Triple Pursuit (22 page)
Edna Hospers breezed into the rectory, by the kitchen door, and told Marie she had to see Father Dowling right away.
“For heaven's sake, Edna.”
But something about Edna's manner told Marie this was no time to stand on her dignity as housekeeper. In any case Father Dowling had heard Edna burst in, and came into the kitchen. “I have to see you, Father.”
“Of course, of course.”
And down the hall and into the study they went. The door closed with the finality of the door to the confessional. The analogy brought a pious expression to Marie's face and she busied herself in her kitchen, making more noise than usual. Ten minutes later a considerably less agitated Edna came through the kitchen.
“Thank you, Father,” she called to the pastor. Marie waited to be acknowledged but Edna pushed through the back door and outside.
“Well?” Marie said, turning to the pastor.
“What would you say if I invited Phil Keegan to dinner?”
“Tonight?” It was nearly dark outside.
“If he's free.”
“Oh, if he's free, of course, ask him.”
“He could come after dinner.”
“No, no, it's all right.”
“You're sure there'll be enough.” Although Father Dowling ate as if Lent ran all year round, Marie refused to cook to his diminished appetite. This entailed a hefty intake on her part, but it was the principle of the thing.
“There'll be enough.”
Still no word about Edna's mysterious visit. Marie was beginning to believe the woman
had
come in order to go to confession. A real emergency. But she wiped her mind clean: Judge not. Father Dowling went upstairs where Marie suspected he caught a ten-minute nap as he often did this time of day, if he could.
had
come in order to go to confession. A real emergency. But she wiped her mind clean: Judge not. Father Dowling went upstairs where Marie suspected he caught a ten-minute nap as he often did this time of day, if he could.
The dinner was more like it. Marie was as good as one of the party, and the conversation turned on Edna's visit to the rectory. Marie listened with both ears. What a sneak that Desmond O'Toole was.
“It all has to do with Maud,” Marie said.
The two men looked at her. In the ensuing silence her chin lifted a notch at a time.
“What are you talking about?” Phil Keegan asked.
“It is very simple.” But it sounded complicated as she laid it out. Desmond O'Toole had been accepted by Maud Gorman as her chief escort and companion at the Center. With the advent of the cultivated Austin Rooney, Desmond had been replaced. Then Jack Gallagher showed up and Desmond formed a plan. Of course he couldn't imagine any sane man not wanting to have Maud Gorman hanging on his arm. Given the choices, when Jack decided to dance, it was clear what partner he would want. So the two men fought.
“You think this old guy thinks the civil suit Jack brought, and now this confession of murder, is just a continuation of their three-way contest over Maud Gorman.”
No, Marie didn't think that, and why didn't he just shut up and listen? It was foolish to give Phil Keegan an opportunity to act superior.
“However it is with that,” Father Dowling said, “there are two elements in what Desmond told Edna to tell me.”
“Timmons to Evers to Chance,” said Phil, who was a student of the game.
“Austin was delegated, supposedly, to talk to this young woman about her affair with Jack. And he did not come home until dawn this morning.”
“Maybe I ought to talk to O'Toole.”
“Just more hearsay, Phil.”
“And this guy gave this story to Skinner?”
“That's why Edna was so upset.”
“Skinner.” Phil rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Now he'll be telling us how to do our job.”
“Is he prosecuting Jack Gallagher?”
“No, he got bumped. Nusbaum smells publicity.”
“Rivalry?”
“Cats and dogs.”
“Maybe he won't tell Nusbaum.”
Phil's grin began small and grew large. He nodded his head, eyebrows lifted. “Let me use your phone, Roger. Cy has to know about this.”
Much of Marie's disgust and anger with Desmond OâToole was due to the fact that he had gone to Edna with his story, not to her. But later, in her room, yawning over her novel, the import of Desmond O'Toole's gossip dawned on her. He really thought Austin Rooney had killed that girl! If nothing else, diverting attention to Austin would be helpful to Jack Gallagher. Marie's problem was that she could not imagine either one of those two old men strangling a girl in the small hours of the morning and leaving her body lying in the snow. But then she could not for the life of her imagine what Jack Gallagher had been doing with a woman that ageâwith any woman, for that matter, but
especially with someone young enough to be his daughter. There were times when Marie seriously doubted her knowledge of human beings: what they might do, what they might not do.
especially with someone young enough to be his daughter. There were times when Marie seriously doubted her knowledge of human beings: what they might do, what they might not do.
The following morning at eight-thirty, Cy called Colleen Gallagher and told her he would appreciate a few minutes of her time.
“Where should we meet?”
“Actually, I am parked right outside your place. This is a cell phone.”
“Well, why don't you come up?”
“You sure?”
“There's still coffee from breakfast.”
It was one of those apartments that looked like a college dorm room with desperate efforts to give it individuality. Cy remembered the lofts guys would build in dorm rooms, spending a fortune in lumber to create the impression of a two-floor flat. That got all the bedding up in the loft and freed the rest of the room for parties. Colleen had resorted to flair. One alcove was papered in garish red with big gold splotches on it.
“Rice paper,” she explained, when he stared at it.
The furniture was kind of Oriental too, not comfortable for a man, certainly not a man Cy's size. So he took the sofa, sitting in the middle. She handed him a cup of coffee and he sipped it. Weak.
“Did Austin Rooney ever meet the woman Jack Gallagher says he killed?”
The question surprised her, as he had thought it would. She stared at him. He was counting on the way they had gotten along the day before. Her shoulders began to slump.
“Who told youâTim?”
“I want to hear it from you.”
“You have to understand what kind of a woman Aggie was. I never met anyone at all like her. She didn't want love, she wanted adventure. She wanted to be a serial man-killer, and then boast about it to other women. She met my brother Tim at some legal seminar and the next thing I knew she was claiming she had added his scalp to her belt. It was her way of getting back at me.”
“For what?”
“Mario. My fiancé. She set her sights on him and he just dismissed her. When Mario and I got engaged and she met Tim, well ⦔
“And you believed her?”
“I asked Uncle Austin to check it out. According to Aggie, via the grapevine, of courseâshe never said these things directly to meâthey met for drinks at the Willard Bar. Austin went there and there they were.”
“What did he do?”
“He thought just being seen with the girl was all Tim needed. Tim looked so guilty that Austin let it go at that.”
“Did it work?”
“Not according to Aggie. That's when I asked Dad to intervene.”
“With your brother?”
“With Aggie. He came down to the office and I introduced him around and he was a star again. He didn't even have to ask Aggie. She led him away.”
“All the way, apparently.”
“Can you blame me for thinking this is all my fault? If I had just ignored Aggie, if I had let other people work out their own problems, Aggie would still be alive, Tim and Dad would have gotten over her ⦔
“You're not responsible. There's no crime in trying to help people out of the jams they get in.”
Cy did not, of course, show it by any change in expression, but he had learned more things in five minutes than he could have learned in a week of investigation, a lucky week. The mention of Tim Gallagher
was the big surprise. If he reviewed what Colleen revealed to him for her confirmation it would have run as follows:
was the big surprise. If he reviewed what Colleen revealed to him for her confirmation it would have run as follows:
Timothy Gallagher meets Agatha Rossner at a legal seminar, and Agatha learns he is the brother to Colleen, whom she hates. In a spirit of revenge and in her character as the firm's femme fatale, Aggie makes a successful play for Timothy and brags about it at the office in a way that is conveyed to Colleen. Timothy is a married man with a family. Colleen asks her uncle Austin Rooney to talk sense to the young man. Rooney shows up at the bar that is the rendezvous of the illicit couple, catches his nephew's eye, and the shamed reaction seems to accomplish his mission. But Tim is allegedly not deterred. Colleen now calls into play her father and the father gets into the act, replacing his son.
Taken as prelude to the discovery of the dead body of Agatha in the snow outside Jack Gallagher's condo, this account was full of possible explanations for what had happened. After Cy left Colleen, he drove to where Austin Rooney lived, a fourplex whose owner lived on the first floor east. His name was Fred and tufts of white hair sprouted randomly from his head as if someone had sprinkled it with hair restorer.
“Yeah?”
“You Fred Crosley?”
He poked his head out and looked at the nameplate next to his door. “Looks like it.”
Cy showed him his badge and Fred let him in. “Is this about Rooney?”
“What about Rooney?”
“That he didn't come home until dawn that night.”
“How do you know that?”
Fred pulled at his lower lip and his brows rose and fell as if in response. “Listen.”
Cy leaned forward expectantly. There was the sound of creaking overhead.
“There. Rooney lives upstairs and I know when he's in because of that damned creaking. Nothing can be done about it.”
“You lie awake nights listening to the creaking?”
“Funny. No, Rooney makes a trip to the bathroom along about five A.M. So do I. Like clockwork. He's the same. You reach a certain age and your bladder just can't wait.”
“So you get up at five A.M.”
“Every morning. The other morning, I was up a little earlier and when I got back to bed I thought I'd wait until Rooney made his trip before going back to sleep, otherwise he'd wake me up and I might never get back to sleep again. So I lay there and lay there, waiting for the creaking that would tell me Rooney was up and going. It didn't happen. By then I was wide-awake and mad as a hornet. And then I saw his car pull up outside. He shut the door very quietly, didn't slam it, and then almost tiptoed to the door. When I finally did hear him creaking around up there I started wondering where the hell Austin would be until that hour of the morning.”
“What did you conclude?”
“The fellow that called me yesterday, O'Toole, said he had a pretty good idea which he would tell me someday.”
“Do you know O'Toole?”
“He cut my hair for years.”
Cy decided not to comment on the present state of Fred Crosley's hair. “Pretty good barber?”
“We called him âNews of the Day.' Go to his shop and you got caught up on everything. And he sang.”
“In the barbershop?”
“People begged him to. He wouldn't sing while he was cutting hair, but afterwards, if the demand was insistent, he sang. Wonderful voice.”
Cy thanked Fred and asked who was his barber now.
“I'll tell you a secret. I cut my own hair now.”
Cy decided to check up on the men in Agatha Rossner's life chronologically in the light of what he now knew. That meant Timothy first. He could have asked him point-blank, and maybe he would later, but he took the indirect route first. If the thing had gone beyond drinks after work, where had the couple gone for the main act? Aggie's modus operandi was never to take a man home, but go to his place so that when she left, it was over. Imagine trying to get a man out of the house in the morning. Aggie had been full of such folk wisdom, a courtesan's guide to the etiquette of random coupling. That is why she had stayed over at Jack's.
Tim Gallagher could scarcely have taken her home. So, where? They had first met at the Hacienda Motel, where the legal seminar had been held. It was a place favored by many legal groups and firms. That might tell against it, from the point of view of discretion, but either there was some legal event on or there wasn't. If there wasn't, it was just another motel. There was a photograph of Tim in the morning paper, striding from the courthouse. Cy figured it would serve as well as anything for identification purposes.
While he was crossing the enormous lobby, Mr. Lawrence Wagner popped out of his office like a cuckoo, all but throwing up his arms at the sight of Horvath. Then he was scooting across the floor to intercept Cy before he got to the corridor leading to Ruby's office.
“Lieutenant Horvath. I asked specifically that you come around the back.”
“You were expecting me?”
Lawrence frowned. “I called 911 ten minutes ago.”
“What about?”
“Don't you know?”
“Not until you tell me.”
Lawrence checked the lobby, then led Horvath into the corridor. “I don't want the guests alarmed. It's Ruby.”
Cy started for her office, on the run, with Lawrence coming afterward, urging calm and consideration for the guests.
Ruby had been sitting at her desk in the little office that was more like a linen closet. The murder weapon had been a cord pulled from a laundry bag and twisted around her neck until she was dead. Her head was flung back and she stared unseeing at the neon light above her. The cord must have been dropped over her head from behind. A ballpoint pen had been used in the twisting, tourniquet style. Cy picked up the phone and called Dr. Pippen, but she was already on her way. While he waited, he kept gawkers out of the room and warned the 911 crew about messing up the scene.
“The coroner's on her way.”
“Nothing we can do for her.”
“Wait until Dr. Pippen gets here.”
Why? Did he want company? Mainly he didn't want the housekeepers who took turns peeking in at Ruby, their eyes wide and horrified, to think that this was getting anything but the complete attention of the Fox River police. He wished Agnes Lamb was here to reassure them further.
Meanwhile he considered what Ruby's death meant for Harry Paquette. Harry was under lock and key downtown, so there was no way he was going to be accused of doing away with a woman who would have tied him tightly to Linda Hopkins and knew all the ups
and downs of their relationship and thought he should be hanged. But Cy had come with the idea that Ruby might be able to identify Timothy Gallagher as the lawyer who had tried to be so friendly with Linda. It was not the sort of speculation he would have voiced, certainly not to Phil Keegan, but if Ruby had made the identification of Tim Gallagher, the two murders he was investigating would no longer be unrelated. But related in what way? Not even in the privacy of his own mind did Cy attempt an answer to that question.
and downs of their relationship and thought he should be hanged. But Cy had come with the idea that Ruby might be able to identify Timothy Gallagher as the lawyer who had tried to be so friendly with Linda. It was not the sort of speculation he would have voiced, certainly not to Phil Keegan, but if Ruby had made the identification of Tim Gallagher, the two murders he was investigating would no longer be unrelated. But related in what way? Not even in the privacy of his own mind did Cy attempt an answer to that question.
If Cy Horvath had a primary virtue, it was his Hungarian doggedness. On the other hand, that was his main vice too. Phil Keegan had let Cy wrap up the investigation of the woman pushed into traffic but he was supposed to be devoting himself primarily to the Agatha Rossner strangling. So what the hell was he doing out at the Hacienda Motel and calling in to report the murder of Ruby Otter?
“Nine-one-one got that, Cy.”
“Phil, this is the woman who knew the girl who was pushed into traffic.”
“I thought you were looking into the woman Jack Gallagher claims he strangled.”
“That's the funny thing. I am.”
“You got anyone with you?”
“No.”
“Why don't I come by there and hear what you've got.”
Before a death could be turned over to the prosecutor as a case of murder of whatever degree, Phil Keegan's division had to establish a number of things. Identify a suspect, or suspects, of course, and then show there was motive and opportunity and, most important of all, gather physical evidence that the suspect had done the deed. What
someone might have going on in his own mind, God only knew, and that went for the jury as well as the one indicted for a crime. Leave too much margin for thought on the part of the men and women of the jury, and all hell could break loose. The thing had to be tied down in such a way that, like it or not, whatever the defendant might claim he meant to do, no one could reasonably deny that he did kill the other person. A confession of guilt? These were so rare as to be nonexistentâeven years afterward.
someone might have going on in his own mind, God only knew, and that went for the jury as well as the one indicted for a crime. Leave too much margin for thought on the part of the men and women of the jury, and all hell could break loose. The thing had to be tied down in such a way that, like it or not, whatever the defendant might claim he meant to do, no one could reasonably deny that he did kill the other person. A confession of guilt? These were so rare as to be nonexistentâeven years afterward.
Justice is imperfect in this world, of course, and many of those who walked free after a trial, or who by bargaining and the like spent a short time in prison because their action had been redescribed out of all comparison with what the evidence showed, were guilty as sin and everyone including their attorneys knew it. There were protests against such decisions only if there were factors involved that could ignite a segment of the population. If a cop is set free by a jury when he is up for shooting a citizen, you can count on protests. Demonstrations on the other side are far more sure, particularly if it is a question of capital punishment. It didn't matter to antiâdeath penalty zealots if the prisoner himself accepted the justice of his sentence. It was barbaric to exact a life in the name of justice, however guilty that life was. Life imprisonment was the fallback position: Better to lock the murderer up forever and throw away the key. But now life imprisonment too, was coming under attack, now it is thought barbaric to confine a man in a penitentiary for life. The whole damned society has gone nuts, Phil was sure of it. It was punishment itself that horrified people.
“They don't think anyone is really responsible for anything, Roger,” he had said to Father Dowling when he had philosophized about this subject at the rectory.
“A comforting doctrine. But I don't think it has many adherents, Phil.”
“Come on.” Phil had been ticking off examples of what he meant.
“Think of the ref at a ball game. Fans are ready to hang him in a minute for a bad call.”
“It might bring back real baseball,” Phil growled.
It was the anger he felt about Jack Gallagher that had brought all these thoughts up like heartburn. With Jack they had had a confession before he got his chair warm downtown.
“I did it. It's that simple. I strangled that poor girl and I am here to pay the price.”
What good is a confession? They still had to do their job. Jack would not be permitted to plead guilty. Like everyone else he would be the beneficiary of the legal system, rival attorneys, the prosecutor trying to convince the jury he had done it, the defense rebutting and mocking the prosecutor's case. Jack Gallagher's confession was not going to figure in that procedure.
The medical examiner's team had been all over Jack's condo, fingerprints, photographs, the works. And the area outside where the body had been found was still marked off, but the word was that it was useless. The area had been stomped to death by the 911 ambulance crew and then Dr. Pippen and her bunch. What could they do? They had to walk on the ground. Now a slight thaw had made it even more worthless. The autopsy report, the lab's examinations of the siteâmeaning largely Jack's condoâwould give them facts. But until someone like Cy got working on it, it would not take a shape that any prosecutor would accept. So why in the hell was Cy out here at the Hacienda Motel checking out a call that had been made to 911?
“I didn't come because of the call, Phil.”
They were in Ruby's little office and Phil was bent over, studying the throat, still tightly caught in the laundry-bag cord. “Either she fought pretty good or the strangler didn't know his business. See how the marks jump all over before the final twisting?” Dispassionate. Of course Phil hadn't known Ruby.
“I came to talk with her.”
“What about?”
Pippen blew in then, her leather coat open and flying around her, red hair swept efficiently back to set off her Grace Kelly cheeks. She nodded at the detectives and then she too was bent over Ruby.
“How about a drink, Phil?”
“Sure. Why not?”
The medical examiner's van was pulling in as they crossed the lobby to the lounge. Lawrence Wagner came athwart them, wringing his hands. “Must they use all those damnable sirens?”
“Those are the low ones,” Cy said. “You should hear them full blast.”
“Who's he?” Phil said as they entered the ill-lit, chilly lounge.
“The manager.”
Phil made a sound.
They sat at the bar, and ordered glasses of stout. “The reason I was coming to see Ruby was to show her this.”
Phil took the newspaper and looked at the picture of Timothy Gallagher. “She know him?”
“We'll never know.” Cy drank off his glass in one steady swallow and shook his head when the bartender came over. Phil was a sipper, but this was no place to hear what Cy wanted to say. Phil put away half his stout and said, “Come on.”
They sat in Keegan's car and, listening, Phil remembered his annoyance that Cy wasn't concentrating on the death of Agatha Rossner. Cy spoke matter-of-factly, of course, but not even his phlegmatic disposition could lessen the bizarre menagerie that had formed prior to the murder. The facts, as Cy would write them up when he got back to his desk, were these:
⢠Colleen Gallagher heard that her brother Tim was involved with Agatha Rossner, whom he had met at a legal seminar at the Hacienda Motel.
⢠Colleen thought this affair was revenge on Agatha's part because Mario Liberati, now Colleen's fiancé, had spurned her advances.
⢠Fearful that Agatha could, intentionally or not, ruin Tim's family life, Colleen spoke to her uncle Austin Rooney about it and he agreed to talk to his nephew. He saw the couple together at the Willard Bar downtown and thought being observed was all the lesson Tim needed.
⢠When the affair continued, Colleen asked her father to talk sense into her brother. She contrived a tour of Mallard and Bill so her father could see what Agatha was like, and the two went off together afterward, Jack indicating that he would work on the girl first.
⢠As a result of this, Agatha dropped the son in favor of the father. At least one previous time she had stayed most of the night with Jack. On the night she was killed, she left earlier and was killed not far from the entrance of Jack's condo.
⢠Jack confessed to the murder, but that was bunk. He was calm as could be when the police came to his door the following morning.
⢠If Jack is just a distraction, who are the possible suspects?
Timothy Gallagher.
Austin Rooney.
Mario Liberati
.
Colleen Gallagher.
Unknown.
Austin Rooney.
Mario Liberati
.
Colleen Gallagher.
Unknown.
“In that order?” Phil asked. He had lit a cigar and nodded his head among the clouds.
“I think so,” Cy replied.
“What would Ruby have been able to prove if she had lived to see that picture of Timothy?”
“That he and Aggie went there after their drinks. We can't just take a woman's saying so for the fact that they had an affair. That may be good enough, or bad enough, for the man's sister, but we have to know.”
“Who do you want working with you?”
“Maybe Agnes, in a little bit. There is one more item, Phil. How did Agatha get to Jack's place and how did she expect to get home when she left?”
“It would be hard to get a cab at that hour, except by phoning first.”
“The hood of the car was still warm when we checked her garage, Phil.”
Phil Keegan munched on his cigar and scowled.
“Maybe somebody drove her there and dumped her in the snow.”
“But if she drove there ⦔
“The car may be the key to the whole thing.”
Fred came up, knocked on his door, and told Austin Rooney that the police had been here asking about him.
“That's hard to believe.”
“They seem to be interested in why you was out all last night.”
Austin looked at the loathsome Fred Crosley. The man rented out units of his building but did not thereby lose interest in the space he himself did not occupy. Except when repairs were needed, of course. He was the most intrusive busybody Austin had ever known.
“So what did you tell them?”
“Me? How would I know where you spend your nights?”
“How would you know that I wasn't home in bed?”
“Were you?” Fred asked, a sly expression on his face.
“Maybe I'll hold that answer until the police ask me.”
“Where were you?” Fred asked, unable to face the prospect of not knowing.
“A gentleman never tells.”
Sometime later, Colleen called to tell him that the police had been to see Timothy. “At his office, thank God. I suppose we will all be grilled now.”
“They've already been here.”
“What did they ask you?”
“They came in my absence. The ineffable Crosley apparently told them I didn't come home that night so I will have to come up with a story to account for it.”
Colleen laughed. Austin was impressed by the way the Gallaghers were handling what for any other family would be an unmitigated tragedy. The head of the clan's confession, of strangling a young woman, was all over the news. Of course the worst was yet to be, as Colleen herself must know. Jack's ridiculous confession would not dissuade the police from doing their job, and sooner or later they would find out that Tim as well as his father had had liaisons with the Messalina of Mallard and Bill. And they would learn that Colleen had asked Austin to do something about Tim and the young woman.
“Oh, Austin, what a terrible fool I was.”
“That means they will learn about Tim and Agatha.”
“Austin, I told them all about it.”
“You can see now the reason for Jack's confession.”
“What do you mean?”
“He must think Timothy killed her. This is the grand patriarchal gesture. â“Shoot if you must this old gray head, but spare my only son,” he said.'”
Grudgingly Austin admired Jack for what he had done, assuming that he had confessed in order to divert suspicion from Tim. It was credible that Jack would march off to prison with head held high if he were convicted, his consolation that he had saved Tim and Jane and their children. But what he could not very likely prevent was Jane's learning of her husband's infidelity.
Thinking of all that the various Gallaghers had yet to undergo, Austin nonetheless dreaded his own exposure more. He had mocked the news of Jack's liaison to Maud who had said, “Of course he wouldn't be capable of anything. Not at his age.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Would he?” Her head was lowered and her innocent blue eyes looked at him, the palm of her hand warm in his.
Lusting after a woman Maud's age might be ridiculous, but it made more sense than wanting a woman half his age. Maud was a flirt, of course, but there was more than the mere memory of desire in her manner. He drew her close against him. They were in his car. Austin had gone to a doctor who did not know him and received a prescription for Viagra. Now he was stirred by its effects. He took Maud masterfully in his arms and kissed her. She clung to him, all shyness gone. Eventually, as he had hoped, they went inside and there in her chintzy bedroom, all blues and pinks, they fell upon the bed and outdid themselves.
He would die before subjecting Maud to exposure. That was why he had slipped away in the early-morning hours, though Maud thought it was an unnecessary precaution. There was that in her reluctance to see him go that suggested that she had not yet had her fill of carnal memories. He knelt beside the bed and put his face next to hers.
“I'll make an honest woman of you, Maud.”
“I thought you'd never ask.”
Other books
A Stranger Called Master by Olivia Laurel
Amy Lake by Lady Reggieand the Viscount
Russian Mobster's Pregnant Mistress by Bella Rose
Revenge in the Homeland by A. J. Newman
Lieutenant (The United Federation Marine Corps Book 3) by Jonathan P. Brazee
Exhibit by Noir, Stella, Frost, Aria
Sure Fire by Jack Higgins
The Phoenix Fallacy Book I: Janus by Jon Sourbeer,
Loss of Separation by Conrad Williams
