget it.” He grinned. “All the money you gave me the other night, I don’t have to work no more anyway.” Then he nodded back to his mop and bucket. He wanted me gone.