Peeper (11 page)

“Everyone within earshot of the ladies' room.”

“What about the bartender?”

“Big guy named Sam. No, wait a minute, that was
Gunsmoke
. They get that all-western channel on cable. I don't remember.”

“We'll check the place out. Then where?”

“Florentino's, for about five minutes.”

“What can you do in a bar in five minutes?”

“Get tossed out of it by Tino, if you can't pay your tab.”

“Next.”

“Blind pig on St. Antoine. It's a Christian Science reading room out front. I left there around midnight. They'll remember me. I was the only white raisin in the box. I called Lucille Lovechild at home just before I went out, to settle a bet with a guy named Slade.”

“Slade what?”

Ralph shrugged.

O'Leary looked at Mileaway. “We got anyone in the mugs named Slade?”

“They're
all
named Slade.”

“'Kay. Next place.”

“Richard's, on John R. Richard remembers me, also a geek named Andy. Buy him a Pepto-Bismol and he'll tell you anything you want to know.”

“When'd you leave there?”

“Around one.”

“Where'd you go?”

“Straight home.”

“So who were the two guys your neighbor Mrs. Gelatto saw you with at four?”

Ralph had a sudden urge—most unfamiliar—to tell the truth. So far he was guilty only of withholding evidence, the kind of charge that got lost in the shuffle whenever the cops cracked a case. Possibly there was a city ordinance against improper disposal of a monsignor; but he could beat that too. Vinnie getting dead made him wonder about how good the photographs he had taken were for insurance purposes. At the same time, the fact that Carpenter (for he was sure it had been no other) had strangled Vinnie while in pursuit of the photographs convinced him of their value. Ralph sighed involuntarily at this near brush with good citizenship.

“I don't remember,” he said.

“Holy shit. How come?”

“What do I know how come? I forgot.”

O'Leary was one of those cops who scribbled notes on folded sheets of paper. He brushed ashes off his and unfolded to an old section. “Yesterday you didn't even know where you'd been the night before. Today you remember places, times—Christ, even the butterfly on some broad's ass—”

“It might of been a gypsy moth.”

“—everything but the names of the two guys who might alibi you out of an attempted-murder beef. Tough break.”

“What makes you think old lady Gelatto seen what she says she seen? She's as blind as an elbow.”

“Come on, Poteet. What were they, fags? You some kind of Dutch door?”

“Do I look like I swing both ways?”

“No, but neither does my brother-in-law, and he marched on Washington last year. You might've seen him on the news, dotting the second
i
in ‘Alternative Lifestyle.'” He snapped his butt at the rubber tree and missed. A little curl of smoke rose from the carpet. “Personally, I don't think you did it. You couldn't change a light bulb without frying your dick.”

“Thanks. Sarge.”

“Don't call me Sarge.”

Ralph put on his hat. “How'd the memorial Mass go? I forgot to ask.”

“Too many candles. Those cathedrals are firetraps.” O'Leary stepped out of the way of an intern rushing to empty a pitcher of water over the smoldering carpet. “But it was nice, as those things go. My wife says they ought to make a saint out of Monsignor Breame.”

“I think somebody already made him.”

“What?”

“I said maybe he'll get made one yet,” Ralph said.

“Yeah. At the Temple of Lard. After the rosary they'll have to hire a U-Haul to take him to the cemetery. He must've been a tight squeeze in the confession booth.” He put away his notes. “Oh, this was on the sidewalk where you fell out of your car. I guess you dropped it.”

Ralph stared at the item in O'Leary's hand. It was the notepad from the St. Balthazar rectory, with its gold-and-pigskin cover. “Thanks.” He reached for it. O'Leary examined it.

“Pretty fancy. What was it doing in your pocket?”

“Gift from my sister.”

“The one in the booby hatch? I thought they made potholders and stuff.”

Ralph said nothing. O'Leary gave it to him.

“Sergeant O'Leary?”

The arson investigator turned toward the girl who had called his name. Ralph had seen her out of the corner of his eye—couldn't help it—standing a little apart from a group of interns and nurses at a drinking fountain. She was about Ralph's height and very trim in a bright orange blouse, tan slacks, and high-heeled sandals, a brunette with hair that fell straight down her back to her waist. Her features were fresh and pretty and somehow familiar, although Ralph was certain he had never seen her before. She looked to be about eighteen. When he saw who it was, O'Leary's features softened the way they never would for Ralph.

“Yes, Miss Dane.”

“One of the nurses told me Lyla's conscious. Can I talk to her?”

“Maybe later. They just sedated her.”

“That makes sense.” She pulled a face. Then she saw Ralph. “Hi. I'm April Dane.”

“Lyla's sister,” O'Leary said. “Say hello to Ralph Poteet, one of your sister's neighbors.”

“The private detective. I heard the policemen talking about you before.” She held out a slender hand.

Ralph took it. It was cool and dry, unlike his own stubby paw. “Yeah. Uh, I didn't know Lyla had a sister.”

“I guess I'm not surprised. I haven't talked to her since I was little. Our parents hung up on her when she called. They're born-again Christians.”

“I always wondered how that worked.”

“It's kind of like redecorating, only noisier. Right now they think I'm in my poly-sci class. I'm a freshman at Michigan.”

“We'd appreciate it if you stayed in touch,” O'Leary told her. “Maybe she'll talk to you when she conies around again.”

“Probably not. We're strangers. But when you tracked me down as next of kin I had to come.”

“Can we give you a lift?”

“My place is just down the street.” She turned liquid brown eyes on Ralph. “Mr. Poteet could walk me.”

Ralph missed the matchstick he was lifting to his mouth and bit down on his thumb. Officer Mileaway glanced at his superior, who chewed on a cheek.

“Catch a cab?” O'Leary asked Ralph.

“I guess.” He sucked his thumb.

Her hair hung straight down as she walked, with Ralph trailing a little behind. Most of the rest of her was in motion. “Listen,” he said, “I ain't got much cash on me.”

“I could lend you some for the cab. Oh, you think I'm like Lyla.”

“Ain't you?”

“No. There's too much disease and stuff out there, and you get arrested. Other than that I think it's a neat way to make a living.”

“I guess you ain't born again.”

She pulled another face. “God's okay, if you don't make a religion out of it.”

“That's what I told my old man, right before he threw the Old Testament at me.”

“He quoted from it?”

“No, he really threw it. I had my jaw wired shut for a month.”

“Was he born again?”

“Naw. They tried, but there was too many pieces missing.” Ralph pressed for the elevator. “He was a preacher.”

“I guess we're a couple of Bible brats.”

“I guess.”

“I bet you had to wear your shirts buttoned to the neck like Beaver Cleaver.”

“And a cap.”

“No dating till you were sixteen.”

“Or after.”

“Prayed before every meal?”

“All but the last one.”

The bell rang. When the doors opened he held them for her and followed her into the car.

“Are you a real private detective, like Spenser?”

“Spenser ain't real.” They started down.

“Well, you know.”

“You going to ask to see my gun?”

Her eyebrows went up. They were just a little thick, like Brooke Shields's. “Do you carry one?”

“When I can find it.”

“What's your specialty?”

“I take pictures.”

“I don't get it.”

“Then I won't take yours.”

“Oh. You're
that
kind of detective.”

“Somebody has to be.”

“Do you look for missing persons?”

“When it pays.”

The elevator set down. They went out through the lobby. The sun was out, warming the sidewalk. Coeds strolled the sidewalks with their jackets off and no bras.

“What do you charge?”

“Depends on the job. Two hundred a day's the base, expenses extra.”

Neither of them said anything for a while. She led him to a Queen Anne house painted gray, with more features than a Swiss Army knife, and he escorted her up three flights of stairs to a tower room with posters of Bruce Springsteen and something called U-2 on the walls. It contained a double bed, a couple of chairs, and a study desk with a gooseneck lamp. A door stood open to a bathroom that made Ralph's cramped one look like an airplane hangar. Kids put up with a lot, he decided. He felt out of place under the ten-foot ceiling in his feathered hat and wash-and-wear suit.

“I want you to find the ones who tried to murder Lyla,” April said.

“Uh-huh.”

“We weren't very close. But she was—
is
my sister, and even if her life hasn't been so hot, it's hers. Nobody has a right to try and take it. I learned that much from our parents, at least.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I know the police are trying, but they have a lot of other cases. You were her neighbor. Maybe that means you'll work a little harder.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Trouble is, I can't afford your rates.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Maybe we could work something out?”

“Uh-uh.”

They were standing very close now; the size of the room allowed for little else.

“I'm not my sister,” she said, “but I've been around. You know how it is when you get out of a strict home finally.” She reached for his fly.

Ralph couldn't remember if he'd put on fresh shorts that morning.

Chapter 14

Ralph's telephone was ringing when he staggered in shortly before two in the morning. With stiffened muscles he lowered himself to the bed and lifted the receiver. “Yeah.”

“Ralph?”

“Yeah.”

“This is Neal.”

“Yeah.”

“You okay? You sound like you're a thousand years old.”

“What is it, Neal?”

“I been trying to reach you all night. You didn't check in.”

“I was busy.”

“If you didn't answer this time I was going to send that film to the cops. So did you score?”

“What?”

“The bishop. Christ. Did you make a deal with him for the pictures?”

“I'm working on it.” He shifted his weight carefully on the mattress. He felt as if he'd been scrubbed down with a Brillo pad. Which, come to think of it, was not far off. He wondered how the daughter of born-again Christians had learned so many uses for household items.

“Hey, you okay?” Neal asked. “If I didn't know you better I'd swear you been working out.”

“Forget it, Neal. I'll check in tomorrow night.”

“You better. If you're figuring on cutting me out, I'll have your balls.”

“Get in line.”

He'd been stretched out fully clothed on the bed for several minutes when the telephone rang again.

“Jesus Christ, Neal.”

“Who's Neal?” It was O'Leary's voice.

Ralph groaned. “It's two-fifteen ayem!”

“Thank you. This is the tenth time I've tried to call. I left messages at all the bars you told me about yesterday. You were right about Florentino's. I wouldn't go back there if I were you.”

“What's the squeal?”

“Murder, pal. You've been holding out on me.”

Vinnie. Ralph sat up, grunting when his sore muscles reacted, and fumbled for his flask. It wasn't in his pocket. “Where are you, downstairs?”

“Hell no. Why should I be downstairs? I'm in Farmington Hills.”

“Farmington Hills?”

“Farmington Hills. Is that echo on your end or mine?”

“What's in Farmington Hills?”

“A lot of neurotic dogs with names longer than mine and houses I couldn't afford if I made commissioner tomorrow. And one dead bishop.”

“No shit, Steelcase?” Immediately he regretted saying it.

There was a pause on O'Leary's end. “That popped out quick for a Baptist.”

Ralph laid the receiver in his lap and mounted an expedition for the pocket flask. It had fallen out of his suitcoat and was wedged between the mattress and his kidneys. There was one swallow in it. Then there wasn't. He wiped his lips on the sheet, then mopped his face.

“Poteet, you there?”

“Yeah. What do I know about a dead bishop?”

“To begin with, you knew his name. I didn't, and my wife's Catholic.”

“I'm a trained detective.”

Another pause. “I guess you never heard of Dale Carnegie.”

“Why call me?”

“Homicide called around to find out who saw him alive last. They got in touch finally with this altar boy named, let's see—”

Ralph tingled.

“Francis Xavier Dillinger,” O'Leary went on. “He said His Excellency didn't show up at the rectory today. Somebody else did, though, looking for him. He left his card. You still there?”

Ralph said nothing.

“Yeah, I can hear you breathing. Anyway, nothing's secret downtown, especially not everybody else's cases. Homicide called me. I think you better come down here.”

“How come? A card don't mean nothing.”