Little Easter (12 page)

“I’ll talk a lot. I’ll let them stop ya, if ya won’t let me,” my voice cracked as if puberty was late in arriving. “I’ll tell ’em that you killed O’Toole. I’ll tell ’em anything I have to.”

“They won’t listen,” he yawned. “Here,” he handed me the phone, “call.”

“I can prove you withheld evidence,” I took up his challenge and the phone. “In fact I bet you’re carrying that evidence with you in the shape of a diamond heart. Try explaining that away.”

The corner of his mouth twitched as a drop of sweat rolled off his upper lip. The granite cracked.

“You won’t do that,” MacClough fingered off the sweat. “You’ll be hanging yourself. You were the one who lied to the cops. You were the one who held back the jewelry. All I have to say is I was holding the heart for you, that I didn’t know where it came from or who it was for.”

“You’re wrong, Johnny. I’ll do it. Whatever it takes. I’ll do it.” Puberty struck again. “When all is said and done, the stink that gets raised will be enough to warn anybody off.”

“Why don’t you just call my alleged victim and warn him straight out?” Johnny smirked sardonically.

“Because that’ll make you a target. And that’s the only thing I won’t do. I don’t want any killing with you on either side of the gun barrel,” I shook my head no. “Why don’t you just give it to the cops and let them take care of it.”

“The cops!” MacClough’s hearty laugh was lined in sadness. “The cops wouldn’t be able to pin this on the Gan-dolfos with shoestring and bubblegum. I’m somewhat familiar with how both sides work. Anyway, even if they managed to make a case, the Gandolfos’ whore mouthpieces would shoot it down before it ever got to trial. No, Klein, this is old business. My business.”

I couldn’t really dispute Johnny’s arguments. He knew the cops and I knew the lawyer. We were at an impasse and the body at our feet wasn’t going to keep forever. I called 911, gave my name and suggested the coroner be alerted. We waited.

At the distant squawking of sirens, John Francis spoke up: “When the locals show, play along with me. Play along and you’ll get your answers.”

“When?”

“You’ll get your answers,” he repeated, ignoring my schedule request. “But I can’t let you stop me.”

“Fair enough,” I extended my hand for a shake.

He shook it and pulled my right ear close to his lips. “I loved her, Klein.”

Lots of feet were crushing the snow on the stoop now. Fists knocked on the door and bells chimed like Big Ben with a sore throat. Discordant voices shouted, “Police. Open up.” MacClough pushed me away, took out his detective’s shield and started marching to the entrance. Halfway down the shadowed hall, he turned back to me.

“Christ, I really loved her,” he shook his head. “Don’t forget. Play along.” He continued up the hallway.

Sure I was going to play along. Didn’t Johnny know? I’d been playing along most of my life.

Polyester Suits, Dacron Shirts,
Nylon Socks and Vinyl Shoes

I played along. I was still without answers, but I played along. God, it was scary to see the ease with which MacClough manipulated the uniforms. Uniformed cops, in spite of their resentment and envy, can act awfully like novice priests in the presence of the Pope when presented with the gold and enamel of a detective’s shield. They can’t help themselves. From their first day on the job they shoot for that shield. They shoot for the day they can dress in polyester suits, dacron shirts, nylon socks and vinyl shoes. They shoot for the day when someone can kiss
their
rings. It’s funny. It didn’t seem to matter that Johnny was retired and that he was supposed to have returned the shield and that he was two counties removed from his former jurisdiction. It didn’t seem to matter and he knew it.

The Suffolk Homicide detectives were considerably less impressed, but MacClough was light on his feet. Now it was his turn to kiss some ass and kiss some ring and genuflect till his knees got sore. This song and dance wasn’t as much fun as watching Johnny control the uniforms, but it worked just as well. These guys seemed pretty receptive to our cock and bull story.

My words were just a variation on a theme. I was going to throw my buddy, John MacClough, a party celebrating five years of retirement. Unfortunately, I wasn’t well acquainted with his old sleuthing pals. So, I was making the rounds of his ex-partners and such, trying to enlist their help. O’Toole was just one name on this list I had. We’d spoken once before and had agreed to meet soon. He’d called me this morning to say it was a good day for him. When I showed up, the door was open and he was dead. I guess I panicked a little and called MacClough. He came straight away and that’s when I called the cops. Johnny stood firmly at my right shoulder throughout my telling, shaking his head in religious agreement.

We both knew the story would hold up. The phone records would show the O’Toole call to me and mine to Johnny. The times of our separate arrivals would check out. And, if the Suffolk detectives bothered checking on my party yarn, they’d find a half-dozen New York City cops who’d testify that I had, in fact, approached them with that concept. Things were going just swimmingly considering I’d just found my second body in as many months. But such smooth sailing has never been in my stars.

I recognized the belly even before its bearer was entirely through the front door. Detective Sergeant Mickelson shook a few hands, slapped a few backs and walked right up to me. He could see the consternation in my eyes. He liked that. I could see that in his.

“Well, well, Mr. Klein,” he feigned surprise and shook my hand. “Palm’s a little sweaty for such a cold day.”

“Finding bodies sort of unnerves me.”

“Shit, Klein, I thought you’d be getting pretty used to it by now,” the fat detective needled. “If you were as good at finding crude oil as bodies, the fucking Arabs would go broke.”

I decided to jump out of the hole he was digging me. “Yeah and if you were as good at police work as you are at eating, the world would be crime free.”

“Okay, cocksucker,” Mickelson put his face in mine, “let’s hear this week’s bullshit story.”

He heard it. He didn’t like it. But he wasn’t going to like it anyway. That was his
schtick.

“You’re improving, Klein,” Buddha belly complimented. “At least this time I can almost believe you. Who knows, by the time you find your next carcass maybe you’ll be good enough to fool me.”

“We live in hope.” I smiled.

“You know, Klein, that broad you found on the train platform’s got a real interesting biography,” the enlightened detective switched gears and bodies.

“Really? No, I didn’t know that.”

“It’s fascinating stuff,” he prodded. “And you know what?”

“What?”

“When I’m done with it, it’s gonna lead right to your friend’s door,” he pointed across the room at MacClough. “I feel it in my belly. And—”

“—your belly’s never wrong,” I cut him off and finished. “There’s always a first time.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, “but this ain’t it. I’m gonna tie this all together into one pretty little bundle. And when I do, your ass and his’ll be tucked neatly inside.”

“Thanks for the warning, Detective,” I scratched my ass and yawned to cover the turmoil in my intestines. “Can I go now?”

“You can go,” Mickelson granted my request. “Klein!” he called me back. “Isn’t there anything you can tell me now? Maybe I can keep you clear of the fallout and soften your buddy’s fall. No cop likes to see another cop . . . You know what I mean.”

“I know,” I shook my head that I understood. “Mickelson,” I whispered in his ear, “go fuck yourself.” I walked away before the fat man could react.

Mickelson was right. His fucking belly was right. All roads led to John Francis MacClough. I was taking one of those roads when an amused detective shooed me away. MacClough was off limits to me currently. He was too busy entertaining the troops with old war stories from his days on the job to be bothered with the trivia that was me. I get interrogated and he gets laughs. Good thing I never labored under the illusion of fairness.

On my way out, the forensic team relieved me of some of my wardrobe; my green ramie sweater and motorcycle jacket. Nitrate tests again! I was pissed. It was too cold out for this crap. Last time the clothing had been Johnny’s. The cops said it couldn’t be avoided. I saw Mickelson where I’d left him, laughing at my predicament. That was better. Now I was getting laughs, too. Maybe life was fair. I smiled. I left.

Jackie Robinson and Babe Ruth

For a guy who was trying to convert himself from an insurance investigator into a writer, I sure didn’t spend much time in libraries. I never had. I never would. It wasn’t that I hated little index cards. Oh, I did hate them, but it went deeper than that. It wasn’t that I didn’t get the Dewey Decimal System. I didn’t. It went back to sixth grade when I took two books—
The Jackie Robinson Story
and
The Babe Ruth Story
—that were months overdue and threw them down a sewer behind my elementary school. I didn’t have the money to pay for the late charges nor did I have the courage to ask my folks for the bread. I almost asked Larry Feld, but decided the sewer maneuver would cost me less in the end. I hadn’t had a public library card since. Guilt is a great mystery to me.

Like most of the older buildings in Sound Hill, the library bore a huge metal plaque on one of its flanks declaring it a sight of some historic importance. The Rusty Scupper had such a plaque. It had been a whalers’ meeting hall. The library building had once housed the whale meat, blubber and oil collected by Conrad Dugan’s fleet. Now it housed just so many copies of
Moby Dick.

Once inside the old warehouse, I didn’t bother with the pretense of fumbling about and looking lost. I went straight to the front desk. The woman there was fortyish, somber and busy reading
The Wasteland and Other Poems
by T.S. Eliot. Just some light and cheery stuff for a snowy winter’s day. I wondered if her idea of romance was dissecting small woodland creatures. No, I decided, nothing that fluffy.

She wasn’t a stranger to me nor I to her. In a village the size of Sound Hill, anonymity is just dreamed about. It’s probably the only aspect of New York City life Sound Hillians envied. Sometimes, like now maybe, it was the one thing I missed.

“You’re that Klein fellow,” she snapped and pointed, laying T.S. to rest with respect. At least she didn’t kiss the cover first. “You found the dead woman on Christmas Eve,” she raised an eyebrow, noticing I was without jacket or sweater or proper shirt.

“That’s me,” I winked, “Miss . . . Emery,” I read off the engraved, black laminate nameplate, trying to ignore my T-shirt as an issue.

“Miss Emery passed on when I was in high school,” she tisked tisked me. “We keep that nameplate as a memorial to her years of dedicated service.”

Ain’t small town life a grand thing?

“Sorry, Ms. . .” I reached around the corners of my memory. Just because I knew her face didn’t mean I knew her name, “Piper. Ms. Piper.”

“
Miss
Piper,” she fairly hissed.

I hadn’t killed O’Toole, but a few more minutes of this and the next stiff Mickelson and I chatted over
would
be a product of my handiwork!

“Look, Miss Piper, I need some help,” I pulled out the old newspaper clipping and laid it in front of her. “This is from the
New York Times
about twenty, twenty-five years ago—”

“It have anything to do with that murder?”

I almost asked which one, but realized she could only mean Azrael’s.

“Could be,” I winked again. I was a good winker. “Official stuff. Hush-hush,” I put my index finger vertically across my lips.

“Why didn’t you just say so?” Ms. Piper nearly flew out from behind her desk. “Come with me.”

I had her. She was hooked. Secretly, everyone thinks they’re Sherlock Holmes. I was kind of partial to Dr. Watson myself.

Out from behind the dark, burdensome desk, Miss Piper displayed a pert, gangly stride that would have been considered cute in her teens. Now it just seemed awkward. My secret Sherlock was pleasantly shaped, slightly bowed at the knees and a little long in the neck. Her face had never been called pretty by anyone besides her relatives, but no one had ever cowered in fear at the sight either. Her hair was mousy brown and wavy, falling here and there about her shoulders. Piper’s eyes were dull copper buttons and the left one sort of drifted away from her nose. She was the type of woman I could just as easily sleep with as walk past in the street.

“Here we go,” she beckoned me to sit before a blue-lighted screen. “All the issues of the
Times
are on these shelves. Your time-frame issues are in this group here. Let me show you how to work this thing.” Piper plucked out a sheet of microfilm, placed it on a tray beneath the screen and expertly manipulated the print. “You try.”

I tried, getting the hang of it rather quickly. She hung over my shoulder to make sure. I liked the way she smelled. God, I was easy.

“Good,” Miss Piper patted my back. Maybe I was going to get a gold star. “We had a reporter on the
Times
once,” she offered, her voice half full of pride. I couldn’t be sure about the other half. “Do you know Kate Barnum?”

“No,” I lied and played dumb. I was better at those things than winking.

“Are you certain you don’t know her? She writes for the
Whaler
now.”

“That’s quite switch,” I turned to Miss Piper.

“That’s a kind way to put it, Mr. Klein.” The other half of the librarian’s voice was sounding kind of nasty.

“How would you put it, Miss Piper?”

“I would call it more of a fall than a switch. Yes,” she seemed to be searching the ceiling for approval, “most decidedly a fall, a very big fall.”

I tended to agree and fed her a few syllables of encouragement: “That’s a shame.”

“You
are
too kind.” She was properly encouraged. “Kate Barnum has no one to blame but herself. The way she was with boys in school, it’s no wonder her first husband kicked her right out. Drove her second husband to suicide. Now I’m no gossip . . .”

“Of course not,” I pushed a tad harder. Why is it that the guilty always deny the obvious?