Fools Rush In (The Sam McCain Mysteries Book 7) (20 page)

“Even a detective from Cliffie’s office could figure this one out. And even if he can’t, the DA can.”

“I hear you’re trying to get into her panties,” Will said.

“And I hear you don’t wear any panties, Will.”

And the troops arrived. A doc and two nurses. They swept in as if they had been dispatched by Divine Providence. One of the nurses pushed a wheelchair.

The doc didn’t deign to look at me or Will. To James, he said, “I’m afraid we’ll have to run some more tests on you, Mr. Neville.”

“When can I get the catheter out?” James said. No wonder he’d been grimacing.

Will glanced at me and said sotto voce, “That’s got to hurt.” And then he pointed to his crotch in case I hadn’t heard.

Both nurses scowled in Will’s direction.

“I’ll wait out in the hall,” I said.

Nobody was crying, there were no code blues, nobody was wheeled past in the last stages of their lives. The three or four times I’d been in the hospital I’d enjoyed myself. When I was a small boy, I got Green Lantern and Captain Marvel comic books. And when I was older, I got the names and phone numbers of several nursing students who later proved to be damn good dates.

But as the years pass, hospital visits start to get grim. No more bad tonsils and busted legs from sliding into second in the kids’ league. Now you’re into the real business of hospitals: hushing up and sanitizing the process of death. But every once in a while all the hushing-up fails and you get a glimpse of a frightened doctor or the knife-sharp sob of a loved one or the stark stink of bowels bursting at the point of death itself.

The irony of standing in a hospital hall smoking a cigarette, after several years of the surgeon general pounding home the connection between cancer and heart attack and cigarettes, wasn’t lost on me. If I ever managed to get married and have kids, would they be standing in this very hall twenty, thirty years down the line wishing that the old man in the room behind them had never taken up the devil weed?

The nurse pushed the wheelchair carrying James Neville out of the room and down the hall. Then came the doc and the other nurse. Both heading to the elevator, too. No sign yet of Will.

When I entered the room, he was standing by the window, looking down at the activity in the parking lot.

“I know you think we’re dumb,” he said, knowing who was there without turning around. “But that don’t mean it hurts any less.”

“Richie?”

“He was a good kid.”

“Then help me catch his killer.”

He swung his large head around and looked at me. “Can’t. We say anything it’s like confessing we were in on it.”

“I wouldn’t have to tell anybody what you told me.”

“James says you’re a liar. I say you are, too.”

“I guess I won’t be getting invited to your family reunion, huh?”

“I get sick of your jokes.”

“I get sick of them sometimes, too. But what makes me real sick is somebody getting away with murder. A lot of crimes go unsolved, you know.”

“Not murder.”

“You’re wrong, Will. Lots of murders go unsolved. The cops call them ‘open files.’ But ‘open’ really means the opposite. ‘Closed.’ They give up on them.”

“Maybe in the big city.”

I lit another smoke. “Remember when the two Furnish girls were found beaten to death in the woods? All the publicity that got? They still haven’t found the killer.”

He looked back at the parking lot below.

“You and your brother had a lot of responsibility here, Will. It was you two who got him into this blackmail thing and you damn well know it. He’d be alive today if it wasn’t for you two.”

“Shut your face.”

“James runs the same kind of setup in Chicago and then he brings it out here to Richie. Sort of like a franchise. Like the Dairy Queen or something.”

We didn’t talk for a while.

“I need to know if anybody hassled Richie over being blackmailed. Did anybody get mad? Did anybody try to hurt him? Did anybody threaten to go to the law? You’re running out of chances here, Will. I gave you a chance to talk while I was at your apartment. Now I’m giving you another chance.”

“You don’t give a shit about Richie. You just want to find out who killed him—for your own sake.”

“You’re being real stupid here, Will. Real stupid. You’ve already lost a brother. Maybe you and James will lose your freedom, too. Going to prison.”

There was nothing more to say. I stood there staring at his back for a few more seconds and then I left.

When I got to the ground floor, I found an open phone booth and called the judge’s house. A year ago her longtime employee had decided to retire to Florida and in his place she now had a chauffeur/functionary who seemed to think he was also her press secretary. Stingy he was with info, Aaron Towne.

“How’s she doing?”

“Just about how you’d think she’d be doing.”

“Well, at least she was able to go home. I imagine the master bedroom looks like a hospital room.”

“We’ve been able to make it serve her needs.”

“You know something, Aaron?”

“I’m not sure I appreciate that tone.”

“Well, I don’t really give a shit what you appreciate or not. She’s not only my boss, she’s my friend.”

“If you’re such a good friend of hers, why did she give me specific instructions not to bring her your calls or let you in the door?”

“Because she’s embarrassed, that’s why. Because she’s lonely and afraid and ashamed and she needs to talk to me more than ever.”

“Well, she won’t talk to you. And I won’t ask her to. She spends way too much time worrying about you as it is.”

“What? She worries about me?”

“She worries that you’ll never really get ahead as a lawyer. She worries that you resent the important people in this town to the point where it holds you back. And she worries that you’ll be as unhappy in love as she’s been.”

Four husbands. At least she knew whereof she spoke.

“I see.”

“So right now seeing her would be unwise—both for you and for her.”

But right now I wasn’t listening all that carefully. I was thinking of that imperious, elegant middle-aged woman worrying about me. I’d never had much of a hint that she considered me any more important to her than the milkman. Probably less, because she really liked milk.

“Please give her a message for me, Aaron.”

“If it’s the right kind of message.”

“Tell her that I’m really eager to see her and that she’s in my thoughts and prayers constantly.”

“I guess I could tell her that.”

“You’re such a swell guy, Aaron.”

“I know you’re being sarcastic, McCain.”

“Gosh,” I said, “how could you tell?”

I
WAS DOING MY
Philip Marlowe routine—feet up on the desk, pipe in my mouth, copy of Mr. Hefner’s latest fitting nicely between my hands—when he appeared in my doorway. This was just after five. Jamie had gone home and the office was quiet, especially since I’d taken the phone off the hook.

“I didn’t realize you were an intellectual,” Senator Williams said, nodding at the magazine.

“I’ve looked at all the pictures several times. Now I’m actually reading it.”

“I’m told they do have a good article or two on occasion.” He walked in and said, “Mind if I sit down?”

“Of course not.”

I’d never seen him this dressed down. Button-down yellow shirt, brown belt, brown slacks. His hair was wind-mussed, too. He’d almost lost that senatorial pose he lived inside.

He seemed to be as nervous as I was about his visit. I wasn’t sure what he wanted.

“Thanks for dropping those negatives off at my office today. I’m sorry I didn’t make it last night.”

“That’s fine. I survived. So what can I help you with today?”

“I need to ask you something, Sam.”

“All right.”

“Are you sure those were the only negatives you had with my name on the envelope?”

“Sure. I gave you everything I had.”

“And you didn’t look at them?”

“No, I didn’t. I kept my word.”

He started leaning forward, sliding his hand behind him, apparently to retrieve his wallet.

“I have money, Sam. Plenty of money. I’m sure Esme doesn’t pay you all the money in the world.”

“Why are you offering me money?”

He paused and then said, “We’re sort of talking in code here.”

“We are?”

“Look, Sam. I know you held the rest of those negatives back. Make a little money for yourself. I don’t blame you. You’re the one who’s really done most of the work on this matter. But now I need the rest of the negatives.” This time he succeeded in getting his wallet out. “I brought plenty of money, Sam. So let’s talk about me getting the rest of the negatives and you getting the seven hundred dollars in my wallet here.”

“Don’t bother with any money. First of all, I wouldn’t want it even if I had the negatives—”

Anger in those cold, disapproving eyes. He had restrained himself as long as he could. “Even if you had the negatives? Where the hell are they?”

“I don’t know what negatives you’re talking about.”

He sat back in his chair, folded his hands in his lap, and just stared at me. His lips were white and his eyes moments from expressing the rage I could feel even across the desk.

“You really expect me to believe this bullshit?”

“And what bullshit would that be?”

“You’re as bad as Neville. And since you’re smarter than he was, your price will probably be higher, too.”

“You think I’m shaking you down for the negatives?”

“What the hell else would you be doing?”

“Get the hell out of here.”

“What?”

“You heard what I said. I’m not putting up with this crap. I don’t shake people down. And I don’t have the negatives you’re talking about.”

“Then where the hell are they?”

Then: “Oh, shit.” He rubbed his face. I was pretty sure I heard him sob. He dropped his hand. “Listen, I owe you an apology.”

“Yeah, you do.”

“You’d be as overwrought as I am if you were in my spot.”

“Maybe. But I’d be a lot more careful of making accusations.”

He sighed. Rubbed his face again.

“So you don’t have any idea where they are?”

“If I did, I’d go get them.”

“Yes, I suppose you would.”

He snapped up from his chair and walked over to the window. “There’re spies everywhere.” Then he turned to me and smiled. “How paranoid does that sound?”

“I imagine it’s true.”

“My worthy opponent’s got just as many gumshoes and political ops on me as I have on him.”

“You think it was one of them who slugged me?”

“I’d say it was a good possibility, wouldn’t you?”

“Maybe.”

He came back and sat down. That sudden explosion of energy had seemed to drain him.

“I can still win. If we can get those negatives back before they get to the wrong people.”

“How’s Lucy?”

He looked shocked that I’d brought her up. My God, we were talking about his career and I’d had the nerve to drag in something as trivial as his daughter’s well-being?

He waved me off. “Oh, you know, still moping. She’s like her mother. Everything’s my fault. Now her mother’s telling me if I’d been a more ‘loving’ father maybe Lucy wouldn’t be so—disturbed.” He made a face. “‘Disturbed’ is the code word. There’s some clinical insanity on my wife’s side of the family. Dementia in two of her sisters. I think we may be looking at something clinical with Lucy. Not as severe as dementia but certainly some kind of serious dysfunction mentally.”

So who could blame
him
if his daughter’s misery was genetic? He was blameless as always.

He stood up. He seemed lost, not quite sure where he was. “I thought it’d be so easy. I’d just come down here and get the negatives tonight. I thought I’d be all done with this. But it’s still going on, isn’t it?”

He went to the door. “If you find any more negatives, call me right away, Sam. Please. I’ll pay you anything for them. Anything you ask.”

“If I find any more negatives pertaining to you, I’ll hand them over to you. No charge. Again, I’m not in the shakedown business.”

He stared out into the hallway. “It used to be so damned easy for me, Sam. Everything was. But not anymore. Not anymore.” He sounded ghostly.

And then, head bent like a penitent’s, he slowly left the building.

I sat there for a few minutes wondering what was going on. Certainly something was. Williams was terrified of negatives that weren’t in his file. I doubted that the pictures he was after had to do with his adulterous affair. Presumably, those were the ones I’d given him.

What other kind of photos would shake him up this badly? I spent twenty minutes trying to finish off some paperwork. But concentration came hard. Too hard.

Preparing my papers for tomorrow was easier than reading briefs. I shoved papers into appropriate file folders and shoved the file folders into my briefcase.

I finally hung up the receiver and the phone rang instantly.

Jane said, breathlessly: “I was just about ready to come over there and get you. Get over to the hospital right away.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Somebody snuck into James Neville’s room and killed him.”

F
LASHING EMERGENCY LIGHTS IMBUED
the three-story brick building with a blanched red hue. Cops were stationed at both side doors, two at the front. A crowd had already gathered. Some of them were probably visitors on their way home when all the alarms went off.

The cops recognized me and waved me through. I took the interior stairs rather than the elevator. I never ride when I can walk. There’s something coffinlike about elevators that has always scared me a little.

The west wing of the third floor was in chaos. There was a sense that this part of the hospital had been invaded.

Patients were being wheeled out of their rooms and steered to the east wing. The police business would go on for hours. Not exactly a relaxing atmosphere for people recovering from gall bladder surgery or even more deadly operations.

Nurses, a pair of doctors, and a janitor were being interviewed by one of Jane’s young assistants. She’d increased her staff by three.