Bullet Beach (15 page)

The other item of interest he found in the paper was that Marshall Talbot would be buried at two that afternoon at Crown Hill Cemetery. According to the story, only family and invited friends would be permitted to attend the service. However, by omission perhaps, the burial was not private. Perhaps not, he said. It was possible that he wouldn't be allowed near the family and he wasn't sure he wanted to given his status as a suspect, likely the prime suspect.

He got up and went to the bedroom closet. Was there anything in there he could wear to such a solemn occasion?

Cross stopped by Harry's for a beer and to see if Shanahan had contacted him. He hadn't. It was a wasted trip and Cross was pissed that he'd gone out of his way to make it. Harry was in such a dismal mood that Cross downed his beer quickly, grabbed a hamburger at a fast food restaurant before driving to the Crown Hill Cemetery. He remembered that John Dillinger, subject of recent discussions with Kowalski, was buried there among such luminaries as Jefferson Davis, a former president, and several past Indiana authors, governors and senators.

The place was beautiful. One could usually count on the grounds keepers for cemeteries and golf courses. But it was clear that Cross would get no where near the people gathering at the burial site. There were off-duty police checking lists on both sides of a cordoned-off area. People were still arriving.

Cross scouted the area and, having brought with him a pair of binoculars, found high ground not all that far away. He drove further back and when he got out of the Trooper, he carried with him a bouquet of bargain flowers he'd picked up from a supermarket. He walked about pretending to look for the gravestone of a friend or relative, but in reality he was trying to find the best vantage point from which to scope out the mourners.

What a good idea, he thought, as he focused in on the group. Gathered together on the left were the Taupins. He recognized Raymond from occasional news reports. He wore a gray pin-striped suit that hung on his thin frame like the cheap suit that it was. His thinning hair was slicked back as if he didn't realize people could see through the greasy strands to his balding skull. Beside him was his one and only wife Cheryl who was somewhere around sixty and a student of the Tammy Faye School of Beauty. She had attempted to paint her way back to twenty nine. This seemed appropriate for the Taupins who were prominent social and fiscal conservatives. Sitting in a chair in front of them, wearing expensive sunglasses, was Sarah Taupin-Talbot, grieving widow.

There were others, perhaps brothers or cousins or business partners of the Taupins. Judging by their close proximity to the gravesite, he guessed this second group represented the Talbots, the deceased family and close friends. Two stood out. One was a big guy in an ill-fitting black suit. His hair was closely cropped. His face was as immobile as granite. The second was a blond fellow who also stood near the family. He, like the family, tossed earth on the coffin. But his coloring suggested he might not be a family member. Cross would bet that the young man was Marshall Talbot's best buddy.

That's the one he would track. Parents often either fail to know the truth about their children or, at least, want to hide anything that might harm the memory of them. Best friends were better as a source for both character and deeds. By the time the gathering broke up, Cross situated himself just outside the gate, where he waited for the blond young man to exit. He was by himself. Cross memorized his license plate number in the event he lost his prey in traffic.

He didn't lose him. He followed the BMW east on 38th Street, and right on Pennsylvania over the Fall Creek bridge, past the grand Central Library and eventually to the Lockerbie area of the city. Cross intercepted him as he was about to enter what was called the Old Glove Factory, a building in the heart of a historic district, where warehouses had morphed into attractive and coveted condos.

‘I'm sorry to trouble you, but I saw you at the burial and I wanted to chat with you.'

The whites of his eyes were red. He took out a handkerchief and swiped it across his nose.

‘What on earth about?'

‘I'm a private investigator. I'm trying to find out who murdered Marshall.'

‘Let's see something. I.D. something.' He waited.

Cross showed him his license.

‘I'm guessing you're his best friend,' Cross said.

The guy was still trying to determine if he should talk to a stranger, licensed or not.

‘All I want to do is find out what kind of guy he was,' Cross continued.

‘He was a great friend, a good person,' the guy said but couldn't give up his concern about Cross. ‘Who are you working for?'

Cross was prepared to answer.

‘It wouldn't be right for me to disclose this right now.'

The blond guy shook his head in disgust. ‘You working for the Taupins?'

‘No. But don't keep asking who.'

‘Well I'm not in the mood for disclosure right now either.' He had the main lobby key in his hand but he smartly didn't open the door fearing Cross might follow him in. He wanted to wait until Cross had left.

‘I'm working for me,' Cross said.

‘I don't understand.'

‘Do you want to keep talking out here?'

‘I need more before I let some stranger in my apartment.'

‘Well this may not help, but I repo'd the car that had his body in the trunk. As a result, there are those who think I killed him.'

‘You knew Marshall?'

‘A complete stranger as was the girl found in the trunk with him.'

‘Come on up,' he said, as if he were angry with himself for the decision he'd made.

The living room was large with a wall of windows looking over the quaint neighborhood in what used to be called Germantown. The condo was filled with furniture and accessories Cross would describe as modern. They looked good against the brick and concrete walls.

‘Sorry, the maid is due tomorrow. Gets a little rough. You want a drink?'

A maid, Cross thought longingly.

‘If you are.'

‘I have to. What do you want?' He headed toward the kitchen, which opened over a bar into the living room.

‘Whatever you're having.'

‘What do you want to know?'

Cross sat in what looked to be the most comfortable of the chairs. He saw a hallway that led to more – at least one bedroom.

‘What kind of guy was he?'

‘Big question,' the guy said.

‘One of his neighbors said he was shy.'

‘He could be seen that way. He never wanted to impose on anyone else. He was unselfish to a fault.'

The guy came in carrying two glasses of clear liquid with ice and a lime.

‘Gin and tonic,' he said, handing Cross one of the glasses and seating himself on the sofa.

‘I should have introduced myself. My name's Cross.'

‘Thad Moore, or did you know?'

‘I didn't. Just seemed like you'd be the guy who knew about Marshall.'

‘We go way back. Park Tudor.'

‘Rich kids.' The drink was nearly all gin, very little tonic.

Thad Moore smiled. ‘There's rich and then there's rich.'

‘Which were you?'

‘Rich I guess.'

‘And Marshall.'

‘Just rich, like me.'

‘Now a delicate question. Were there any skeletons in his closet? A secret drug addict, a foot fetish, gay, anything?'

‘He drank, every once in awhile too much. We used to smoke dope when we were in high school. If he had been gay, he would have simply been gay. He wasn't, but he saw no shame in it. No skeletons.'

‘You were his best friend?'

‘I would have died for him,' he said, voice breaking. With sheer will he pushed back tears. He took half his drink in one gulp.

‘The Taupins,' Cross said.

‘Assholes.'

‘He married into the family. Did he think differently?'

‘He wouldn't have said what I just said. But he didn't like them. He hated it when he had to visit them.'

‘Is Sarah different?'

‘She's a bitch. She's no different.'

‘So how did that work?'

He finished his drink and went to get another. ‘You ready?'

‘Not yet,' Cross said.

‘He believed he saw something in her. And I think this obsession of his to rescue the poor, the tired and the humbled masses, or however that's phrased, kicked in and he wanted to save her from the Taupins, from her own family.'

‘You seem angry. Did you two fight over her?'

‘I am angry. And we always fought. You know what he said when I showed him my new Beamer?'

‘What?'

‘He said, “do you know the difference between a BMW and a porcupine?” Then he answered, “with a porcupine the pricks are on the outside.”'

He laughed. He caught himself.

‘That was all right with you?' Cross asked.

‘Sure. That's how we talked. He hid his sentimentality around me, but he thought the best of people. I don't. And it appears I'm fucking right.'

Cross slid the photograph from his pocket. He set it down on the table beside him and put his hand over half of it, covering the body of Marshall Talbot.

‘Come here a minute, if you will, tell me if you know this girl.'

He came over. He looked at her.

‘No. Never saw her before. She was with him?'

‘They were found together.'

He shook his head.

‘Was he having an affair on the side?'

‘No.

‘He's human, Thad. He couldn't be tempted?'

‘He couldn't. He simply couldn't. He was so honest, so loyal, so true to his word. He couldn't have had an affair.'

‘How is it they moved to Woodruff Place? It seemed like an odd location for Sarah.'

‘It was. It was the compromise. She wouldn't move to Irvington, the snob. He lived in a great neighborhood. So they compromised with Woodruff Place – you know the Magnificent Ambersons, history, big homes, and all that – and that way neither one of them was happy.'

‘He didn't give her everything she wanted?'

‘Whatever I told you about him wanting to help and do the right thing didn't mean he was pushover. He was tough as nails for a cause and he put his foot down with Sarah over where he'd live. He wouldn't live in what he considered to be the very snooty Carmel. And he said he'd never live in a McMansion.'

Before Cross left, Thad had consumed three no doubt very strong drinks. He promised he'd do anything he could to help Cross or the police find the murderer.

‘You have to go out for anything?' Cross asked as he headed toward the door.

‘No, why?'

‘Just thought if you needed anything I could pick it up.'

‘I have enough gin in the house.'

Cross stopped by the grocery on Illinois and 52nd and picked up a steak and a bottle of wine. Casey went out into the twilight and spent a little longer than usual. He must have caught the scent of something wild. The neighborhood had various critters roaming about: possums, squirrels, raccoons. As old as he was, the old hound couldn't resist the scent of the wild.

There was a call from Kowalski on the answering machine.

‘I have a wonderful evening planned. And I'd like to see the evening through. So don't kill anybody until tomorrow. But give me a quick call. Let me know where things stand.'

Cross called him.

‘Anything new?'

‘Not really. Nobody knows the female victim. But according to Marshall's best friend, the two wouldn't have been an item. Marshall Talbot was a saint.'

‘What's he doing with the Taupins?'

‘He wanted to save the daughter from herself,' Cross said.

‘You know the old bastard bought some land once. On it were a couple of buildings that were historic landmarks. That little problem would have prevented him from selling it for development. He had them torn down and then told the authorities that it was a mistake, the wrecking crew got the wrong address. Oops, it was all a big mistake. He paid a fine that was more than covered by the highly profitable sale price he got for the land once the obstacle of “historic status” had been removed.'

‘Nasty man.'

‘Lots of stories, but he wasn't exactly the mafia type.'

‘You're saying he wouldn't sink so low as to hire someone to make a hit?'

‘Morally, I don't think he'd quibble about having someone shot, but it's hard for me to imagine that he's that tough. It's a big jump from code violations or squeezing a business dry to bumping a guy off. He operated within the law, often barely and was willing to pay the price if caught.'

‘Never enter a battle you can't win . . .'

‘Right. Murder is a helluva risk.'

‘So is keeping you on the line.'

Cross might have thanked him for checking in, but Kowalski was someone else who didn't like sentimentality.

FIFTEEN

Morning rituals completed and nothing on the agenda, Shanahan went to the rooftop pool, which he and Maureen had to themselves. There was almost a hint of blue in the sky, and the air was not so rancidly thick as it would become as the day wore on. Maureen swam gracefully, effortlessly, it seemed. Shanahan watched until he was interrupted by a young man in a white shirt and black pants.

‘Are you Mr Shanahan?' the boy asked.

Told that he was, the boy handed Shanahan a note, scribbled in Thai. Shanahan recognized the phone number as Channarong's and assumed he was supposed to call him.