The Cruelest Cut (24 page)

Maddy sat in a dark corner of Duffy's Tavern, averting her eyes from the rough-looking men and women scattered around the room. In total disregard of the local nonsmoking ordinance, cigarette smoke hung like a great cloud in the air. The men were silent, content with their drinks and their own thoughts. The women present seemed to loom garishly over their drinks. Their posture exuded despair or anger, and serious attitude. Maddy didn't want to admit that they were really just a bunch of working folks with nothing more sinister behind their eyes than the fact that not one of them seemed to know who she was.

She was dressed in business attire suitable for the television studio, with a short pinstriped skirt and matching jacket, white blouse, and black high heels. Those around her were dressed in various stages of low-class to homeless clothing. But, as she was in one of Evansville's sleaziest hole-in-the-wall bars, she couldn't expect any better. She was the outsider here.

It took her informant less than a minute to return her call, but she hadn't anticipated that he would insist on a face-to-face meeting. The thought of being alone with him made her skin crawl. But that hadn't always been the case. When she was a newcomer to Evansville, he had given her inside police information that helped her gain status and recognition. She had moved very quickly up the ladder from a research assistant to reporter, to co-anchor. In return she had done some things with him—sexual things—that she would now like to forget. He hadn't asked anything from her for a very long time, but then, he hadn't asked for a face-to-face meeting either.

Two years ago he wasn't the craggy-faced, cigar-smelling man that he was now. He had seemed taller, fitter, and had more hair. It was as if the last two years had magically transformed him into an unpleasant little ogre. That thought was reinforced as she watched him walk into the back door of Duffy's Tavern.
God! I haven't been in a dump like this in forever
, she thought.
But I need that information.

She put on her sweetest smile, while Detective Larry Jansen pulled a chair up to her small table and looked her over thoroughly. In her mind she could feel his rough hands squeezing, tongue and fingers roughly probing, and she almost changed her mind. She could just get up and walk out.

No, she couldn't. She needed this story. It was her big chance. She took her hands from her lap and placed them over one of Jansen's rough hands.

“What have you got for me?” she asked.

“The killer's name, for one thing,” Jansen said and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. He openly stared at Maddy's breasts while his tongue darted between the gash that was his almost lipless mouth, like a lizard.

Maddy could smell the nicotine on his breath and choked down a shuddering revulsion at what she had done to get where she was today. “So? What is it?” she said a little too sharply, but Jansen didn't seem to be insulted by her discomfort. He wheezed out more sickening breath and leaned toward her.

“Some piece of trash named Eddie Solazzo,” Jansen said, softly. “The kicker is that Murphy killed Eddie's brother a couple months ago.”

Maddy was thinking furiously. What did she remember about that case? And then she remembered. Murphy had been on a stakeout and had chased Bobby—yes, that was his name, Bobby Solazzo. Murphy had chased him down and shot him several times. If she remembered correctly, Murphy was cut very badly and nearly died. That's where he got that ugly scar. From Bobby Solazzo. Was Eddie out for revenge? It all made sense now.

“You're sure?” she asked.

“Have I ever lied to you, sweet cheeks?” Jansen said. He reached into a coat pocket and produced a cassette tape.

Maddy found it hard to catch her breath. She was going to scoop everyone.
So this is what Murphy was keeping from me
, she thought. And then she remembered that Jansen had said that he had the killer's name, “for one thing.”

“You have something else?” She didn't believe he could have anything better than what he had already delivered.

Jansen handed her the micro-mini audio cassette tape. “This will blow your socks off, toots.”

“What's on it?” Maddy asked, suspiciously. This was the first time Jansen had ever given her a tape. He had always been very careful that the information could in no way be traced back to him. Then a distasteful thought hit her.

“What do you want for this?” she asked, no longer smiling.

“I'm already paid,” he said, and his face cracked in a hideous grin. Jansen got up and left by the back door without another word, leaving Maddy staring after him.

 

Captain Franklin and Jack Murphy sat in armless and uncomfortable chairs that had been carefully placed in front of Dick's large desk. They had been summoned because Chief Dick had somehow discovered that Eddie Solazzo was a person of interest in the murders now. Jack had kept this back with Captain Franklin's permission, hoping to make some progress before Dick leaked it to the press. But someone had beaten Franklin to the chief with the information.

Both men knew that they had really been summoned because Chief Dick wanted to exercise his power, and that any other chief would have left them to their work. But they had been told to sit, and then Dick had quietly stared at the top of his desk for a minute or so. His expression was unreadable.

Finally Chief Richard Dick leaned forward, elbows planted firmly on his desk, fingers steepled in front of his face. His mouth drew into a scowl, his eyes had a haunted, worried look, and he had developed a nervous tic under one eye that made him look pitiable.

From behind his hands he said, “I know that you both had a loyalty to Chief Pope, and I had hoped that you would extend that same loyalty to me as your new chief.” When neither man responded, he cleared his throat and went on, anger in his voice now. “I am to be informed of any important developments…no, let me rephrase that. I am to be immediately informed of
any
changes in this investigation. Is that abundantly clear to both of you?”

“Yes, sir,” Captain Franklin said. Murphy remained silent. This wasn't his fight.

“Then can you explain to me why I had to hear about this Eddie Solazzo character from my secretary?” Chief Dick said with a sneer on his face.

Franklin shook his head. The secretary had told them that the chief was upset because “someone” had told him that they were looking at Solazzo for the murders. She hadn't said that she was the “someone” that had told the chief.

“Chief,” Franklin said, “it would really help us if you would issue a department-wide order that this case is not to be discussed with anyone outside of policemen and detectives. If we are leaking information through secretaries and such, we will never catch this suspect.”

Dick seemed to mull that over. “Yes, I see what you mean.” He seemed to cheer up then. He had something that he could use his chiefly authority on, so he felt better. “I'll issue an order immediately. And believe me, if I catch anyone speaking out of school, so to speak, I'll have their job.”

“Thank you, Chief Dick,” Franklin said, and then went on to tell him how they had come up with Eddie Solazzo as a suspect, and to explain that they hadn't passed that on to him yet because they didn't want to be premature with a suspect. Dick seemed satisfied with the captain's excuse, but warned them to come to him in the future.

Outside the chief's office, Franklin turned to Jack and said, “There's a lesson in diplomacy for you, Jack.”

“Pretty slick,” Jack agreed. “That's why you get the big bucks, boss.”

A somber look came over the captain's face. “Do me a favor, Jack,” he said. “Catch this bastard quickly.”

 

While Susan was locating her psychiatrist friend, Jack and Liddell decided to spend the time running down contacts from Solazzo's past. Garcia had come up with a short list of the ones that were not deceased or in prison. That left them with three names.

“Tony Gaza, Jimmy Sidener, Pat Starkey. The other five are dead,” Jack said, reading from the list. “Apparently it's not very healthy to be a friend of the Solazzos.”

Liddell chuckled. “I know this sounds cold, but I don't think anyone will be crying over any of those guys.”

Jack put the list on his lap and looked through the windshield of the unmarked Crown Vic. They were back in a familiar neighborhood of two-story wood-sided houses with chipping paint and missing gutters. In the early 1920s Rosedale was a thriving community spawned by the industrial boom of steel production and railroad and riverboat traffic. Now it was home to crack addicts, dope pushers, and the worst kinds of criminal element. Only a few older people—either unable to leave or refusing to give up their homes—occupied the homes with blinds pulled, doors and windows locked. They had become prisoners.

“We going to the reverend's?” Jack asked.

“I know he's not on the list,” Liddell said, “but we're close to his place. Thought I'd just check up on him.” Jack nodded in agreement.

Reverend Payne was one of Liddell's informants, and had a long and colorful history during his life of crime. He had finally become a victim to what sociologists call “aging out”—even hardened killers eventually become too old to continue the life. There is no retirement or benefits at the end of their tunnel, but instead, a homeless shelter or a pauper's grave.

Payne had been an accomplished burglar, thief, and con man during his run. But he claimed that he had found the Lord, and now ran a shelter, of sorts, for the down and out. He provided a bed and meals for anyone and everyone that came to his door. The only rule for admittance was that any criminal activity had to be left at the door. This rule was enforced by mutual agreement by all those that stayed there. Jack knew that wasn't to say that some stolen food or furniture didn't find its way into the place from time to time. Payne thought he was doing good things, but Jack thought he was just fooling himself.

They pulled up in front of a huge two-story home that looked more like a plantation mansion than the single-family residence it used to be. Neither man moved from the car as they watched several window shades, both upstairs and downstairs, twitch upon their arrival. They gave those people inside several minutes to clean up and hide whatever it was they were doing before stepping from the car.

They stood on the sidewalk near the car until one side of the double French doors opened and a wizened black man with a shock of white hair shuffled onto the porch in house shoes. Reverend Payne was in his late seventies and suffered from severe rheumatism. His skin was the color of dull coal, but his eyes were milky with cataracts. The fingers of his left hand, wrapped around the handle of a wooden cane, looked like twisted tree roots. He kept his malformed right hand in the pocket of the threadbare housecoat he continually wore.

“Come in, gentlemen,” Payne said, and shuffled back into the entrance.

The inside of the house reminded Jack of an old-fashioned hotel. Straight ahead was a wide staircase, with heavily worn oak banisters and thick faded carpeting. To the left was an open room with no less than six or seven sofas and several antique chairs. A black lacquered piano sat against one wall, and a frail gentleman of indistinguishable race tickled the keys to a honky-tonk tune. There were ten or more men of various ages and races lounging around the room. All appeared to be immersed in reading newspapers, quietly chatting among themselves, or enjoying the renderings of the piano man. Jack knew that this was all for Jack and Liddell's benefit. An “everything's cool” atmosphere pungent with the smell of incense to cover the odor of marijuana that still lingered in the air.

They followed Payne to a small room just off the main sitting room and toward the back of the house. Payne pointed with the tip of his cane at a table near a big window, and the detectives pulled up seats. Payne eased his emaciated frame into a padded chair, and his lined face wrinkled with discomfort.

“Liddell Blanchard and Jack Murphy,” Payne said. “Two of Evansville's finest. It's been a while.” His voice was strong and clear, belying his infirmity. “You're here because of the murders.”

Liddell spoke first. “Actually, we were going to see someone else, and decided to stop by and see how you were.”

Payne nodded. “Your visits are always a pleasure. Both of you.” He smiled, his white teeth gleaming in contrast to his dark skin.

Liddell and Payne chatted for a bit, and then Payne had a sudden intake of breath and flinched as if he'd had a spasm of pain in his back.

“Sorry, gentlemen, but I'd best lie down for a while,” Payne said, and the detectives stood.

Jack decided to ask the question that he'd had in mind since they had arrived.

“Just one question. What do you know about Bobby or Eddie Solazzo?”

The Reverend settled back into his chair, his milky eyes staring at nothing. “Those poor boys.” He shook his head sadly.

Jack and Liddell waited, and after a minute Payne said, “I knew their daddy.” His mouth drew up into a scowl at his memories. “He called himself a man of God, but he was an evil man.” His voice trailed off as if he was lost in thought, but then he asked, “Is this about the murders?”

Liddell and Jack looked at each other. No one outside the war room and Chief Dick knew that Eddie was a suspect. But they knew it was only a matter of time before word would get out. Especially since Dick's secretary knew Eddie was a person of interest. They decided to trust the old man.

“Yeah,” Liddell said. “We think Eddie might be tied up in it somewhere.”

Payne shook his head again, and said, “That boy's not to blame. Not to blame. He was made mean by his daddy. And crazy, too.”

Payne pointed a knotted finger at a small cabinet and said, “Look in the top drawer. You'll find a scrapbook of photos. Bring it to me.”