The Detroit Electric Scheme (30 page)

I was startled awake the next morning by a telephone ringing next to my ear, piercing my brain like an ice pick. My head bounced off my desk, and I sat bolt upright. When I recovered from the jolt of pain, I picked up the receiver, more to end the ringing than to find out who was calling.

Mr. Sutton's voice shot out, fast and excited. “Will, I have it on good authority that Judge Hume is cooperating with the state police.”

I pulled the receiver an inch away from my ear and fumbled to pick up the base of the telephone. “Really?” It came out as a croak. I cleared my throat. “He's admitting he's guilty?”

“Looks that way. This could be the break we need. Even if he doesn't tell them he knew anything about Cooper's murder, if he admits he and Cooper were involved in this mess it's going to throw a great deal of doubt on you being the killer.”

I grunted out a laugh. “I never thought I'd be thankful for anything Judge Hume did.”

Sutton chuckled. “You just might spend the rest of your life outside looking in, instead of the other way around.”

“When is this supposed to happen?”

“They're still negotiating the details. If I know Judge Hume,” he paused, “and I do, that's going to take a while—a week, perhaps. But he'll do it. They've got him dead to rights.”

I thought for a moment, looking for the dark cloud surrounding this
silver lining, but I couldn't see one. “Maybe you're right. This might save me.”

“I know a man down at the
Herald
who would love this,” Sutton said, his voice jubilant. “If you don't mind, I'm going to run the story past him, see if we can get some good publicity for a change.”

“Absolutely. Let 'er rip. Oh, Mr. Sutton?” I peeked through the window blinds at the front lawn—still no reporters. It was stupid to keep wasting my father's money. “You can pull your men off my building. There's no reason to keep them here anymore.”

“Are you sure? Your father said he'd be happy to pay for them until the trial's over.”

“I'm sure. Nobody's bothered me since I got out of jail this last time. What's it been? Five days? I'll be fine.”

He agreed, and we chatted for a few minutes before ringing off. A little later I caught myself whistling while I tidied up my bedroom. I hadn't been this happy for a year.

What am I saying? I hadn't been anything approaching happy—not for a single moment—since Elizabeth almost killed herself aborting our child.

In truth, it was three months before that. The day I wouldn't think about—now or ever.

I poured myself a very large drink.

 

First thing Wednesday morning, I ran out and picked up a copy of the
Herald
from the newsboy on the corner. Plastered across the top of the page were six words that made me light up like a department store window—
JUDGE HUME THE REAL ELECTRIC EXECUTIONER?
The reporter didn't come right out and say I was innocent, but the story was slanted in that direction. He believed it was too much of a coincidence that John Cooper, Frank Van Dam, and Judge Hume were all involved in the bribery scandal just before Frank disappeared and John was killed. The police were trying to locate Frank now; although, as Mr. Sutton had said, only as a possible witness.

It looked like Sutton might be right. Judge Hume's testimony would deflect a lot of the interest from me and create a reasonable doubt. If I was lucky, he'd confess to the murder or implicate Frank. I had a chance.

I woke Wesley and showed him the article. We split a pot of coffee and a coffee cake he'd baked, and chatted until he had to get ready for work.

When I returned to my apartment, I telephoned my father at his office.

He sounded happy. “The sun's shining a little brighter today, isn't it?”

I looked out the window. The sky was as gray and heavy as pig iron. “Um . . .”

“Figuratively, son. The article in the
Herald
.”

“Right. Yes. That's why I'm calling. Now that suspicion is shifting away from me, could I come back to work? It's embarrassing to take your money to do absolutely nothing, and I'm bored to tears.”

He didn't say anything for a moment. “Let me think about that, Will. Tell you what. Come by for Sunday dinner, and we'll talk about it.”

After we rang off, I cleaned for half an hour or so before deciding I had to get outside. Since my pantry was bare, I grabbed my grocery basket from under the sink and headed out to the market on Woodward—though only after I tucked the pistol in my belt at the small of my back. The air was wet and cold, a soggy blanket covering the city. But I didn't care. I strolled down the sidewalk like it was a sunny spring day.

I turned into the little corner market, a shop perhaps fifteen feet wide by fifty feet deep. Rough wood shelves lined the walls. Another tall row of shelving ran down the middle of the store. There was just enough room in the aisles for two people to pass without being intimate. I waved to Peter, the shop owner, a hearty man in a crisp white apron, who was arranging cans behind the counter. My first stop was the produce section, where I picked up a few apples.

I turned to continue down the aisle and ran headlong into a woman who had just begun to lean in next to me. My momentum pushed her back into a stack of pumpkins. I dropped my basket and grabbed her arm, only just catching her before she fell.

“I'm sorry,” I said, still holding her forearm, frozen like an idiot. Something about her caught my eye. She wasn't beautiful in the conventional sense, but she was exotic—tall, with black hair and the darkest eyes I'd ever seen. Her mouth was too big and her heart-shaped face seemed vaguely asymmetrical. When she smiled at me, I saw what caused it. Her expression came more from the right side, the left lagging behind a little. Somehow it made her more attractive.

“Thanks for catching me.” Her voice was quiet and melodious, with a European accent. She laughed. “That was close.”

“Gosh, I wasn't paying attention. Again, I apologize.”

She glanced down at her dress and began to straighten it. Trying not to be obvious, I looked her over. I guessed she was in her midtwenties.
Under a long blue overcoat, she wore a blue cotton day dress that revealed a slim but curvy body. I checked her finger. She wasn't wearing a wedding or engagement ring. The more I looked, the more I liked. The attraction was more than visual, but I couldn't put my finger on it. I looked into her eyes, and I wanted her.

I held out my hand and said, “Will Anderson.” She didn't recognize me—no look of shock or fear.

She took my hand in her feather-light grasp. “Sapphira. Sapphira Xanakis.” With a smile, she said, “It was nice running into you, Will Anderson.” She turned back to the produce.

“Likewise.” I began to walk around her but stopped. “Say, Miss Xanakis? It is ‘Miss,' isn't it?”

She turned back far enough that I could see her smile. “Yes it is, Mr. Anderson.”

“Could I perhaps buy you a cup of coffee sometime?”

She blushed. “Well, Mr. Anderson, we haven't been formally introduced, but . . .”

“But . . . You'll see me?”

After she looked down at the wooden floor for a second, she returned my gaze. “You're not a cad?” She bit her lip. I wanted to nibble at it.

“Not at all. I'm a perfect gentleman.”

“You would need my father's permission.”

“I'd be happy to speak with him.”

“Well . . . Perhaps you could call this weekend.”

“That would be perfect. I just happen to have a pair of tickets for the show at the Miles Theater on Saturday night. I'd be honored if you would accompany me.”

“That sounds lovely.”

“Perhaps dinner first?”

She nodded, just a hint of a smile playing on her lips. “If my father allows it.”

I told her I'd come by at six, and she gave me her address. I recognized the street. It was downtown, only a few blocks east of Woodward, right on the edge of Greektown.

When she walked away I pinched myself. I'd never had this kind of luck.

 

The next night Wesley came to my apartment for drinks and dinner. I cooked a pot roast with carrots and skinned potatoes, and even baked a loaf of bread. While the meat and potatoes bubbled away, we sat in the parlor with glasses of Old Tub. He'd decided to drink bourbon when he was at my place.

Wesley took a sip and leaned forward. “I saw the articles about Judge Hume possibly being the killer. What a break.” He raised his glass, and we both took a drink. “But one thing's certain—he's not the man who killed the Doyles.”

“No, and I don't suspect he killed John, either—at least not with his own hands. But I'm sure there's a wide selection of cutthroats who would have been happy to do it for the right price.”

He nodded. “Have you been able to find out anything else?”

I told him I had suspected Frank Van Dam was the killer and why, but had since found out he'd been in Denver when John was killed, and he'd mailed Elizabeth a letter from there around the date of the murder. “Now he seems to have fallen off the face of the earth. But . . .”

“But what?”

“It's probably nothing. Elizabeth jogged my memory. I could have sworn I saw his car at the train station that night. And when I went back later, it was gone.”

Wesley's face darkened. “Really. But you're not certain?”

I shook my head. “He's not the only one in town with a red 1909 Olds Palace touring car, but there aren't many. It just makes too much sense it would be his.”

Wesley looked up and to the right, his eyes darting back and forth. “Red Oldsmobile Palace. All right. Just down the street from the station. I saw it.” He shifted his attention back to me. “What does Van Dam look like?”

“He wasn't there, Wes. He was in Denver.”

“Humor me.”

“He's a very large man—six three or so, probably two hundred and forty pounds. Not quite a John Cooper, but he's big and strong.”

Wesley sipped his drink, eyes on the floor. After a moment, he said, “How does Van Dam move? Is he graceful or clumsy? Lithe or muscle-bound?”

I thought about it. “I don't know if I'd call him graceful or lithe, but he's closer to those than clumsy or muscle-bound. I've seen him fight. He's a buzz saw.”

Wesley bit the inside of his cheek, his head nodding slightly. “Could have been him. The man certainly knew how to fight. When it comes to a scrape, I'm no Mary Ann, but I never even saw it coming.” He set his drink on the end table and shook his head. “But he was in Denver?”

“So the Pinkertons say.”

We sat quietly for a moment before he said, “What did Van Dam want from Elizabeth, anyway?”

I grunted out a laugh. “He said he was going to come back for her. Like every other man, it seems, he had fallen in love with Elizabeth.” I smiled at Wesley. “Well, nearly every man.”

Grinning back at me, he shrugged. “She seemed nice.”

“Which reminds me,” I said. “I met a woman yesterday.”

“You did? Well, good for you.”

“You could say I ran into her. I was at Peter's, and as usual, not paying attention. I almost flattened this beautiful Greek woman standing next to me.” I wagged my eyebrows. “But my natural charm must have shown through. I asked her to the show at the Miles, and she accepted.”

“You just about knocked her ass over applecart and still had the wherewithal to ask her out?” He raised his glass. “Here's to the new Will Anderson.”

“I couldn't believe it, either.” I took a gulp of my drink. “And her name is as exotic as she is. Get a load of this . . .” I trailed off. Wesley was frowning at me. I couldn't tell if he was serious. “What?”

“What about Elizabeth?”

“What about her?”

Wesley was pulling a cigarette from his case. He stopped in mid-motion and laughed. “What about her?” He stuck the cigarette in his mouth and talked around it while he patted his pockets, fumbling for his lighter. “Far be it from me to judge you, but you spend a year and a half practically in seclusion, mooning over your lost love, and now it's ‘What about her?' ” He stopped searching and held the cigarette in front of him, eyebrows raised.

I pulled a lighter from my jacket pocket, leaned forward, and lit his cigarette. “No, you're right, but . . . it's just not going to work. I shouldn't have to give up any chance of happiness because of her, should I?”

“Hey, I agree with you completely. I'm just glad you're finally getting on with it.”

I lit a cigarette for myself, took a drag, and blew the smoke toward the ceiling, feeling a twinge of guilt, like I'd betrayed Elizabeth.

 

On Saturday I made an early morning trip to the liquor store. For the walk home, I automatically slipped the bottles of Old Tub into the inside pockets of my duster. It was juvenile, and it wasn't anyone's business whether or what I drank, but I couldn't escape the years of propriety drummed into me. I felt like a kid sneaking liquor past his parents.

I read and sipped a few drinks, but just a few. I wanted to be in good shape when I picked up the lovely Sapphira Xanakis. Just after five o'clock, I dressed in black tie, tails, and top hat, then filled a flask and secreted it away in my jacket pocket. I peeked out the front window and still didn't see anyone on the sidewalk in front of the building. We had hit the bleak early winter days of a mere nine hours of daylight. It was already dark, but not pitch-black as so often in the winter. The sky had cleared, and a scatter of stars and a full moon made the sidewalks glow as if illuminated.

I considered bringing my gun, but decided it was worth the risk to go to the show unarmed. If Sapphira saw the pistol, I'd never be able to explain without telling her about my situation. I put on my black overcoat,
locked my apartment door, and hurried over to Woodward, stopping first at the flower shop for a bouquet of roses. The air was crisp, though the lack of wind was letting oily coal smoke settle over the city. It was still early enough in the season that I noticed it. By the end of December the smell of burning coal would be so pervasive as to seem a natural component of the air.