Dark Blonde (17 page)

“But it did. Don’t get me wrong, I have those ‘next thing I knew’ moments quite often. Go on.”

“I’m not sure I care for your sarcasm. Is it the usual way you deal with clients?”

“Only politicians. I’d apologize but I don’t think you’re really offended. So, after your mistakes with Gail, she started seeing shady characters?”

“Not just then. She had them hanging around in Omaha. She was extraordinarily promiscuous. Called herself a naughty nympho. Julia and her fought about it. It was like lighting a match to gasoline, those two together. There was underlying sibling rivalry over men from their youth in Omaha, and the Christy French relationship brought all of that to the surface. We didn’t see them socially after that, but Gail would sometimes go shopping with Julia. We married after a year. On our honeymoon Julia confessed that she married me for position, so I told her I only married her for looks, which wasn’t far from the truth. It wasn’t any great revelation, we’d talked around it for that year and it was pretty much understood, quid pro quo.”

“Uh huh.” In Latin or English, too much money ruins anything, I thought, or too much power. “You can skip this question if it bothers you, Mister Gateswood, but I need to know the exact nature of your relationship with Julia, in order to understand how I might locate her. You’re saying the marriage wasn’t for love. Does that mean it wasn’t consummated? She ate crackers in her own bed across the hall from yours. Did she know about you and Gail?”

Henry coughed into a handkerchief. The eyes that had been so guileless seemed less so and now held slightly more liquid than they had. He folded his long fingers and stared at his thumb. He clammed up, but I had my answer. What it had to do with the case was zero. I should have been worried right then that I’d ask such a question. Whether a woman was a virgin or not had never diverted me one way or another before. Wanting to understand Julia was behind half of my motivation.

“Yes, I did tell her. She seemed to think it was humorous. Said that Gail always wanted whatever she had, that it didn’t mean Gail found me attractive. I wanted to confront Gail, but after a few months she never came around much, just used the guesthouse now and then. As for our sex life, Julia’s and mine, I’d rather not get into that. But no, at least on Julia’s part, it wasn’t for love. I’d hoped to enjoy companionship with Julia. For me it was, I’m afraid, a coup of sorts, to have the stunning wife by my side, one I enjoyed and one that aided my political career. A widower doesn’t go far in public service.”

“A naked play for votes, then?”

He nodded and coughed into his handkerchief again. “Naked at first, but I grew fond of Julia beyond . . . well, beyond what I’d planned. I haven’t given her enough of my time. I’ve been stupid. I must find her, make things up. Our age difference needn’t matter, though lately she’s been using that as an excuse. She’s more or less gone her own way. I guess I don’t need to tell you that this is privileged communication. These matters involve nuances the authorities would not fully appreciate.”

Henry looked small and pitiful, slumped in his too-large ox-blood leather chair, pressing his hands together like a worried monk who’d run out of quills. It was difficult to imagine this little man speaking on the floor of the US Senate for all the citizens of Illinois.

“So, you decided after you married Julia to run for the vacant senate seat.”

“Actually Julia decided. I was pressured to run by my party and several in the House, but repeatedly said no. When Julia found out I’d turned them down, she gave me an ultimatum — run for the office or she’d leave me.”

A wave of tepid pity dampened my enthusiasm for investigating as I stood next to the fire and lit another cigarette. Who says pussy doesn’t have leverage?

I almost felt sorry for Henry Gateswood and all his position and wealth, but the feeling passed like a fleeting gas pain. Even as a man dedicated to using government to improve the lives of the common man, Henry had to swim in cesspools and use a meat cleaver to whack at overwhelming problems. For a man to win a senate seat is no small accomplishment, and from all that I’d heard from Kup and my research, Henry had kept his cuffs clean throughout his career. Now a woman was beheaded and stuffed in his guesthouse, his wife was world-class gorgeous but slept alone, except for calling on private dicks in the middle of the night. Even with all his wealth, Henry Gateswood hadn’t found joy in life, or in his marriage. His money didn’t buy the Julia that he most wished for, so he’d written her off as unbalanced. I suppose to some degree a lot of men are like Henry — they see the flash of a babe that lifts their self-esteem and are sucked in by that image of a female who winds up being a mismatch for who they really need. Mike Angel, philosopher of all things female, says so. I felt pretty old for 32.

“One other thing I’ve wondered about —
 
Gail and Julia, not very similar — no family resemblance, almost an Cain and Abel personality split. I wouldn’t have taken them for sisters.”

“They were raised by their aunt in Omaha who never would tell them much about their parents, except that the mother had abandoned them and the father committed suicide. Gail concocted a story about her father being a hero on Iwo Jima, and Julia subscribed to it, but there was never any evidence. Julia spent some time and money in Omaha last year to find out more about her natural parents. She came back very discouraged. I think up until six months ago she had a private investigator there looking into the matter.”

“Do you have his name and how I might contact him?”

“Certainly. Miss Mathews can get it for you.” Henry stood and buttoned his jacket. “I hate to cut this short but I’m wanted in a meeting downtown in two hours.” He walked to me and squeezed my arm and put his calm eyes close to mine. “Find her. Please. I’ll double what we’ve given you already. Just find her.”

Henry led me to an office off the kitchen where Miss Mathews blabbed on the phone. I thanked him, took a seat next to her desk and stared at her legs while she finished her call.

Whoever Miss Mathews was on the line with suddenly did most of the talking. Her color had returned. She kept saying yes and okay while her blue eyes flashed from the corner of the ceiling down to my eyes that were once again eating the fine-grained skin of her lovely legs. She shifted in her seat, crossed her legs and hitched her skirt up to show a patch of pink panties. She was putting on a carnal show, so I looked carnally. Watching me, a nice rosy hue crept up her neck, and she stopped glancing at the ceiling and rested her gaze on my lap, sliding her tongue back and forth over her lower lip. Miss Mathews liked being watched carnally.

Finally she hung up and straightened her skirt. She was all business now, maybe remembering the sting of my spanking. With hindsight, maybe she was excited recalling it. Dames like Dee Mathews cry out to be dominated, after which men grow to despise them, but they rarely choose men they can dominate. Lose-lose dynamic. Still, Dee had her devious side. And I had work to do and didn’t need to be wondering what she’d be like in the throes of unrestrained passion. Still, a wise man once said mousy dames make the best lovers. More dirty thoughts crept in from the sidelines, but I focused on the case.

“Henry said you have the only other key to the garage and his Mercedes besides Julia. Why do you need a key to the car?”

“Sometimes I take it in for servicing, when Henry’s out of town. Julia rarely drives it. She has her own 300 SL, which you’ve seen.” I wondered if it was just her foggy voice that my little head liked. And those legs. It was a puzzle that kept me in tow.

“Nice change to your hair,” I said, making her blush and emit a little tone from her throat. The once pixie style was now fluffed out more, making her seem less insignificant. “I’ll need to examine the garage and Henry’s car. Were the keys at any time out of your possession?”

“Why, no. I keep them in my purse. I have a hard time finding them there at times.”

“Can you check the key chain now for me?”

“Certainly.”

She opened her overly large purse and dug in it for her keys. For a woman with a small mouth, she did cute things with it. The only time she hadn’t acted jittery was when she was lying in my bed stark naked with an audience of one. Maybe she drank too much coffee and needed to get naked in front of private eyes more often.

“I’ll also need the name and phone number of the private investigator in Omaha that Julia hired to look up her family tree.”

Dee stopped digging in her purse and looked up with wide eyes. “What ever for?”

“Part of my investigation of Gail’s murder. What do you know of their upbringing?”

“It’s not my business to know such things. I’m here to handle the professional matters for Julia and Henry. You might not understand what being a professional is, Mister Angel.” She pulled out the keys and verified they were still on the chain. Then she spun a Rolodex and pulled out a card. “Would you like for me to write it down for you? You’re obviously the type of man who wants a woman to do it all.” She wrote the name and number on a slip of paper while I considered if I was that sort of man.

“Come now, cupcake. Don’t tell me you’re still mad about that little spanking. If I’d given in to you, just how professional would that have been?”

She put her hand on the back of her neck, lowered her chin and looked up at me with a sly smile. This woman had a lot of sides to her. Her eyes were a deeper blue today, a royal blue. Her perfume had changed too, along with her hairstyle. One of the Chanel numbered things. She chirped small bits of laughter. “Yes, I guess you’re right, as much as I hate to say so.” She slid closer and pursed her cherub lips close, resting her elbow on the desk, her taunting face in her hand. “But I know you were tempted. Very tempted. And I’m still curious about you, very curious. You could be the sort of man who likes to be walked on. Did you spank Julia that night?”

“I never kiss and tell, cupcake. But I’ll tell you what. Be a good efficient little bird and I may let you walk all over me sometime. I’d get a good view of the pretty legs while you’re doing it.”

“Brother — you have some fixation on my legs!” she said, thrusting her chin out and wrinkling her brow like a Chihuahua. “I do have other assets. If you hadn’t been so rude, I — ”

“Come now — why let’s argue about it, cupcake? Tomorrow’s another day. Help me solve this murder and Julia’s possible disappearance and who knows? You might have your curiosity satisfied.”

She sniffed and sat erect. “Don’t call me cupcake. I don’t wish to be another brainless tart of yours. And don’t tease me!”

“You don’t seem too worried about your employer being missing two days.”

 
“She’s done this before, stayed out all night, and although it’s none of my business where she goes, I heard her tell Mister Gateswood once she was hunting for her sister. A woman like that — well, I advised Julia that Gail was a lost cause, but she brushed me off.”

“I gather you disapproved of Gail’s lifestyle then?”

“You ask stupid questions. Now, follow me and I’ll show you the garage and Mister Gateswood’s Mercedes and you can get out of here. I have a lot more calls to make and I’m sure Julia will turn up somewhere. She always has.”

Little mousy was pussycat to bitch in five seconds.

When she stood and turned to walk to the rear hall, I gave her ass a little pat. There was just enough give, not firm, not flabby. I liked the feel of it, but if she liked it or no, she didn’t show it. She kept snapping those scissors legs with quick little steps and I followed her out the side portico and down the walk past the guesthouse to the garage. Besides the overhead doors, which operated on automatic openers, there was a side door with a lock that showed no signs of tampering. Neither did the car reveal anything amiss. Miss Mathews folded her arms under her tight little breasts, leaned on a Bentley and smirked as I examined the Mercedes.

When I was done I blocked the door and asked Dee a few more questions about Brockway, French and Julia’s nighttime habits. I might as well have been questioning a rock. I thanked her and turned to go. She reached out and gave me a little pat on the ass, just like the one I’d given her. If I liked it or no, I didn’t show it either. Being with Miss Mathews was like playing house back in fifth grade. I knew if I hung around her too much, she’d take me in the basement and show me hers and then want to see mine. It was the way things always started with that sort of girl. Morbid curiosity, endless comparisons.

Rick was slurping java at his desk when I got to the office. He hadn’t shaved. The sport section of the
Trib
was spread over his lap, the remains of a box of donuts sat near and he was sucking on his pipe. The office reeked of cherry blend.

He puffed a cloud from the briar hanging on his eye tooth and pronounced without taking it out of his mouth, “Kup’s column today: ‘Why the Cubs won’t ever win the series.’ Interesting theories from fans who think next year will be the year.”

I sat on the corner of his desk and flicked my finger on the page. “When you haven’t won it since 1908, it fools you into thinking you’re due. Didn’t think you’d get back from Milwaukee so soon. Find the Peterman widow?”

“Yes, through her son. She’s remarried to a banker. Milo Peterman suffered from a heart condition for years but never told his employer or anyone except her. So his death looks clean, at least.”

“What about the French matter? Did he ever say anything to her about it?”

“I’m getting there. Her son did. Evidently her husband was a teetotaler but hit the sauce heavily right after that time and rambled on one night about how he’d never fixed up a record until forced to one time for some ‘powerful crooks.’ She never found out just what he was talking about because he keeled over right after that. She said he’d been haunted by the safety of his son, who was sixteen at the time.”

“She blink at the name Christy French?”

“Not even one eye. Said he never talked about his work until he’d swam in the hooch, then rambled and wouldn’t tell who or why. I found her son first. He lives nearby and when I asked him about French, he said that two men had given him some fish story one day after school and drove him up to Watertown and kept him there two days in a motel, then drove him back and let him go at his house. They used the name French once. He said his dad had told his mother he’d been camping with friends.”

“Did he describe the men or catch any other names?”

“Just one. Marv. Said they were tough looking and muscle-bound and didn’t use names much, but overheard one guy yelling at the other. He also said he could identify the men for certain, but that he’d promised his father not to mention it to anyone. He said his father was very afraid.”

“Marv’s a name I won’t forget — Whipple employs a no-neck baboon by that name. Marvin the neck thumper. I owe him. That might tie Whipple in with French’s fake death certificate. Go on.”

“That’s it. Enough, I’d think, to shine doubt on who died in the Waukegan fire. If the kid’s Marv is your Whipple’s Marv, then Whipple extorted Milo Peterman into falsifying French’s death certificate, so French could elude conviction for involvement in the ’60 police scandal. My nose tells me Kermit Brockway fits into this somewhere, too, I just don’t know how yet.”

 
“Yeah,” I said, spreading the blinds and looking down onto Addison Avenue. “Dental records missing, some poor stiff in that Waukegan house fire won’t ever get a decent burial, Julia kidnapped, possibly by the sadistic killer or killers of her sister. French on the loose. What a balled up mess. Sometimes I long for the days of boring insurance fraud cases when I follow stiffs in body casts around to see if they chop wood or dance the dipsy-doodle.”

“Christy French would be first in line for motive. Whatever went wrong between French and Gorovoy, it was bad enough for her to testify against him. French could have killed Gail, and was strong enough to cart the body to the guesthouse and aid his boy Whipple by embarrassing the Gateswoods. It fits his brutal and conniving reputation. Gail had access to the guesthouse, so he could have easily used her key. But why would he stick around Chicago after the authorities have declared him dead? Wholly unwise, if you ask this aging detective.”

“Disguise maybe. And more revenge to extract. Being dead’s the perfect cover, eh Sherlock? French could wreak revenge on his old enemies without being suspect. One being Henry and Julia Gateswood. Henry denied ever meeting French, but I sensed he held back. If he’s keeping mum because he knows French is still walking around, then he’s not as wise as I thought. Gail betrayed French. She also did the bone dance with Henry a couple of times, that much Henry confessed. It’s all turning into multiple triangles. Deep shit. Still, I doubt a thug like French would’ve been into Greek tragedy and the irony of Antigone and Isthene. Why don’t you find out if Christy and Henry’s tracks ever crossed before Henry married Julia. Also, see if Burk can make you a list of known cronies of French, especially any enemies, in uniform or out. A guy like that had to make some bad blood in 20 years. Look into any brutal killings since French’s faked roast that might fit his M.O. Only Peterman and Whipple would have known French was still alive. Possibly some of Whipple’s boys, although if the Outfit went to all the trouble to fake French’s death, the two-bit thugs wouldn’t be told. So, if French didn’t die in that fire, Whipple and the Teamsters and the mob could have used him for any number of dirty jobs.”

“Aye, aye. You’re the senior partner, though painfully junior on the calendar. One has to race ahead mentally and ask just where the infamous Christy French might recluse? I have reservations about Whipple being so gauche as to contact French directly, but now that Whipple’s out of the race, there may be a reunion to clean up messy details. I’d like to know just what Whipple knows about Gail’s death and the fair Julia’s disappearance. I don’t see him as the actual killer. This Marv thug, maybe we could snap a photo of him and his sidekick and I could pass it by the young Peterman for verification?”

“Good idea. I’ll take that little Leica with me in case I get the chance. Once we know it’s the same man, we can find out where Marv lives and pay him a visit. He might even lead us to Julia Gateswood.” I handed Rick the slip of paper Dee had given me. “I’d also like you to reach an investigator in Omaha that Julia hired a year ago to look into her mother. Seems the girls were abandoned after their father’s suicide. They were raised by an aunt, or so Henry says. The girls seem too different to be sisters. Although you’re the expert on genetics.”

“Siblings can indeed appear to come from different planets. What’s the angle there?”

“Maybe nothing. Maybe something in the girls’ past that might be of use.”

“I could fly down there in a couple of hours.”

“No need. I’m hoping the codger will take pity on us big city dicks and help out with a call. Use your NYU charm on the man. If you have to go down, let me know.”

“Affirmative. You’ve certainly stacked up my homework. What do you aim to be doing while I’m searching through musty files? Chasing Molly around the office?”

“I’ll be staking out Whipple’s estate, watching who comes and goes and maybe shadowing him. That’s where his thugs took me. If Whipple’s behind things, he’s not in it alone. I should pick up something. I’d like you to keep checking with the answering service, as I might not be close to a phone for a while. If Henry’s contacted by whoever took Julia, I’d like for one of us to follow up.”

I told Rick about Julia’s nighttime surprise visit, her disappearance, the bloody glove, and Henry’s claim that Julia had become unbalanced. He listened attentively to the part about the full-length mink and Julia’s passions. Was she good? Yes, very good. Was I having second thoughts about Molly? No, still stuck on Molly. Julia was a one-time deal, not something I sought beyond normal curiosity and total, hypnotic, cataclysmic lust.

I told him too about spanking Miss Mathews and what a strange little chameleon she was. Part of being partners is sharing all the boy stuff. Or, at least, that’s what Rick always says. It doesn’t take much sharing to make the old boy happy. He wants to know about any brush I have with any female, even though he fully encourages me to be with and appreciate Molly. Rick Anthony’s a good example of a man whose sex drive ramped up the older he got, but also one who lives most of those pleasures vicariously.