Murder in the Air (38 page)

“We got Hamms and Schmidt on tap,” said the bartender, placing his beefy hands on the counter. “Blatz, Miller Lite, Summit, and Augsburger Dark in bottles. What'll it be?”

It was Saturday night and Bram was seated at a dark, crummy bar in south Minneapolis, staring at a row of bottles behind the counter. “Make it a cup of coffee.”

“Coffee? You come to a dive like this on Christmas night just to have a cup of ^offee? That makes sense, Mac. You must
really
be sick of your relatives.”

“And don't forget the cream.”

The bartender was partially right. Bram had spent most of the day with his family, opening presents, wolfing down a huge turkey dinner, and then falling asleep on the couch during the standard, insipid holiday specials.

“One cup of coffee,” said the bartender, dumping it down on the counter. The cup rattled precariously in the saucer. “You want me to start you a tab? You might want to move on to a glass of milk later.”

Bram raised an eyebrow. “Good idea.” Glancing around the room, he realized this really
was
Pit City. The bar stank of stale smoke and sour beer, not exactly two of his favorite fragrances.

Grimacing at the foul taste of the coffee, he noticed now that the walls were covered with cheap paneling, the floor with equally cheap linoleum. The one sop to interior decoration was a series of motorcycle posters hung at odd angles over a section reserved for tables. In the back, three teenagers huddled around a Foosball game. The only other
person in the room was a guy sitting at the other end of the bar eating a hamburger. “Not much business tonight.”

“We've only been open an hour. It'll pick up.”

“You get a lot of bikers in here?”

The bartender stuck a toothpick in his mouth. “Sorry. I left the survey results at home.”

A wise guy. “Many women come in here?”

“With or without tattoos?”

Bram supposed it was a pertinent question. “I didn't know you could get that personal on a survey.”

“You can't. You only get information like that from hands-on experience.” He flashed Bram a lecherous smile, the toothpick clenched firmly between his teeth.

Setting the coffee cup down, Bram pushed it away. “Have you seen any women tonight? With or without tattoos.” It was already a few minutes after nine. The granddaughter had said nine
sharp.

“How come you're so interested in our clientele?”

“FBI. I'm on a case.”

“Oh, right. And I'm Eliot Ness.”

“I'm not joking.”

He picked his teeth, eyeing Bram curiously. “Let's see your badge.”

“I lost it in a bag of potato chips.”

“That's what I figured.” He removed the toothpick and flipped it into the garbage. “I also figure you're waiting for someone and you got stood up.”

Forty-five minutes and three cups of sludge later, Bram had to admit the guy might be right. “What do I owe you?” he asked, pulling some change out of his pocket.

“Three bucks.”

“For a lousy cup of coffee?”

“Too bad you lost your badge. You could arrest me.” He leaned his arms on the bar while Bram retrieved his wallet. “Look, pal, how many other places are open on Christmas night? I gotta cover my overhead. Pay my staff.”

“You're the only one here.”

“So?”

Bram tossed three dollars on the counter and left. There was no use arguing—or tipping.

After walking half a block to his car, he spent the next few minutes scraping snow and ice off the windshield. It was turning into a nasty night. The wind had picked up and the snow was coming down hard. Once inside the car, Bram started the engine and then sat for a moment, allowing it to warm up. While the windows defrosted he had a few minutes to think.

The granddaughter's no-show seemed ominous, especially after what Sophie had learned earlier in the day. Apparently, Wish Greveen had been missing since last night. He'd had a late-night meeting with Bud Manderbach and hadn't returned to the hotel. The police couldn't say for sure that Greveen was dead, or that Bud Manderbach had murdered him, but that appeared to be the working theory.

Sophie had a theory of her own. She suggested that Bud Manderbach's intent was to sabotage the show. Bram hadn't talked to Dorothy yet, but without a completed script for next week's program,
Dallas Lane, Private Eye
would have to be put on hiatus. The worst-case scenario was that a temporary cancellation might dampen the public's interest in the series, and thus could very well quell the growing interest in the old murder case. Bram didn't want to see that happen. Justice had been delayed far too long.

On tomorrow night's radio broadcast, the public would learn that Justin Bloom had managed to get his hands on photos of the car used in the hit-and-run, and that he'd used his girlfriend to get these pictures, putting her life in great, peril in the process. If Arn O'Dell really had lied about what he saw that night, if Justin Bloom hadn't murdered Kay Collins, then everything fit. The radio broadcast wasn't just another empty theory—the gospel according to Heda Bloom. It was the truth.

For weeks, residents of the Twin Cities had been speculating on how it might be possible, almost forty years after the fact, to go back and prove a man's innocence or guilt. What
they were looking for, of course, was clear, undeniable proof. Bram felt certain he was the only one—other than O'Dell's granddaughter—who knew of her grandfather's letter. What that meant was, Bram had discovered the smoking gun. And yet, once again tonight, he'd been thwarted in his attempt to get his hands on it.

“Damn,” he said, smacking the steering wheel with his fist. With the end of the radio show in sight, time was, as they say in the old serials, of the essence.

Remembering the call he'd made to Al Lundquist the previous night, Bram picked up his car phone and punched in the policeman's home number.

After a few rings a gruff voice answered, “Yah?”

“What a distinctly Minnesotan way to answer the phone.”

“Baldric?”

“C'est moi.”

“Cut the crap. You're interrupting the game.”

“Oh, dear. I wouldn't want you to miss any broken bones. I'll be brief. Did you find out the name of Arn O'Dell's granddaughter?” He could hear some papers being rattled on the other end.

“Yeah, I got it. But can't this wait until tomorrow? It's fourth down and one.”

Bram was elated. “No, Al, it can't. Remember, I told you this was important.”

He grunted his disgust. “All right, asshole, but I gotta find my reading glasses. God knows where they are.”

Bram waited nearly a minute before his friend returned to the line.

“Just in case you're interested, I just missed the touchdown.”

“There's a special place in heaven for men like you.”

“Okay”—he sighed—”here's the deal. According to O'Dell's old partner, the granddaughter's name is Molly Stanglund. She lives in Minneapolis—right on the border with Richfield. Want the address?”

“Yes, Al. I want the address.”

“Sixty-one-thirty-one First Avenue.”

Bram grabbed a pen from his pocket and wrote it on the
edge of an old take-out menu. “You can go back to your game now.”

“You're a real mensch, Baldric.”

“I know.”

“I better not read about you and that Stanglund woman in the paper tomorrow morning.”

“You won't. I'm completely domesticated. Monogamous to the core.”

“That's not what I'm talking about.”

“Bye, Al.”

Half an hour later Bram turned off Nicollet and drove one short block to First. He'd already made the decision to approach the house cautiously.

The homes along this part of First were one story and small. A few cars were parked here and there, but generally, the neighborhood was quiet. Many of the houses were dark.

Halfway down the block, Bram switched off his headlights. As the car rolled to the end of the street, the sight that met his eyes almost took his breath away. He slammed on the brakes and skidded a good ten feet. “My God,” he said, pulling the car over to the curb. As he got out all he could do was stare.

Icicles covered the house like an intricate, infinitely creepy spiderweb. Not only had the roof caved in, but all the glass was missing. Along the front of the house, the evergreen shrubs had been smashed, covered with debris and ice, and now snow. Dark, ugly stains on the exterior siding— what was left of it—revealed the extent of the fire damage. Even the air still stank of smoke. The interior was eerily silent now. In an effort to warn off curious neighbors, the police had run yellow tape all around the perimeter.

“She went up last night,” said a voice from behind him.

Bram turned and found an old man standing a few feet away. He was leaning on a snow shovel. “You live around here?”

“Two doors down. Yup, it happened around midnight. The fire got a good start before anyone discovered it. The fire
department got here in record time, but there wasn't much they could do.”

Bram looked back at the house. “Did you know the woman who lived there?”

“Molly? Sure. Everybody knew Molly. She rented, but she was a good neighbor. Always shoveled her walk. Never made a fuss. Quite the gardener, too. She must've lived there ten years.”

“Is she all right?” asked Bram, bracing himself for the worst.

“You a friend?”

He nodded.

“A close friend?”

“More on the order of an acquaintance.”

“Well,” the man said, adjusting his cap, “I never much liked passing on bad news, but yeah, she died in the fire. Terrible shame, too. I saw her last night around seven. She was just coming home.”

Bram closed his eyes and looked away. After a couple of moments he said, “Did you speak with her?”

“Me? No, just waved from the drive. I figure she was probably asleep when it happened.” He gazed up at the house with a kind of amazed reverence. “You shoulda seen that fire. It was damn incredible. Flames shooting out of every window. Smoke so thick it hurt your eyes halfway down the block. The funny thing was, her car was parked on the street the whole time the firemen were trying to put out the blaze, but”—he scratched the back of his neck—”it's gone now. I can't imagine where it went.”

Bram walked a few paces closer. “Do you know how the fire got started?”

“Well, the firemen weren't sure. The best guess is, it was bad wiring on her Christmas-tree lights. It seemed like the fire got started in the living room, right around where the tree was. But you know, I walked the dog to the end of the block last night around eleven-thirty. The lights weren't on then. I woulda noticed. I don't know how the hell they coulda caused a fire if they weren't even plugged in.”

It was a reasonable deduction, thought Bram. And it deserved an explanation. He couldn't help but wonder if the fire had been set on purpose, especially since Molly had revealed to him just last night that the house was being watched. “Did you see a white van around here before the fire started?”

The man thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Nope. Sorry. And I imagine all we'll see in the papers is an obituary notice. When you get to be my age, you read that section regularly.”

Bram nodded. He couldn't think of much else to say. “Thanks for your time.”

“Sure thing. Sorry it couldn't have been better news.”

As the old guy turned his back and began to push his heavy shovel down the sidewalk, Bram returned to his car, feeling an overwhelming sense of sadness and defeat. Molly was dead. And since the letter or the knowledge of where the letter had been hidden had no doubt perished with her in the fire, his search was at an end. His hopes for the evening had been so high. Tonight he would find the answers he'd been looking for. Names. Motives. Even the proof of Bloom's innocence— the ultimate smoking gun pointing to the real murderer. But instead, all he'd found was … His eyes returned to the house.

Smoke.

May 16, 1959

Dear Mother:

I've waited several days, but still no letter from you. I can't help but think that something's wrong. Overseas mail is so frustratingly slow. Sometimes I worry that your letters have been lost, but I know I'm just nervous and impatient. I decided to go ahead with my story tonight. When this reaches you, I hope everything's all right.

Each day, as soon as I wake, I begin to analyze and reanalyze what happened last Christmas. It struck me this morning that I must think I can change history if I just reach some new conclusion. I suppose understanding should equal acceptance
—
but, in my case, I'll never accept what happened. Never.

The day after I took those pictures of Bud Mander-bach's car, I dropped the film by the photo lab at the paper and asked that the roll be given priority status. Since the technician was a good friend of mine, I knew I could trust his discretion. I didn't give him any details, and he knew enough not to ask. This was “my” story, Mom, and it was going to make my career. I'd be damned if anyone else was going to break it.

The developed negatives and a contact sheet were dropped on my desk shortly before noon. I'd been concerned that I might have mishandled the camera, but my fears were quickly put to rest. The pictures were perfect. The damage to the right front fender was clearly visible, so was the license plate
—
and the front page of the
morning paper I'd placed next to it. I had to date the photos somehow, and that seemed not only appropriate, but appealed to my sense of irony. One way or another, my newspaper was going to get Bud Manderbach.

I called Kay right away to give her the good news, but nobody was home at her apartment. I assumed she was at work. Thinking I'd take her to lunch to celebrate, I hopped in my car and drove to Minneapolis. As expected, I found her behind the cosmetics counter, chatting with a customer. She smiled and waved, but had to complete the sale before we could talk. Once I got her alone, I asked when she could take a lunch break. Fifteen minutes later we dashed across the street to a small cafe.

The first thing she did was to apologize for not calling me the night before. I knew right then that everything was okay between us. While we looked at menus I asked her how she got back to her apartment. Remember, Manderbach thought she lived in my building. I figured she probably called a cab from his house. Instead of returning to my place, she just went home. It was probably too late for her to phone
—
not that I wasn't walking the floors hoping to hear from her. But, as it turned out, that's not what happened at all, Mom. Not by a long shot.