Ration of Lies, page 23
Her shaking head stopped me.
“None of the Ritz crowd come here. Not fancy enough for ‘em, I guess. I get mostly girls who work at the beauty shop, and from that school place over there.”
I turned to look at the rambling old building next to Spooner’s.
“That’s a school?”
She shrugged, lifting the glass cover over the muffins and taking one out with a square of parchment.
“Something like that. Piano lessons and such, near as I can make out from what they say.”
I paid her and thanked her and left. I walked to the corner to cross, not from any qualms about jaywalking, but so I could ditch the muffin in a trash can without her seeing. Wasting food that was probably perfectly good gave me a twinge of guilt. Not ten years ago, in the grip of the Depression, hungry people had picked through trash cans hunting any scrap they could eat, spoiled or otherwise. Putting that guilt behind me, I took a good look at the place where I was headed.
The building housing “piano lessons and such” was nicely kept and robin-egg blue. People who knew about such things probably would call it Victorian. Its parking lot abutted the one where Spooner lived, but separate driveways led into each. Between the two, a parched strip just managed to sustain a pair of struggling spirea bushes. Even by my standards, it was cruel to the plants.
In front of the building, a painted sign the size of a bath mat identified the place as Letterman Concert Hall. As I turned to go in, a side door that led into the parking lot opened. A man in shirt sleeves and vest shooed a skinny boy of about fifteen out in front of him.
“Payday’s tomorrow, kid. No advances. Now run on, beat it.”
The side door slammed.
Sensing an unplanned route that might save me some time, I changed course. The kid was too busy adding scuffs to his shoes and glaring at the door that had closed behind him to notice me as I approached.
“Tough boss?” I commiserated.
He shifted his animosity to me and didn’t answer. I tried again.
“I take it you work here?”
“What’s it to you?”
He had lank hair and shoulders with the defiant thrust necessary to keep a chip on his shoulder. Pimples made a line down one side of his nose.
I held up a dollar bill.
“What it is to you, is a chance to earn something to tide you over till payday.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
The kid’s eyes had fixed on the dollar the instant he saw it. He took a fist from his pocket and reached for the money, then drew back.
“What do I have to do?”
“Just tell me who works here at night and anything you might know about two men who live there.” I indicated Spooner’s building.
A smirk had formed on his face. He crossed his arms.
“That’s worth more than a buck.”
“You got a better offer?”
He wavered, then held out his hand. “Okay, but I get it now.”
“Half now, half if you deliver.” I made as if to rip the dollar bill in half.
“Stop! You can’t do that!”
“Watch me.”
“Okay, okay! Keep it till I finish. Me.” He hooked a thumb toward his chest. “I work nights. Six-thirty to eleven, out here keeping an eye on the cars so nobody siphons gas or swipes a windshield wiper. And the first time, the first time I ask can I get part of my pay two days early, that skinflint of a manager turns me down! He knows I won’t quit ’cause I’m not old enough to get anything better, so he takes advantage. It’s as bad as my old man charging me a buck a week for food and sleeping in the same bed I always have—”
“Yeah, life’s tough.” Why more wise-aleck kids weren’t strangled before they got old enough to blight public sanity escaped me. “Are you telling me this place has music recitals of some kind every night?”
For the first time, he gave the hint of a smile.
“Naw, recitals are usually once a week, and sometimes it’s dance, not music. Some theater group uses it once a week to rehearse. All the other nights it’s a Bingo parlor. You wouldn’t believe how those old biddies pile in here. Men too, but not as many. Daytime’s different, people give lessons, I guess. Music on second floor, tap and ballet and stuff on three, I think is how it is.” The scowl returned. “They’re making money hand over fist, and I get peanuts.”
I digested it. What he was describing meant plenty of people were here at night, but only he was consistently outside in a position to notice comings and goings of the residents next door.
“There’s a man in his early twenties who lives over there.” I nodded. “Dark hair, lives with his father, who wears gaudy bow ties.”
“You mean old...?” Twisting his face up and contorting his body, he tottered around making ugly animal sounds and having a fine time.
“He’s not deformed and he doesn’t have trouble walking,” I said coldly. “He hears perfectly well and reads and writes, probably better than you. He just can’t talk. But yes, that’s the one.”
He straightened up, but he clearly didn’t see anything wrong with his performance.
“Well, what about him?”
“I want to know anything you can tell me about him or his father. Do they go out at night? When do they come back? Have you seen either one with a girl?”
He was curious now. “Why do you want to know? Are you thinking of asking one of them out?”
“I’m interested.” I smacked a business card into his hand. “And if you tell me anything substantial, I’ll give you four bits on top of the dollar. I’ve told plenty of lies and heard plenty of lies, so don’t make it up.”
His eyes had begun to narrow. Now they shifted sheepishly. He stuffed his hands back in his pockets and scuffed at the gravel where we were standing.
“Okay, there’s not much, but I’ll give it straight. It gets boring standing out here by myself. When something happens on that side, I usually notice. Yeah, they go out sometimes, usually together. Every now and then when they come out the old man’s wearing a striped jacket, red and white, and has on one of those stiff Katys, so I think maybe he’s in one of those barbershop groups.”
“They go off together and come back together?”
“Yeah, sure. The older one’s always yak-yak-yakking. I figure that’s because the mor— the other one can’t. He tries, though. That’s how I know the kind of sounds he makes. Awhile back they were having a real set-to when they got out of the car. The son was yowling away like a cat in heat.”
“When?”
“Uh, three or four weeks ago. It was still cold at night.”
“Any idea what the argument was about?”
“Uh...not really. The kid was upset about something. The old man was trying to calm him down.” He closed his eyes and bared his front teeth in thought. “He said, ‘Hasn’t your old dad always looked out for you?’ Something like that. The son kind of shoved him and went agw-agw-agw. The old man told him nothing was going to change, but hadn’t he earned the right to enjoy some things on his own? Then the son shoved him harder and gargled and waved his arms and stormed away.”
“What did the father do?”
“Stood there a minute, then went off after him.”
“Is that the only time you’ve heard them quarreling?”
“Yeah.”
He held out his hand. I put the dollar in it. He waited. So did I.
“Oh, yeah,” he said after a minute. “Girls. I never saw the son with one, but then he’s kind of a freak, you know? Pop, now, I’ve seen him coming in with a girl now and then these last few months, and does she know how to strut her stuff. Blonde, real curvy, but way too young for him if you ask me.”
***
Freeze was coming out of my building when I got back. He dropped his cigarette on the sidewalk and ground it out as he watched me approach.
“What steams me,” he said with deceptive mildness, “is Boike working for you instead of me.”
“He isn’t working for me. He said he got bored now and then, and if he could help with something that didn’t involve talking to people, he would. I’d narrowed down possibilities on places where Hashimoto might have gone to ground. I wanted to keep an eye on Laura’s place to see if anyone moved around inside during the day—”
“Yeah, yeah. You told me that last night.”
“Well? What would you have done if you also wanted to follow up other leads? What was wrong with getting help from someone experienced when he offered it strictly as a friend?”
I ran my hands through my hair, dislodging the combs that held the loosely curling ends behind my ears.
“Admittedly, I had him helping mostly out of my own self-interest, but it also went through my mind that doing the kind of work he used to do might make him see how much he missed it.”
Freeze was silent a minute. He stepped back and leaned against the wall behind him.
“You really think he believes that scar down his face will spook people out of talking to him?”
“Yeah, I do. Maybe not spook them, but make them uncomfortable. For some of them — a few of them — it could be true. Mostly I think he’s still getting used to what he sees in the mirror.”
He rubbed his chin.
“I’m sorry, Freeze. I really am. For letting Hashimoto get away, but also for botching things up between you and Boike, if I did. The blame’s on me, not him. He pushed me to notify you before I went up to that apartment, but I was sure my way was better.”
“You think Laura Gray’s telling the truth that she doesn’t have any idea where he might have gone or who might help him?” he asked abruptly.
“Yes. Is she tucked up in a cell somewhere? She’s not answering her phone or the door either.”
“She’s at work. At the printing place.”
“What?”
“We worked on her until about two this morning. When it became clear we weren’t getting anywhere, we sent her home. Today when we got to the printing place, there she was at her desk, making squiggles in the margins of things.”
I dipped a toe into what might be quicksand, given the mood he’d been in initially.
“I saw the police cars in front of the place and didn’t want to get in your way. I hoped I might pick up some gossip in the front office on what was happening, but the girl at the counter told me in no uncertain terms that I’m not allowed on the premises and no one is allowed to tell me anything.”
“Imagine. Could it be you rubbed one of the company bigwigs the wrong way?” He started a cigarette.
“No confessions, no bringing anybody in for a chat if that’s what you’re wondering. That blonde’s a piece of work. Acts like only a fool would expect her to do anything or talk about anything she didn’t want to. She claims she never made a call to Hashimoto and doesn’t know anything about it. So do the other two. Spooner’s secretary got so worked up I worried she’d keel over.”
“And Phyllis Chapman? Kirby’s secretary?”
“Drew herself up and gave me a look that could have turned me to ice.”
“Spooner, of course, did his wounded indignation routine, interspersed with pally little chuckles to show you he’s a swell guy.”
“You’re right about the indignation part. He practically stamped his feet denying he got Hashimoto there that night. He figured out early on that I wasn’t interested in how swell he was or wasn’t.”
“I just learned a couple of interesting things about the Spooners from a kid who works next door to their building.
The detective glanced at his watch.
“Make it fast.”
I did. We both knew it didn’t necessarily mean anything, let alone prove it. He acknowledged, though, that it was handy to know.
“Hey, Freeze,” I called as he started off down the sidewalk. “Did you happen to ask the older proofreader if she made that phone call?”
He turned back.
“The giggler? No, why?”
“Just a thought. I haven’t been looking at her, but she always seems keen to get on Spooner’s good side. I can’t decide whether she has a crush on him or she’s buttering up the boss. Has what I did made trouble for you? My finding Hashimoto and him getting away again?”
“Nothing that I can’t handle,” he said over his shoulder. “But it’s nice to have somebody ask.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Since Freeze and his men hadn’t asked Velma whether she’d made the phone call that lured Tosh in the night of the fire, or if she’d heard anything about such a call, it seemed like the smart thing to do. Not while she was at work, though. Not only was I persona non grata at Kirby Printing, but despite Spooner’s jolly ways, employees seemed less inclined to talk when he was around.
Velma was a chatty sort. If I could get her started on one of her favorite subjects, Spooner, she might spill more than she intended.
I’d found trolleys made a swell spot to keep someone confined and responding to questions when they didn’t want to, even if those responses were ‘I’m not going to answer.’ When Laura left work the previous day, she and Velma had boarded the same trolley. I stationed myself in front of a store a few steps away from the bus stop. As soon as Velma’s iron-gray curls bobbed into view, I fell into line half a dozen spaces behind her. There was no sign of Laura.
The trolley arrived. We mashed up the stairs. All the seats were occupied, as I had expected. Velma went two-thirds of the way before giving up her hunt. She grabbed a dangling hand strap as the trolley pulled away. Far enough away that she wouldn’t notice me unless she looked, I did the same. Then I surveyed the seated passengers and selected my hapless victim. He was, at most, ten years younger than Velma and sat two rows behind where she stood, with his nose buried protectively in the evening paper.
I let the trolley make one more stop and worked my way a few spaces closer to both of them.
“Shame on you,” I said in a clear voice. “Sitting there while a woman old enough to be your mother stands after working all day.”
He rooted deeper into his paper.
“I’ll bet you call yourself a gentleman, too.”
People were starting to look. The man’s face reddened. He stood and muttered to Velma and they changed places. She twisted to look in my direction.
“Thank you...Oh. It’s you.”
I waggled my fingers and smiled. Trading hand straps with a couple of people, I wormed my way closer to chat.
“If you’re following me because you think I’ll tell you something, I won’t,” Velma said before I could open my mouth. “We’ve been warned not to say anything to the press, or to you. You won’t get a thing out of me.”
She made a grand, zipping gesture across her lips and folded her hands on the purse lying on her knees.
“Gee, no, I wouldn’t think of putting you in a spot like that. One of the detectives who was there this morning told me how they’d put you all through the ringer. Although...I am dying to know...” I leaned closer. “What color was it today?”
She’d been staring primly ahead. Now she wavered just enough to let curiosity sway her.
“Color?”
“Mr. Spooner’s necktie.”
It did the trick. She tucked her head and giggled.
“I guess it won’t hurt to tell you that. Before the...Well, you already know they were there, so I guess I might as well say it...before the police came, he was planning to go to one of his men’s lunches. Rotary, I think it was.
“When he’s attending one of those, he wears his dull gray. That’s what he calls it, his ‘dull gray,’ but it’s not really dull at all. It’s very attractive. Dark gray suit, lovely gray silk tie with tiny red stripes, and of course his harlequin cufflinks. I’ll bet you didn’t know he matches his cufflinks to his ties. Not that they actually match — it’s more like they harmonize....”
Ye gods, did the woman have every outfit Spooner wore memorized? How was I going to move her beyond his sartorial cleverness to what I wanted to ask?
“...of course, the harlequins aren’t really gray, they’re black-and-white enamel — that’s what makes me think of harlequins. I think they’re my very favorites. He wasn’t wearing those today, though. How peculiar. I wonder why. Not that the new ones aren’t nice — onyx, I think — but...”
Her words flowed unabated, but I’d stopped listening. My attention had latched onto one thing: black-and-white enamel.
***
Unlike other things in war, the ration of lies a detective hears from suspects is unlimited. Even decent people are allotted a few to tell themselves. That something doesn’t matter to them when it does; that they’re doing something for someone else when they’re doing it for themselves. The lesser lies that keep us all going. Maybe Spooner had started with the lesser kind, but when he’d run out of that supply, it looked more and more as if he’d crossed over. He’d started a fire, then concocted a story from the same well of lies used remorselessly by people like Mitzi. Now I needed to prove it.
***
The fire investigator was gone by the time I got there. Not surprising since it was after quitting hours for most people, but that wasn’t the reason.
“He’s picking through the ashes from a fire up north,” a clerk informed me. “It’ll be a couple of hours, at least, before he’s back. Could be midnight.”
“I need to see the evidence from the fire at Kirby Printing three weeks ago.”
More than that, I needed to talk to the man presently unavailable to me. Only his expertise, and his alone, could confirm whether the small lump of metal with a black streak on it found by the back stairs after the fire once could have been a cufflink. Meanwhile, a peek at it with my own eyes could reassure me I was on to something, or suggest I was skipping merrily in the wrong direction.
The clerk, however, told me no one was there with authority to let a civilian like me look at evidence from a fire scene. There was nothing to do except come back tomorrow. I went home and ate supper with Seamus.
“They buried Kathleen Connelly today,” he said as we sat on the back steps afterward with our coffee. “Just Mick and the kids and the priest. It’s how Mick wanted it. For the kids’ sake, mostly, but for him too. There’s too much awkwardness. Over how she died, and what’s come to light since.”
