The Blind Pig (14 page)

Sixteen

Mulheisen stopped at a telephone booth to call the DenBoer home and realized that he had left DenBoer's number at the precinct. He looked in the telephone book and discovered that there was an L. DenBoer listed, on E. McNichols, and a Leonard DenBoer on Canfield. He remembered then that Vanni had said that DenBoer lived on Canfield. He dialed the number and got no answer.

He called the precinct then and asked if there were any messages. There was one from Phelps: he said that he appreciated the tip about the City Airport and was pursuing it. As yet there was no trace of the hijackers.

Mulheisen asked for Maki, who told him that Vanni had obediently signed the statement and had left. Mulheisen thanked him and asked if Dennis the Menace had been around. “He's right here,” Maki said, and put him on.

“Mul, baby, what's shaking?” Dennis asked.

“You were telling me about an old con you knew, a gunsmith. Remember?” Mulheisen asked.

“Yah. Ol’ Earl. I ain't seen him.”

“I thought you were going to look him up. Well, I was thinking, maybe he knows something about this Cadillac
Gage caper. Rattle his chain a little, eh?” Immediately Mulheisen was sorry that he'd even remotely suggested that. Dennis came back with enthusiasm.

“Good idea! I'll go out and find him right now. I was feeling a little restless, anyhow. Time for me and Ol’ Earl to jawbone.”

The verb “jawbone” had an unfortunate connotation for Mulheisen. He was always reminded of his Sunday School class, in which Samson was depicted slaying the Philistines with the jawbone of an ass. Dennis the Menace's use of the word, as a verb, suggested something considerably more active than a friendly conversation.

“Look, uh, Dennis, I didn't mean to literally ‘rattle his chain.’ Maybe you could just rap with him, eh?” Mulheisen hung up, then, thinking that even “rap” could take on uncomfortable overtones. He pondered this as he drove over to Mack Avenue and stopped at a motel called the Pines.

A quick check of the register showed that a “Mr. and Mrs. R. Lasanski” had checked into the motel about eight o'clock.

“What did Mr. Lasanski look like?” Mulheisen asked the clerk.

“I don't know. My wife signed them in,” the man said. He went off to get his wife.

“He looked like that Olympic swimmer,” the wife said, “the one who won all the medals, what's his name?”

“Mark Spitz?” Mulheisen said.

She snapped her fingers. “That's the one. Yep, looked just like him. The woman, she was old enough to be his mother.”

Mulheisen thanked her and left. He drove downtown to see Kari Wordlaw. It was an old brick duplex, now converted into several apartments, near the university. Kari had a roommate named Heidi, who was out. Right away, Mulheisen noticed that Kari shared several qualities with Shyla: she was short, she had a pretty, little girl's face, and she had very large breasts. Mulheisen was starting to get a general impression of Vanni's taste in women.

There were some differences, however: Kari Wordlaw was
only twenty, she had long dark hair and she wore glasses. Unlike Shyla, she did not project an aura of sexy dreaminess or helplessness. On the contrary, she was a self-assured, self-aware young woman. Like Shyla, though, she was not reticent on sexual matters.

“Sure, he came here about ten or so, and stayed until after midnight. We fucked a couple of times, then I kicked him out because I have this paper due in Poli. Sci.”

“A couple of times!” Mulheisen couldn't help exclaiming.

Wordlaw grinned. “Oh sure, he's a real stud, didn't you know? I had to love him up a little to get him going the second time, but then he was fine. He took a long time to come.” She was obviously enjoying Mulheisen's embarrassment. “There's no law against fucking, is there?”

“There are a few, but they don't apply in this case,” Mulheisen shot back, recovering his equilibrium. “It's just that I'm from an older generation, Kari. It sometimes catches me by surprise when a pretty young girl like yourself uses language like that. But no matter. I just wanted to verify Vanni's whereabouts, and you've taken care of that. Thank you.” He backed out of the apartment without allowing her to ask what Jerry had done.

Since he was running pretty close to the rush hour, Mulheisen did not stop to telephone DenBoer, but drove straight to E. Canfield. The traffic on the Edsel Ford was beginning to jell when he got off and he was feeling a bit harried by the time he pulled up in front of the pleasant frame house. The front door was opened to his knock by a woman in her late fifties, wearing a cloth coat. Obviously, she had just come in, for next to the door was a wire two-wheeled cart with a grocery sack in it. A stalk of celery stuck out of the top of the sack.

Mrs. Leonard DenBoer, Sr., was a pleasant, motherly sort of woman. She talked to Mulheisen while she put away the groceries in the kitchen. She had about her a scent of fresh-baked bread. Her face was soft with powder and lightly made up and her hair was waved in a permanent. It was black with
many strands of gray. Despite the baking scent, she did not remind Mulheisen of Shyla Lasanski in any way. There had been no such scent about Shyla or her kitchen. Of course, Mulheisen reminded himself, Shyla had only
said
that she baked a lot. She hadn't offered him any cookies.

Mrs. DenBoer was quite alarmed about “Junior's” continuing absence. “Of course, he's a big boy, now, but . . .”

“Your son lives here, at home?” Mulheisen asked. “I see. And has he always lived at home?” He took notes.

“He was in the Navy for four years,” Mrs. DenBoer said, “but since then, he's been at home.”

“And he's never stayed away this long before?”

“Usually he calls. As a matter of fact, he often doesn't come home at night, but he always calls to say if he'll be here for dinner. I never say anything to him about it; he doesn't like people keeping tabs on him. Confidentially"—she leaned toward Mulheisen and actually touched his arm, almost whispering—"I think he has a couple of women friends. But I don't like to pry.”

They sat at a large old wooden table, drinking coffee. To give Shyla credit, Mulheisen thought, she does make better coffee. This was a large kitchen, with a high ceiling and many cupboards. There were nearly twenty feet of counter space. Pots and pans were on the stove and something that smelled like a roast was in the oven. It looked like a working kitchen. Mulheisen was reminded of his own mother's kitchen; it was more like this than neat like Shyla's. There were stray crumbs under the toaster and at least one milk-clouded glass next to the sink.

“You have other children, then?” Mulheisen asked.

“I have two grown daughters, and four grandchildren. They just live down the block. The little ones are in and out all day. But I've been out most of the afternoon.”

“That reminds me,” Mulheisen said. “Were you here this morning? About ten?”

“Yes, why?”

“I wonder if you received a phone call from Jerry Vanni?”

“No,” Mrs. DenBoer said. “I was right here. I don't think Jerry would call in the morning; he knows that Leonard, my husband, works midnights—at Budd. He's always sleeping during the day.” She glanced at the clock. “He'll be getting up in about an hour.”

“I called about one. There was no answer.”

“I guess I must have just gone out. Leonard is a pretty heavy sleeper, once he gets to sleep.” She poured some more coffee for Mulheisen and forced some chocolate-chip cookies on him. They were very good.

“I don't want to mislead you, Mrs. DenBoer, but I'm afraid that your son may be in trouble. We're looking for him in connection with our investigation of the Cadillac Gage Company holdup.”

“Why, that's just down the street!” Mrs. DenBoer exclaimed. “I'm sure Junior wouldn't be involved in anything like that!”

“We're not sure he was. But we think he may have information that could assist us. That's why it is essential that I get in touch with him as soon as possible.”

Mrs. DenBoer looked quite upset, naturally, and very fearful. “I can't help you,” she said. “I would if I could, but I don't know where he is.”

“You mentioned that he might have a girlfriend. Do you know her name?”

“Oh, no. Junior would never mention a girlfriend to me. He's very private about that sort of thing. He has a few friends, but mainly they're Jerry's friends, too. Junior and Jerry are very close. They've been pals since before they went to school.” She prattled on in the safe territory, eager to avoid a return to troublesome topics. Mulheisen listened patiently, nibbling at a cookie. At last he broke in.

“Is there any place he might go, if he were in trouble, Mrs. DenBoer? Do you have a summer cottage, perhaps?”

“Yes, we do. It's way up north, on Duck Lake. That's near Interlochen. But the cottage is all closed up now.”

Mulheisen got all the information down. It would have to
be checked. “Do you think I could look at his room, Mrs. DenBoer? It might help.”

She led him upstairs, cautioning him to be quiet, since her husband was still asleep. She stood in the doorway of Leonard Jr.’s room while Mulheisen looked around.

It was a boy's room. Mulheisen, who still lived at home, of course, hadn't seen anything like it since his youth, unless it was in a Walt Disney film. There was a model of a red, tri-winged Fokker airplane dangling from a string over the bed, with a model Spad in pursuit. There were plastic model sailing ships on the dresser and Detroit Tiger pennants on the wall. In one corner there was an old Springfield rifle that had been lovingly restored; in another corner, a fishing rod and a baseball bat. Mulheisen wondered if there was a football in the closet. There was, lying next to some old tennis shoes and a baseball glove.

“When he was in the Navy I kept it just like he left it,” Mrs. DenBoer whispered. “In his letters he always asked if I had messed with his stuff, but I didn't.”

“I don't see any correspondence or anything like that around here,” Mulheisen said. “Doesn't he get his mail at home?”

“Yes. I guess he just doesn't like to keep things like that lying around.”

There was a boy's desk in the room, but its drawers contained nothing but modeling tools and a few old
Popular Mechanics
magazines. There was not a single picture of a woman, not even a
Playboy
centerfold in the room.

“Did he ever say anything to you about Mandy Cecil?”

“You talk about him as if he were dead,” Mrs. DenBoer said fearfully.

“I'm sorry,” Mulheisen said.

“I remember Mandy so well. They were all such good friends when they were little. Junior, Mandy and Jerry. They were the cutest things. She was quite a little tomboy. My heavens, it must be ten or fifteen years since her family moved away.”

“He hasn't mentioned her lately?” Mulheisen asked as he followed her down the stairs.

“No, I don't believe so.” Mrs. DenBoer looked at Mulheisen expectantly, waiting for Mulheisen to enlighten her. He didn't.

There was nothing to do here, he felt. He declined another cup of coffee and left.

Mulheisen drove back to the precinct with his mind in turmoil. It was twenty-four hours since the hijacking, and as far as he knew, they were no closer to apprehending the hijackers than before. As for Vanni and Company, he had to confess that he was confused. The death of the man in the alley was still a complete riddle; the motive behind the shoot-up at the Town Pump eluded him; he now realized that he had gravely neglected Leonard DenBoer in his investigations; and the personality of Jerry Vanni still had him puzzled. The main problem, of course, was, Where is Mandy Cecil?

There were messages waiting from Phelps, McClain, Andy Deane, the prosecuting attorney's office and half a dozen more. It was after six o'clock; there was no point in calling back on most of the messages. McClain wasn't in, nor was Phelps, but the duty agent at the ATF office said that the airport investigation had turned up some promising leads. Mulheisen said he'd check back with them.

He called the state police and asked them to check out the DenBoer cottage on Duck Lake. Then he called Del Moser at the 19th. Moser told him that the funeral-home investigation had not panned out. They were at a loss to account for the presence of a funeral party in the Gethsemane Cemetery yesterday. So there was another dead end.

Dennis the Menace loomed in the doorway of the cubicle. He made a bugle of his fist and blew a kind of fanfare. “Well, I saw him,” he said heartily. His voice, like his presence, was too evident. Mulheisen made a hushing, calming gesture with the palms of his hands.

“You saw who?” Mulheisen asked.

“Ol’ Earl,” the Menace replied.

“Ol’ Earl?” Mulheisen couldn't place the name.

“Yeah, Ol’ Earl. You asked me to look up Ol’ Earl and I did,” the Menace said with some exasperation.

“Okay, okay. I remember now. Well . . . how's Ol’ Earl?”

“Ol’ Earl's all right,” the Menace said.

“He doesn't have any broken bones or anything?” Mulheisen asked. He got out a fresh cigar and clipped it.

“Broken bones? I wouldn't hurt Ol’ Earl I respect Ol’ Earl. No, I was just jawboning with him, nothing fancy. Amazing how these ol’ cons get back in the swing of things, Mul. Here Earl's been in the pen for five years and he's only out a couple weeks and already he knows more about what's going on around town than I do.” Noell shook his head thoughtfully. He was walking back and forth in the cubicle, which meant he could take two steps in each direction. He had his hands on his hips with his sports jacket pulled back, revealing the huge .357 in its Western-style holster on his hip. His elbows practically grazed Mulheisen's head in his passage.

“We got to rapping about guns and ammo and stuff,” the Menace went on. “He was telling me about Jurras, the guy who invented the Super Vel—”

“What the hell is a Super Vel?” Mulheisen interrupted.

“Cartridge,” Noell said with mild surprise. “A jacketed hollow point. Everybody uses them. You don't use that issue crap, do you? They're no good. Anyway, here's this guy Jurras who practically revolutionizes pistol ammo, doing a good business—hell, he can't keep up with the demand—and then he has to go out of business. Know why?”