Snowjob (21 page)

The only thing I did work out was that the fire escape came down beside the kitchen window of the lower floor. If Mrs. Tibbet had been in bed she would probably not have heard or seen anybody using the back entrance to Cindy’s place.

I thanked her for her help and left, driving directly to the police station. A different uniformed man was on duty but I guess word of my involvement had spread. As soon as I gave my name he went into the chief’s office and I was allowed in.

The chief was looking tired and I thought I could smell whisky on his breath, but he accepted my evidence gravely, handling it with the proper care, and said he would have it fingerprinted and added to the evidence file in the case.

“Any advances on his killing, or Ms. Tate’s?” I asked. He shook his head and assured me that the investigation was still proceeding. He countered by asking me what I intended to do next and I told him I would be asking around for anything that might help. I didn’t mention my fingerprint plan for the workers at the bar. And that was it. I was out of his office within ten minutes and on my way back to the Ford house. When I got there I found a strange car in the driveway, a black Cadillac.

Doug met me at the door. “Good timing,” he said tonelessly. “You’ve got a visitor.”

I followed him in carefully, pausing to shuck my overshoes and coat, wondering if one of Manatelli’s men had come calling. But the man in the living room was a spare-looking Norman Rockwell Yankee. I recognized him from the glimpse I’d had at his own front door. It was Jack Grant’s father.

He was nursing a drink and he stood up, setting the drink aside. “Mr. Bennett.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Paul Grant.”

“Sir.” I shook his hand. It was cool from his glass but firm and hard, a working hand.

“Siddown,” Doug said. “You like a taste, Reid?”

“Please.” I sat and waited for Grant to start.

He cleared his throat first, a nervous clatter like the bolt action of an old rifle. “I’m sorry to intrude,” he said.

“You’re not intruding. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

He squinched his eyes. “Are you a family man, Mr. Bennett?”

“I have a daughter.”

“Then I guess you know how I’m feeling,” he said. He sat silent for a moment, gathering strength to continue. “My son was no angel. I’d be lying if I told you that. But he was my son and now he’s dead and I want to know why and who did it.”

“The police investigation will find that out, Mr. Grant. You have a good department here. They’ll get the guy who did this.”

“Maybe they will.” He lowered his head for a moment, and stared into his glass, sightlessly. “But now there’s a dead woman as well, shot, I’m told, with a gun like Jack’s. I’m afraid they’re going to use my boy as a scapegoat for her killing.”

The thought had occurred to me. Police everywhere love to close files. It looks good the next time you go to the city fathers for money. I discounted it here. The man was in pain. “They’re good men. They wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

He didn’t argue, just repeated his fear. “I’m afraid they will. He’s dead, the town knows what he was like.” He looked at me now out of pale blue eyes. “That’s why I’ve come to see you.”

“What can I do? I don’t have any powers in this town.”

“I hear you’re a detective where you come from. Frank Maloney told me.”

“That’s true,” I said carefully.

“I want to ask if I can hire your services.” He looked at me with a new keenness, good old Yankee shrewdness, I guessed.

“To do what?”

“To clear my boy’s name.” He cleared his throat again. “To clear the family name, I guess.”

TWELVE

I looked at him in amazement. “You mean that?”

“Yes.” He sat there rigidly in his good wool shirt and his buff corduroy slacks, the successful businessman on his day off, his face as keen as a hawk’s. “I’ve discussed this with my wife. She feels the same as me. We’ve both been very disappointed with the way Jack turned out. He was a wonderful boy but he’s never seemed to grow up and get a hold of himself. We both knew he’s got enemies in town, people who would nod and say ‘uh-huh’ if the police made any more accusations against him.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to say I’m ashamed of my own son, but I want his name cleared now that he’s dead.”

I answered very carefully. “Did you know that I tangled with your son and two of his buddies in Brewskis a couple of nights back and that last night they tried to jump me in the parking lot?”

“He’s dead,” Grant said quietly. “Whatever bad things he’s done are over now.” I didn’t answer and he added, “We don’t have anyone else to turn to, Mr. Bennett.”

That gave me an opening. I said, “Surely there’s a private investigator somewhere close by, somebody with the right licenses for this jurisdiction, someone you can trust.”

“If this was a divorce case or about money and nothing else, I’d say yes. But this is a matter that calls for police skills.”

Doug came back with a drink for me and I nodded thanks and took it. I was torn. The man was looking to earn his son a nice clean slate to be buried with, only from where I sat it didn’t seem that the guy had earned one. But on the other hand, if I went along with this, I could get a look at Grant’s room, talk about his involvements, maybe get to the bottom of who his contacts were, who had killed him. I doubted that his father would give as much cooperation to the police.

I settled on diplomacy. “Since I’ve been here, I’ve become friends with Mr. Maloney, your lawyer. I think I should get his opinion on this. I didn’t get on with your son. Maybe if I’d known him better it would have been different, but I need a referee of some kind to guide me here.”

“That sounds like a fair solution.” Grant set down his glass and stood up. “Talk to Frank. He’s a friend of mine and a fair man. I’ll abide by what he advises you.”

We shook hands and he thanked Doug for the drink and left. I stayed where I was until Doug had closed the door and come back into the living room. “Weeeeell,” he said with a grin I remembered from boot camp. “You got yourself a job offer.”

“Hell of an ethical problem,” I said. “I just found a pocketknife, probably belonging to his son, right there in the couch at Cindy Laver’s apartment.”

That took the smile off his face. “You mean that?”

I filled him in and he sat, thoughtfully. “Don’t make sense he’d’ve lounged around on the couch if he’d come to kill her. That don’ hold up.”

“She say anything about being friends with him?”

“It never came up,” Doug said. “We didn’t talk about much except the case. If we’d been an item, I’d been jealous, stuff like that, maybe it would’ve.”

“He must have spent time up there with her. Maybe that adds something to the case. Maybe he knew what she was doing for you,” I insisted. “Come on, Doug. How much did you really know about her?”

“Not a whole hell of a lot,” he said and there was bitterness in his voice. “And the chance is gone now.”

I switched the subject. “Did you ever use the fire escape to visit her?”

“I never went there except with her. I didn’t have to sneak around.”

“But you know where it is?”

“The kitchen window. I’ve thought about that. The guy who killed her must’ve come in that way.”

“Maybe not. There’s a separate bell for her apartment. He could have buzzed her and she could’ve come down to let him in.”

“Yeah,” Doug said. “Or maybe he had a key.” He took a slug of his rye. “If guys like Grant were calling on her, maybe she had all kinds of action.”

“Maybe he killed her,” I suggested.

“And just how the hell we gonna find out?”

“I might do it if I take up his dad’s request. I’d have to tell him ahead of time that I’m not going to do any kind of snowjob. I can promise to dig for facts, let the chips fall where they fall.”

“Think he’ll go for that?”

“I’m not sure. But the best thing to do is ring Maloney and ask him. I have to do that much before I get back to Grant.”

“Go for it,” Doug said. “I don’t think Lieutenant Cassidy will find out as much as you can if you try. He’s too busy acting the big wheel detective.”

“Can I use the phone?”

“He’p yourself.” He waved to the kitchen and I went through and phoned.

Maloney answered on the first ring. “Hi. It’s Reid Bennett. Have you heard what’s been happening?”

“Yes.” A lawyer’s precise pronunciation. “I’ve got the radio on in the kitchen. There’s nothing more than you told me. Who killed her? Have you any idea?”

I told him I hadn’t learned anything fresh and then moved on to my main reason for calling, Grant’s offer.

“How do you feel about that?” he asked.

“Well, let’s just say I thought Jack was bad news.”

“He was, no doubt about it. But Paul has a point. The police will use that fact to tidy up the death of Ms. Tate. That’s if they don’t find something that clearly indicates Jack didn’t do it.”

“Are you implying they might not even look too hard?”

“Oh, they’ll look hard but if she’s been shot with that gun of Grant’s, they won’t need much persuasion that he did it.”

“They can’t prove that until they recover the gun.”

“I’d imagine that whoever killed him probably also killed Ms. Tate. If I’d done that I would have left his gun somewhere close by, at the scene probably, or in his car?”

“His car was right there, locked, but he had the keys in his pocket when we searched the body. The killer could have taken them and put the gun inside.” He still hadn’t given me a clear indication of what he thought so I put the question again. “Do you think I should do this or not? I mean, Grant senior wants me to whitewash his son.”

He took a long time answering. Then he said, “I’ll talk to Paul, let him know that you won’t lie for him. You’ll dig out whatever you can, good or bad. Whatever is relevant you’ll share with the police. That’s your only stipulation.” He stopped again. “Did he ask what you’ll charge?”

“I hadn’t thought about charging him.”

He chuckled then, a dry little sound. “Take a little free advice from a lawyer. You have to, Reid. Otherwise he’ll think you’re doing this just to clear your buddy. No, I think three hundred a day sounds reasonable. Break it out to an hourly rate if you’ll be splitting your time on checking into Officer Ford’s case. But Paul Grant can afford that and it keeps everything professional.”

“Thank you for the advice. I wonder if you’d be kind enough to call him, tell him I’ll come over in about an hour. I’d like to go through his son’s things.”

“Will do,” he said. “Ooops, there’s a car coming into the drive. I think it’s Ella. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

We hung up and I gave Doug a quick rundown. “Hell, I’d love to come with you,” he said wistfully. “But I gotta sit on my hands.”

“You can use the time well. Check if Melody left any franks and beans in the larder,” I told him. “We’ll have ourselves a boot camp supper.”

“You going right over?” he asked.

“No. I want to take Sam for a run. He’s been cooped up ever since we got here. Won’t take me more than half an hour, then shower and over there on schedule.”

“I’d like to come with you.” He shook his head. “But that’s not on. I guess I’ll get Angie’s skipping rope out and work out in the basement.”

I changed into a track suit and running shoes and when I came downstairs, Sam was beside himself with pleasure, squirming and wagging his tail. He knew he’d be along for the run. We set out, running on the left side of the street, clear of the icy sidewalks. The roadway was a little slick but my shoes were designed for bad surfaces so I made good time, clicking off three fast miles with Sam at my heels. On the way I found a piece of open land that wasn’t a park or apparently used for walking and Sam breasted his way into the snow and relieved himself there. Then we made our way back to Doug’s place with the wind in my face and my mind in neutral.

Like most runs, this one worked its usual magic and I found myself fresher, able to tackle the next stage of the investigation without tension. I showered and put on a good shirt and pants and headed for the Grant place.

Grant came to the door himself. “I’m grateful for this.”

“I hope it proves useful to you,” I said. “Does Mrs. Grant know I’m coming?”

“She’s in the kitchen. Let me take your coat and I’ll introduce you.” He hung up my coat and led the way through a living room that looked as if all the decorating ideas had come from magazines, and out to the kitchen where his wife was making coffee. She was lean, like her husband, fiftyish and pretty but today her face was drawn and lined with tears.

“This is Mr. Bennett, dear,” Grant said. “Mr. Bennett, my wife Jean.”

“Mrs. Grant, I’m very sorry about what happened to your son.”

She tried to smile but it looked painful. “Thank you. Would you like some coffee?”

“Thank you, ma’am. Black please.”

“I’ll take Mr. Bennett into the living room,” Grant said. “If the phone rings, I’ll get it”