21 Tales Page 14

  He checked the paper and saw that HialeahPark opened at seven in the evening. Gloria walked into the living room as Pete put down the paper. She hadn't bothered wearing a robe. All she had on were a pair of panties.

  She told Pete she needed to see him.

  "Go right ahead," Pete said. "What's fair is fair."

  "Tonight," she said, her eyes coldly distant. "Five o'clock. I'm leaving him. I'm going to do it tonight and I need your help. Promise me?"

  Pete shrugged. He felt his heart pound as he watched her leave the room. After waiting a minute or so, he got up and splashed cold water over his face, and then got the hell out of the house.

  He spent the day drinking beers and thinking about his situation. Hurley had tried playing him worse than a sap and he wanted to bleed him bad. So far he had gotten four grand cash and another two grand and a half in clothing, plus the two hundred from George. It wasn't enough but it would have to do. With Gloria moving out it was over and for the most part he was glad to hell it was.

  He got back a little after five. As he entered the house, Gloria shouted from the bedroom, asking him to join her. The bedroom door was partially opened. As he started to walk through it a smell stopped him. A faint smell of rotting fish ...

  Pete threw all his weight at the door. There was a dull thud and then a moan from behind it. He pulled the door back and slammed into it again. The door cracked. George fell from behind it, his nose spread out across his face like chopped meat. On his way down his chin collided with Pete's knee.

  A quick glance showed the room was a mess. Bookcases, a nightstand and a dresser had been knocked over. Gloria had been watching from the bed. She jumped off it. The little clothing she had on was torn.

  "You son of a bitch!" she screamed as she charged Pete.

  There was a sound from behind. Pete turned and saw Rat rushing at him, swinging a lead pipe. He ducked the pipe, grabbed at Rat's feet, and lifted the punk, sending him over his back and crashing into Gloria. The two of them fell hard to the floor, their bodies doing a complete somersault. Gloria ended up pinned by the fat punk against an overturned dresser. She thrashed underneath Rat, screaming hysterically for him to get off of her as she tried to push his belly away from her face. Pete watched as the two tried frantically to get to their feet. He waited until they just about made it and then put his foot to Rat's backside and sent them both back to the floor. As he left, he couldn't help smiling as Gloria screamed bloody murder at him.

  # #

  Pete got to HialeahPark a little after seven. Toni was by the starting gate checking out the horses.

  "You got any of my forty grand left?" he asked her.

  Toni's body stiffened when she heard his voice. She was wearing a halter top and shorts. Pete felt his heart skip a beat as he looked her over. She was only a little over five feet and at most ninety-five pounds, but she was the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen.

  Toni sniffed the air and made a face. "Phew! What smells around here?" she asked.

  "I've missed you, baby." Pete said softly. He reached over and ran his hand through her thick brown hair. "Did Charlie get my letter to you?"

  Toni nodded slightly. She took a letter out of her pocketbook and handed it to him. "Pretty interesting reading," she remarked. As she looked at him, her face softened with concern. "Are you okay?"

  "How much of the forty grand do you got left?"

  Toni gave him an embarrassed smile. "Five thousand."

  Pete didn't say anything. He just stood staring at her.

  "Don't give me any of your crap," she stated defensively. "I had some bad days at the track. And besides, if you didn't try to double-cross me in Boston -"

  "How in the world could you throw away thirty-five thous-" Pete stopped cold as he glanced at the betting board and caught the listing of horses for the first race. "Give me the five grand," he said, his voice oddly weak. The hand he held out to Toni shook.

  "Yeah, right -"

  "Look," he interrupted, his forehead all of a sudden shiny with sweat. "I've got a sure winner on this one. Baby, it's a sign from god."

  "Which horse?"

  Pete wet his lips. "Gloria’s Insurance Policy."

  Toni laughed. "It's a thirty to one loser, Pete."

  "Look, Baby -" Pete took a deep breath and forced a smile. "If it doesn't win we get married as soon as we leave here. Promise."

  Toni stopped laughing and studied Pete carefully. After a short while she nodded and handed him money from her pocketbook.

  "You won't be sorry," Pete told her as he counted it. "We're going to win and then -" He stopped and stared at Toni. "There's only thirty-five hundred here," he stated incredulously.

  "I'm saving the rest for our honeymoon."

  Pete started to argue, saw it was useless, shook his head and beat it to the betting window. He added his forty-two hundred to what Toni gave him and put it all on Gloria's Insurance Policy to win. As he picked up his betting slips he felt lightheaded and had to steady himself against the betting counter. He heard the clerk mutter something about fools and damn fools.

  Toni watched Pete with a sly Cheshire cat smile. She moved in close to him and squeezed his arm.

  "You're lucky you made that deal," she whispered. "I decided to start saving myself for marriage."

  "Uh huh."

  "The best thirty-five hundred I ever spent," she added as she squeezed his arm tighter.

  The horses were led into their gates. Pete glanced at the betting board and saw that Gloria's Insurance Policy had crept up to thirty-five to one odds. His mouth felt so damn dry, like he had swallowed a handful of sand.

  The horses flew out of their gates. At least all but one did. Gloria's Insurance Policy sort of stumbled out, moving in an embarrassed gait. It was barely trotting by the time it reached the finish line. More than eighteen lengths back of any other horse.

  It was a long time before Pete could move. He stood frozen, a hard grin etched on his face, his eyes narrowed to thin slits. Toni took the betting slips from him and ripped them up.

  "Come on, lover," she said, a warm ripple in her voice. "It's a sign from god."

  As she led him away, Pete broke out laughing. "Forty thousand thrown away."

  "Well, sort of."

  "Sort of?"

  Toni smiled. "After a really good day at Saratoga I bought a new Cadillac. At least we can drive back to New York in style. And married."

  # #

  Hurley looked dazed as he answered the door. "What happened here?" he asked.

  Pete clapped him on the shoulder as he pushed his way by. "Gloria gone?"

  Hurley nodded. Pete walked past him to the guest room. Hurley followed.

  "My guess is she won't be coming back," Pete said as he folded his clothes into one of Hurley's suitcases.

  "What happened in my bedroom?" Hurley asked weakly. "There's blood stains on the carpet and -"

  Pete cut him off. "Your friend George is a little accident prone." Pete closed the suitcase and headed towards the door. He glanced back at Hurley and stopped.

  "Were you supposed to be home around five today?"

  Hurley nodded. "I promised Gloria I'd be home at five-thirty. I was held up at the office."

  "Lucky thing you were. Otherwise, they still might have tried to go through with it. When you didn't show up they probably thought I tipped you off."

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "George and Rat made a deal with Gloria. I guess they figured a cut of her insurance money was as good as yours. I'm not sure what they planned, at least not exactly, but I'm pretty sure it was something where we both ended up dead."

  Hurley started to look a little green around the temples. Pete took Hurley's confession from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to him.

  "Consider this my letter of resignation," Pete said with a grin. "I quit."

  The Dover Affair

  After the hell I dragged Johnny Lane through in Fast Lane, I figured I owed
him at least one chance to play the Lew Archer-type hardboiled PI, even if it’s in something as sordid as the Dover Affair.

  I arrived at Tom Morton’s office at nine o’clock as we had agreed, but Morton wasn’t in yet and his secretary had me wait in the reception area. I wasn’t happy with being kept waiting, especially since Morton had set the time, but I was willing to put up with it. Morton was Richard Dover’s attorney. Richard’s fiancée, Susan Laem, had been found strangled in a motel room five days earlier, and Richard was being accused by the State of Colorado of her murder. What made this such a big deal was that Richard’s mother, Margaret, was wealthy and a well-known Denver socialite. Richard himself had several million in a trust fund. When I told my editor at the Denver Examiner, Eddie Braggs, that it looked likely that I would be able to write about this case for my monthly ‘Fast Lane’ column, he was thrilled.

  After about ten minutes of waiting, Morton’s secretary brought me some coffee and shot the breeze with me for a few minutes, telling me how much she enjoyed my column and asking what it was like to be a private detective. Around nine-forty Morton came huffing in. He thrust his square jaw in the direction of his secretary and ordered her to bring us both some coffee and bagels, a smug expression on his face. He always seemed to have a smug expression on his face. His old man had bought him his law partnership when he was thirty-five and that only made him all the more smug. Morton, still huffing, told me to join him in his office.

  As Morton got behind his desk, he put his briefcase away and then looked at me. “Damn traffic,” he complained. “Denver’s getting so damn congested these days. Lane, what do you know about this Richard Dover business?”

  “Only what’s been in the papers,” I said. “They seem to be hinting that there’s physical evidence against your client.”

  Morton’s secretary knocked and came in with the coffee and bagels. After she left, Morton asked, “Before we get into that, I’d like to know if you plan on writing about this for your column?”

  “I’d like to.”

  Morton seemed satisfied, took a bite of his bagel, and stared at me as he chewed it slowly. “Richard’s mother, Margaret, is going to be here at ten. She has a few concerns, but don’t worry, I’m sure we can work past them.” He glanced at his watch. “Shit, we only got about ten minutes.”

  “What concerns does she have?”

  Morton waved the question away. “I said don’t worry about it. Now about the physical evidence; forensics found skin and traces of blood under the dead girl’s fingernails. An initial test matched Richard’s DNA. Blood samples have been sent to Washington for more precise DNA testing and I guess we can pray for a miracle.” Morton paused for a moment and showed an uncomfortable smile. “Police also found fresh scratch marks on Richard’s arm,” he said.

  “What’s your client saying?”

  “Nothing that makes any sense. Only that he’s being framed. But he is being adamant about it, and you know, I almost believe him. Lane, I’m counting on your column to sway public opinion. That’s my only chance with this case.”

  There was a knock on the door and then Margaret Dover walked in. She was a tall woman, about six feet, but a better word to describe her would be long. She had long legs, a long torso, and a long neck. Kind of a Greta Garbo type. She was probably in her early fifties, but her hair was already more gray than blond. Until recently she probably would’ve been considered attractive. Now, though, she only looked worn out.

  “Your secretary told me to come right in,” she explained.

  “That’s fine,” Morton said. He shook hands with her and introduced her to me. “Johnny Lane’s the best we have here in Denver,” he said. “I’ve worked with Johnny a number of times over the years.”

  Margaret offered me her hand and then sat down to my left. She seemed ill at ease. “Mr. Lane,” she said, “I have to tell you, I am not comfortable with the idea of hiring you and having my family’s private matters publicized”

  “Well, now,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment, “ I respect my clients’ privacy and only use cases for my column if I’m given permission up front. If you would like me keep the matter private, I will certainly honor that. But Tom feels that my column could help your son.”

  Morton jumped in, “Margaret, the newspapers are going to be digging up and printing every piece of dirt they can. It could help us tremendously to have a forum where we can get our version of the story out. Especially with all the physical evidence going against Richard. Johnny’s column carries a lot of weight in this town.”

  She still seemed undecided. “Mrs. Dover,” I said, showing my most sincere smile. “What I am going to try to do is find evidence to exonerate your son. You believe he’s innocent, don’t you?”

  Margaret nodded. “I know he’s innocent, Mr. Lane. He was home with me at the time Sue was murdered. I don’t understand why the police won’t accept that.”

  Morton shrugged. “If it wasn’t for the physical evidence against him, they probably would. But you’re his mother so they’re going to take the alibi you’re providing him with a grain of salt.”

  “I’m not lying,” she said.

  “I know you’re not,” Morton said.

  She turned to me. “You’ve had your clients’ permission for all of the cases you’ve written about?”

  “That’s right,” I said. I was mostly telling the truth. There were a few times where my clients had lied to me and tried using me. In those cases all bets were off.

  “And you think you can help free my son?”

  “If he’s innocent, I’ll do my best.”

  She wavered for a moment, but agreed to hire me and also agreed to let me write about the case for my monthly column. My daily rate was four hundred dollars and she wrote me a check for eight thousand dollars. It was a lot more that I was going to ask for. She got up to leave, shook hands with both of us, then hesitated at the door.

  “Mr. Lane,” she said, “If you can exonerate my son, I’d like to pay you an additional ten thousand dollars.”

  Morton got up so he could escort Margaret out of the office. When he came back he informed me that he had arranged a twelve o’clock conference with Richard at the CountyJail. I asked him if he had any photos of Susan Laem.

  He took a folder from his desk and handed it to me. Inside were several photos of the victim while she was still among the living. One was a studio shot and a couple had her posing on a tennis court. She was so young in these pictures, barely looked twenty, and was a knockout. Long red hair, green eyes, peaches and cream skin, and a toned near perfect body. I studied her pictures and felt something funny in my throat. There was so much life in her eyes. They seemed almost to sparkle on the photographic paper. And this little smile she had like she was the only one on our little planet who knew the joke, and maybe, just maybe, she’d let the rest of us in on it someday. I put her pictures back in the folder.

  “The one they’ve been running in the papers doesn’t do her justice,” I said.

  “Yeah, her murder was a hell of a waste,” Morton acknowledged.

  I got up to leave. We agreed to meet at the Denver County Jail at a quarter to twelve. On the way I stopped at my bank to deposit Margaret’s check. I also called Eddie Braggs at the Denver Examiner to tell him things were all set.

  Morton was waiting for me at the CountyJail. We were both given perfunctory searches and then taken to a small interview room. It had already been a long morning and I guess neither of us felt much like talking. Morton sat quietly and worked on his nails with a small manicure file. I just sat with my eyes half closed, squinting against the sunlight. I glanced at my watch. It was a few minutes before noon.

  The door opened and two guards brought Richard Dover into the room. He was a slight but good looking man. Also on the short side, no more than five foot six. He had some of his mother’s features, her nose and her high cheekbones, and maybe it made him look a bit effeminate. He waited until the guards removed his ankl
e and wrist chains and nodded to Morton. The guards left, closing the door, and he sat across from us. Five days in county jail and his skin was already showing an unhealthy grayness to it.

  Morton introduced me. Dover’s eyes brightened. “You’re the detective in the newspapers,” he said, smiling slightly. “I read your column sometimes. It’s good stuff.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “I didn’t kill her,” he told me plainly, his smile turning a bit sour. “The blood evidence is a frame.”

  “You think the police planted your blood?” I asked.

  Morton cut in to score some brownie points by showing he was paying attention. “It’s not like it never happens,” he offered, jutting out his square jaw.

  Dover’s smile had turned more sour. “It’s a frame. There’s a lot of money behind this.”

  “And what about the scratches?”

  “Just lousy luck. I got them in a barroom altercation. Sue had nothing to do with them.”

  “What was she doing in that motel room?’

  “I don’t know.”

  I sat back and considered him at length. His story seemed far-fetched. The scratches and his blood found under her fingernails. But he was far from stupid and he was showing a damn good poker face. “You think you know who’s framing you?” I asked finally.

  He shrugged. His smile was gone. He looked away for a moment before meeting my eyes. “This is a bit awkward. I’m going to have to admit to some bad behavior. I don’t see any way around it. This thing with Sue could end up screwing me.”

  “You’re taking your fiancée’s murder awful hard.”

  “Sue wasn’t my fiancée,” he said.

  “No?”

  For the first time Morton looked like he was paying attention. Dover leaned forward, “Sue was, uh, more of a business associate,” he said quietly. “She was, well, how should I say, helping me raise money from some of my mother’s friends.”

  “Shit.” Morton said.

  “And how was that?” I asked.

  Dover tried to show me a smile but it didn’t stick. “Sue was a prostitute when I met her. Very high end. She was very good at what she did. I’d introduce her around at parties. Later, as far as they were concerned, they were screwing my fiancée behind my back. Sue would make them pay to keep things quiet.”