Lullaby of Murder (24 page)

“One of the things the inspector keeps hammering at is why Alexander would open the office door to someone of whom he was that afraid. Now we see he not merely opened the door, but went into the hall and back again. It’s probably irrelevant whether he left the door open or not. Did he carry a revolver at this point?”

“Yes,” Julie said. “He took it out of the copy box the minute Butts left him.”

“And kept it within reach from then on. So how did his assailant get hold of it?”

“By drawing his own gun first,” Julie suggested.

Marks was staring at her. “Go on.”

“Maybe that wasn’t necessary,” she amended. “Tony wanted something terribly and he must have thought that someone was about to deliver it to him. It’s possible that they both had to examine it. Or that Tony needed to use his hands to get it out of a container.”

“And what was in the container?”

“I’m pretty sure it was pornographic film of Patti Royce,” Julie said and then immediately backed off again. “I shouldn’t say that, Lieutenant. It’s guesswork all the way down the line.”

“But educated guesswork. You didn’t pick up on my saying we thought the mob might have wanted Alexander set up for his killer. So it didn’t surprise you, did it?”

“Not really.”

“Then you know that Patti Royce is Mafia owned.”

“Ron Morielli?”

“His sister may also own a piece. And you may be onto something with the porn film bit, but that’s all I’m going to say about it for now.”

“I’ll bet the sister and Patti did a lesbian turn-on at the Tripod,” Julie said.

Marks sighed deeply. “You are over-educated.” He rubbed out the cigarette. “I have a big favor to ask of you, Julie. I’m asking you to go no further with your own investigations.”

“Why?”

“I’ll be honest with you. It was one thing when the two women were prime suspects. But as things are now, you could do us more harm than good. We need time and space. We can’t move in like a free-wheeling amateur could. What we do, we’ve got to make stick.”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant Marks, but I can’t stop now. I have an assignment from the newspaper I work for. They’re paying me to do the job I’m doing.”

Marks flushed and a little white outline became visible around his lips. “We can’t spare the men to protect you, Julie.”

“I’m not expecting you to. I’m not a witness to anything.”

“All right,” Marks said. “It’s up to you. But I’m going to tell you something I didn’t intend to until now: the mob moved in on Butts and his marathon dance not because they saw him registering contestants, but because that’s one of Sweets Romano’s enterprises—the protection racket. It’s the mark of an old time gangster. You set Butts up for him with your phone call asking about the Garden of Roses.”

M
ARKS HAD ONCE AGAIN
made it impossible for her to sleep. It did not help to try to deny his information. It did not work to tell herself that Romano was above the petty strong-arm gangsterism of the protection racket. Or that he would not take advantage of an inquiry that came from her. And the hypocrisy of saying he admired Butts’ quixotic war on drugs was the most disillusioning. As though illusions about Mafiosi were allowed.

The real betrayer she should be concerned with was herself. No, that was excessive, though what it was an excess of she wasn’t certain. She was feeling sorry for Butts, that much was clear; and that was better than feeling sorry for herself. Only when she made up her mind to visit Butts again in the morning was Julie able to get through to her mantra and ease herself into sleep with the remembered, repetitive sound of the sea.

HE SHOOK HER HAND
vigorously and proclaimed himself delighted that she had come to see him again. The carpenters were gone, the painters had come. He took her into the arena with the dance run circling them. “I’ve decided against the strobe lighting,” he said. “It’s not supposed to look grand or glamorous. Nothing more than adequate—and safe. The whole character of the dance marathon is in its intimacy, people sharing a dance for survival.” She could now detect a kind of desperation in his hype, but there was courage in it also. He turned her around to see where rows of seats that looked to have been salvaged in the demolition of an old movie house were tiered on platforms. “How many seats?”

“Two hundred. Not allowed to have more.” He shrugged resignedly. “It’s the comfort facilities; we need them all for the contestants and I can’t afford to install more.”

“How many contestants?”

“We closed out at four hundred. Except for standbys. Are you surprised at the number?”

Julie shook her head.

“Shall we go to the office? It’s more comfortable than here. No paint. Can’t afford that either. Oh, I’m not complaining. I’m blessed in having got this far without my poor friend Jay to guide me.”

In the office where the clutter had become monumental, Butts removed a stack of handbills from a chair so that Julie could sit down. He gave her one of the handbills. It advertised the television kick-off with several name personalities scheduled to take part.

“Quite a roster,” Julie said.

“There’s still room for you aboard—if you’ve changed your mind.”

“I understand my article showed up after all.”

“Yes,” he said, and thought for a few seconds before saying, “I can’t offer you what I offered Tony Alexander, of course…”

“Neither expected nor wanted,” Julie said, “but I think I know why you made it to Tony—so that he wouldn’t interfere with the resurrection of the Reverend Jeremiah Fox.”

The smile he gave her was like that of a little boy, and he gathered his fist at his breast, a submissive, religious gesture. “You can’t know, Mrs. Hayes, the thrill you have given me, saying that name out loud. No matter whether you mean to do good or evil to me now, I won’t forget just hearing you say the name.”

Julie felt uncomfortable. Power was not her thing. “I don’t intend to do evil, Mr. Butts.”

“Nobody does except the devil and them he gets possession of. I don’t think Mr. Alexander did, but he was frightened and that frightened me, and that’s what makes people do bad things to one another.”

“Are you speaking of last week or something that happened long ago in Albion, Ohio?”

“Of the night he died, the night I ran away and left him to die. If I’d stayed with him, he might be alive today.”

“Or you might both be dead.”

“I don’t justify myself,” Butts said. “I don’t believe in self-justification, but I do wonder what he’d have done to thwart my plans for the Garden of Roses if he had lived. I mention it because I am vulnerable if you decide to take advantage.”

“I have no such intention, Mr. Butts.”

“Then I am much beholden to you. Do you mind if I ask how you heard about Jeremiah Fox?”

“Some old newspapers, some old actors. I know you saved Jay Phillips from an awful mess and probably tried to help him with his problem.”

“I can’t really say I did that, Mrs. Hayes. I did baptize him, satisfying the girl’s parents of his repentance, but in all honesty I must say I felt she should’ve been the repentant one. Very precocious.”

Oh, men, Julie thought. She said, “And I know that you and Tony traded accusations.”

“I never heard anything so vicious described so politely. I didn’t know him as Tony Alexander, Mrs. Hayes. Or if I heard the name it wasn’t the one I remembered him by…not till I met him again the night he was going to die.”

“And I know about the baby,” Julie said.

“What do you know?”

“That you accidentally drowned it.”

Butts doubled his fists and pounded them on his knees. “That just plain isn’t so. That baby was on the verge of death when he was put into my hands. His father wanted a miracle. I wanted one. I needed one, and I prayed for one. But the Lord wanted that baby and he took him right out of my hands. I stood accused and the loudest of my accusers was the young reporter who led the charge when they ran me out of town.

“It destroyed my ministry. It destroyed my religion. I called myself God’s fool after that. I signed on with a circus as its chaplain, and doubled as a clown. I’ve been on the fringes of show business ever since.”

“Which eventually brought you back into contact with Jay Phillips,” Julie said.

“A few years ago when I brought a mini-circus to the vest pocket parks of New York.”

“I don’t really see where Tony could have hurt you very much at this date,” Julie said.

“He said that himself. He asked me what I thought he could do. But when you are as badly damaged as I am, Mrs. Hayes, you are like an animal that never gets over its fear of the broom. When he put together your article and my takeover of the Garden, I was sure he would once more destroy me. You must not mock me in this or I may fall again from grace. I have promised the Lord that if my faith is restored I will build Him a new temple, and that is my true plan for the Garden of Roses.”

“Okay,” Julie said. “Let me know when you’re ready to break it to the press.”

“I would show you the blueprints,” he said, almost perking up to his old self. Then he flattened out again. “But the fact is, they’ve been stolen from me…and I may never be able to use them anyway.”

Stolen by Romano’s minions? Julie thought so. “I’m sorry,” she said, and decided that while it might be good for her soul to admit the true nature of her regrets, it would not speed the little minister’s recovery of his faith.

J
ULIE ARRIVED AT THE
office to learn that a number of people were looking for her, including Tom Hastings, the executive editor.

“Tim went down to see him,” Alice said.

“Great.” A story without much content had run well back in the morning papers. But the tagline read that according to police sources a break in the case was expected soon. “How long since Tim went downstairs?”

“A half hour. And Duggan called you from the Sunday desk. He wants to know if he can have the Patti Royce story by tonight. With pictures.”

“Yet,” Julie added.

“And someone’s been calling you every few minutes. She won’t leave her name or number.”

“Any idea who?”

“I think it’s her.”

“Who’s her?” Julie snapped.

“Miss Royce.”

“I’m sorry I snapped,” Julie said.

“Why should you be any different from everybody else this morning?”

Julie went to her desk and began making notes on the love story of Tony Alexander and Patti Royce. She saw no point in rushing to Hastings’ office now, not with Tim there that long ahead of her. Better to stay close and hope for Patti Royce’s phone call. If it was Patti Royce.

“The police are going through the building with a man’s picture,” Alice said. “They’re asking if anybody’s seen him, especially the night of Tony’s death. Tim says it’s the owner of the Turkish bath where he and Tony used to go.”

“The name is Ron Morielli. Mean anything to you?”

“No.”

Julie glanced at the celebrity file. It remained under quarantine. Or else the police had forgotten about it. She went back to her notes. Photos. She called Advertising to see if they still had the art work for
Celebration.
They hadn’t. But a rating had come in for the picture. R, for restricted. Or for Romano, if you saw it that way. Someone on the movie desk explained that there might be two versions, one of which they fired back to the censors to meet certain objections. From the movie desk she also got a still of Patti Royce. She got another break in that Michael Dorfman was out of town; she persuaded his secretary to allow her to use the photograph of Patti from
Autumn Tears.
Alice arranged the pick-up.

But in the end, she simply could not do the article. Not enough facts were in place. She called Duggan and told him where she was with it.

“Here’s what you do, Julie: write it the way you think it will go. Then edit as you have to. I’ll hold till the last minute.”

“How come the hurry all of a sudden, Mr. Duggan?”

“I’ve been around long enough to know by the smell when a story’s getting ripe.”

TIM CAME INTO
the office looking as though he’d have backed out if he’d seen her in time. “I had to tell him what we have, Julie. I figured you were in a bind so it was up to me.”

“Does he still want to see me?”

“I told him you were probably on that Royce interview, which he agreed was pretty big stuff.”

“Yeah.”

“I had to do it, Julie,” he shouted.

“Okay! What happened with Cardova?”

“He’s in Rome, Italy.”

“Since when?”

“What is this? An inquisition? Yesterday. And I went to the Tripod this morning to see what I could get for you there. It’s closed.”

“Everybody’s getting out of town, right?”

“Julie, the two specials covering Tony’s murder are coming up in ten minutes. What do we give them? I promised Hastings.”

“What we have,” Julie said, “but nothing that we don’t have. Just remember, the porn film angle came out of my head, and if that broke without proof, Patti Royce could sue the
Daily
into bankruptcy.”

“But that’s the big thing, Julie. In a few hours that could be the only exclusive we have left. I mean the police are onto the Tripod angle. I want something out of this for the column.”

“And I want those few hours, Tim, even if we have to lock the door. Ask the legal department, if you’re so anxious. They’re supposed to be watching over us.”

“It has been rumored…” Tim said tentatively, as though composing aloud. “No. How’s this? ‘The police will neither confirm nor deny that film of questionable taste….’ Oh shit. That sounds literary.”

“You are ambitious, aren’t you?”

“I can taste it.”

Julie swung around to Alice. “Why doesn’t she call, whoever she is? Why didn’t she leave a number?” Then: “Alice, do
you
have a number for Patti Royce?”

“I have a number where Tony could be reached in an emergency. I never used it.”

“Let’s have it,” Julie said. Meanwhile she looked up Royce in the phone book. She found a likely number but when she dialed it, the operator came on the line and said that it had been changed to an unlisted number. Julie dialed the number Alice gave her. A man’s voice: a soft “hello.” Julie asked if she might speak to Miss Royce.