No Stone Unturned (31 page)

“Shit,” said Frank in frustration. He was tired, I could see that. But then he took a deep breath and rejoined the game. “All right,” he continued. “Let’s get a winch under that thing and lift it up so I can see.”

At first glimpse, the damage was hardly evident to Frank and me. But Dom explained, pointing a flashlight toward one of the brakes.

“You see the line leading to the drum?” he asked, and, after taking turns, Frank and I answered yes. “That’s how your man cut your brakes,” he continued. “This guy knew what he was doing. And there she is,” he announced, pointing to a pinhole with a grease-stained finger.

Now the damage was plain to see, even for a nonmechanic. The blackened hydraulic tube had been punctured cleanly.

“What do you make of that?” asked Dom, as if to bait me.

“I’d say someone wanted to let the fluid drip out slowly. So the brakes wouldn’t fail before I’d picked up a good head of steam.”

“That’s right,” said Dom. “It was a cold night, and brake fluid thickens up in the cold. But after the car had a chance to warm up, the fluid just ran out, and so did your brakes.”

“Couldn’t it be rust?” asked Frank.

“Not a chance. See the way the hole is formed? Sharp, clean. Probably used a little nail. Whoever did this did a good job; the leaking brakes were strong enough to stop the car in ordinary conditions, but coming down Market Street . . .” he chuckled. “You just pumped the last of the fluid onto the pavement! You’re lucky you didn’t flip over and kill yourself.”

Dom Ornuti seemed amused by my brush with death. Frank Olney was baffled.

“Who the hell would want to cut your brakes?” he demanded.

I shook my head and said I didn’t know, but I told Frank about the threatening phone call I’d received late Friday night. He scolded me for not having reported it. I told him Pukey Boyle had been following me around for several days. And how could I forget Glenda Whalen—she of the bad temper and bruising fists?

“You’ve sure made yourself popular,” he said, shaking his head. “Why don’t you just back off this story? Let a man handle it. George Walsh.”

“I’ll be fine,” I said. “And I don’t need Georgie Porgie stealing my story.”

“Suit yourself. Much as I’d like to, Ellie, I can’t guarantee your safety if you decide to stay on this story.”

I looked up at the blackened brake lines again and groaned. My head hurt. This was becoming more than a minor annoyance, more than a sock in the mouth or a car in my rearview mirror. Whoever it was who wanted me dead was brazen and able.

Dom Ornuti didn’t know anything about Tommy Quint’s car, but he referred me to Vinnie Donati, the mechanic who had worked on it. Over the phone, Vinnie told me he had started on Tommy’s car the previous Saturday afternoon, two days after Thanksgiving, and Tommy picked it up late in the week—Thursday or Friday. I asked him if the car had been leaking oil.

“No, that wasn’t it. The car’s a rust bucket, full of problems. Me, I wouldn’t have bothered fixing it. The timing was all screwed up, and one of the valves is cracked. But it runs.”

“Are you’re sure there was no oil leak?” I asked.

“Surprising, ain’t it? But the car didn’t lose a drop of oil in the five days I had it in the shop. The floor under that bomb was so clean, I’d let my two-year-old eat off it.”

“You’re a regular Father of the Year, aren’t you, Vinnie? So how come Tommy Quint drives such a jalopy?”

Vinnie chuckled. “His old man ain’t Nelson Rockefeller.”

Before leaving Phil’s Garage, I knelt down, my backside in the air, and took a long look at the brakes under Fadge’s car. I felt silly, especially since I could hardly have recognized sabotage without Dom Ornuti’s blackened index finger pointing the way. When I rose to get into the car, I noticed Billy Jenkins and two mechanics leaning against the wall, coolly contemplating my form. They had watched the entire show and were grinning broadly at me. I ducked into the front seat, no more confident of my safety, and drove home without incident.

I sensed something was off beam as soon as I entered the stairway leading up to my flat. The doorknob twirled uselessly on its spindle, clearly stripped by force. There was no one in the apartment, but someone had recently finished ransacking my humble home. The floor was strewn with things that had once sat on tables, counters, and bookshelves. The cleaning closet and dresser drawers had been turned inside out. Even the refrigerator was empty, its contents spoiling on the kitchen floor. Among the smashed beer bottles, in the puddles of spilled milk and melted butter, and underneath the ripening cold cuts, dozens of rolls of film—all ruined—had been pulled out of their canisters and exposed to the light. But the saddest sight of all was the bathroom. Most of my expensive developing equipment had been destroyed, chemicals poured on the tiles, photographic paper burned in the tub. I brought a hand to my aching head and went to lie down on the couch. I called Frank to tell him what had happened. He lectured me again, then said he’d ask the city police to look in on me. Why did I have to start that rumor about Julio’s film?

MONDAY, DECEMBER 5, 1960

As a rule, I am not easy to find when off duty. When I began working at the
Republic
, I would call in at least ten times a day to let them know where I could be found, even on my days off. But after a few weeks, I realized that the emergency phone call and big story weren’t coming. So I had a police scanner installed in my car to know what was going on. The system had worked for me on occasion; I had gotten the jump on a couple of stories listening to the scanner instead of the hit parade. But nothing compared to the dispatch I’d picked up Saturday, November 26.

Now, with my company car dead, I was deaf to the world. But at least I was mobile again; Charlie Reese provided a new set of wheels. By eight thirty Monday morning, I was tooling around town in a nifty red-and-black Dodge Royal Lancer. There was the hint of a mildew smell I couldn’t quite locate, but it was a swell car.

I stopped at Fiorello’s for a cup of coffee and a look at the crossword, but I never got the chance. Fadge met me at the door.

“Frank Olney’s looking for you. He’s at the Mohawk Motel and wants you there right away.”

“What happened?” I asked, heading back to my car.

“Someone broke into the motel and tore the place apart.”

The Mohawk Motel parking lot was clogged with police vehicles for the second time in a week. Stan Pulaski waved me through the cordon, and I parked my Dodge next to the sheriff’s unmarked cruiser. Big Frank, arms crossed over his chest, was leaning against the Dr Pepper machine as he talked to the Thin Man, Don Czerulniak. We exchanged good mornings, news about my black eyes and bandaged nose, then we all went inside.

The sheriff led the way, through the office to Jean’s plundered parlor. Furniture had been upset, drawers emptied, and carpet pulled up. Her bedroom had suffered a similar fate, with Jean’s clothes and possessions scattered everywhere.

“What do you think they were looking for?” I asked, certain I knew.

“It’s hard to say what all is missing,” said Frank, “seeing as it ain’t my stuff. But one thing’s sure: they took Jean’s revolver.”

“Just a routine robbery?” I asked.

“Looks like it to me. Some local kids, maybe, read that Jean was in jail, so they took advantage. Probably looking for money, jewels, what have you.”

We stepped outside for a smoke.

“Your robbery scenario seems possible,” I said. “Except a girl was murdered here last week; her roommate in Boston, ditto; and someone tried to kill me the other night. My place was ransacked yesterday, too.”

“Well, what do you make of this, then?”

“From the looks of this place, there’s nothing to steal but a few towels.”

“So what are you saying?” asked the DA.

“It was robbery, all right. But not like you think. The burglar was looking for something in particular, the same thing he’d been looking for in my house. Film.”

“What?” chimed Frank and Don.

“I haven’t said anything till now because I figured people would think I was crazy. But I believe Julio shot some photos the night Jordan was killed.”

“Goddamn it, Ellie! Did he tell you that?” asked Frank, ready to erupt.

“Of course not,” I said. “He denied it. But I’ve had this suspicion since we searched this place. We all believe Julio was living here, right? Well, Jean’s bathroom had been used as a darkroom up until a day or two before we searched it. I know photo-developing chemicals, and someone had been using them in there, trust me. Remember those strange questions I asked Jean Trent about clothespins, Frank? That’s what I was driving at.”

“I was wondering about that,” he said, relieved. “I thought maybe it was your time of the month.”

“Frank!”

“Sorry, but it was kind of out of left field.”

“Well, you can still see where the countertop was discolored by spills,” I said, glaring at the sheriff.

“What makes you think it was Julio and not Jean?” asked the DA.

“Jean doesn’t know the first thing about photography. Doesn’t even own a camera.”

“And you’re sure Julio does?”

“He was in the photo club in high school.” I paused for effect. “Along with Jordan Shaw.”

The two exchanged looks.

“So what’s on the film?” asked the sheriff.

“I don’t know. The murderer perhaps. Some other clues. Something worth killing for.”

The two men weighed the plausibility of my theory. Frank was struggling with the idea. The DA was hard to read.

“What makes you so sure Julio took any pictures at all?” asked Frank. “And if he did, why would he go on rotting in jail when the pictures could prove his innocence?”

“Julio is a voyeur, a serious one, if we are to believe the stories. Jordan Shaw was too good to pass up. And, furthermore, why lose the moment forever? Julio is a good amateur photographer, with a darkroom of his own to develop the racy pictures. As a matter of fact, I’d wager he’s been shooting the action through these windows for as long as he’s worked here.”

“So where’s the collection?” asked the DA.

“I don’t know. But the darkroom was dismantled and is stashed somewhere. My guess is that the candid photos are as precious to Julio as the processing equipment. I can’t believe he’d throw any of it away. If we can find his camera gear, we’ll find the pictures.”