Barry Friedman - Dead End (12 page)

Maharos said, “What brought you to Canton?”

“Well, I had no ties to Columbus, so after my
divorce I found that there was an opening here, applied and got the job. Hard
to believe, it’s been six years already.”

Maharos’ eyes scanned the fishnetted ceiling
while he

did some mental calculation. Vandergrift broke
in. “Thirty-six.”

He looked puzzled.

“If you’re wondering, I’m thirty-six. I got a
late start.”

His eyebrows rose. “I would have guessed thirty,
thirty-one at most.”

“I like your numbers better. Want to try my
weight?”

His eyes scanned up and down. “You have no
worries there.”

“That’s ‘cause it’s covered.”

“I’ve already removed your clothing—in my
calculations.”

She nodded slowly, a faint smile on her lips. “I
think this conversation is getting a little out of hand. What about you?

You haven’t said word-one about yourself.”

“Want me to start with the Parthenon?”

She glanced at her watch. “I think they close
this place up at one a.m. Maybe you could start somewhere after Alexander the
Great”

He shook his head. “You mean skip over 100 years
of Greek history?”

“Well, maybe just take it from the battle at
Syracuse.”

His face showed his mild surprise. “I’m
impressed. Actually, my father was born in the shadow of the Acropolis in
Athens. My mother came from the island of Mykonos. They came to this country in
1939, just ahead of the war in Europe.”

“How did they get to Ohio?”

“My father had a brother who had immigrated a few
years earlier and lived in Youngstown. My folks ran a little grocery store in
Youngstown until Pop died. I came along during World War II, went to Kent State
and by the time I graduated, we were well along in the Vietnam War, so I joined
the Navy. I was a communications officer on a destroyer for about two years.”

“In Vietnam?”

“Mostly just off-shore. It was pure Dullsville.”

“My Dad was in Vietnam, but the Army show was
anything but dull.”

He smiled and tapped his forehead. “Why do you
think I joined the Navy? It turned out I wasn’t so smart after all. We had a
shipboard explosion that knocked me on my keester. The good part was, it got me
back to the States and a medical survey out of the service.”

“Were you badly hurt?”

“Not so bad that I couldn’t pass the physical to
get into the Youngstown Police Academy. Let’s see, that was 1967.”

“I was fourteen.”

“Don’t rub it in. Anyway, three years later I
made detective third grade and married Marcie.”

She leaned forward on her elbows. “Now we’re
getting to the part I’ve been waiting for.”

Maharos told her about Marcie and Annie and the
rest of it. He glanced at his watch. “Well, that’s my arithmetic trick for the
evening—putting forty-six years into twenty minutes.” He was a little
disappointed that she didn’t seem surprised at the “forty-six years” part.

Vandergrift pushed her chair back and stood up.
“I’ve got a long shift tomorrow.”

Maharos gave the waiter his credit card.

Vandergrift said, “Hey, we were going Dutch,
remember? And do you realize we haven’t spoken about our mutual homicides?”

“Yeah. Well don’t tell the Youngstown City
Auditor. I intend to put it on my expense account.”

“Well, in that case thank the city of Youngstown
for a delicious meal—and an enjoyable evening.”

There was an awkward moment for Maharos as he
escorted Vandergrift to the door of her condo. She solved his problem. Smiling,
she held out her hand. “Well, you have a long ride back home so I won’t ask you
in for a nightcap. Thanks again. See you soon.”

On the drive home, Maharos breathed deeply. The
scent of her perfume lingered in the car, and his thoughts of her face and body
and their conversation stirred him in a way he hadn’t felt since he courted
Marcie.

 
“The Loot
wants to see you, Al.”

That was Detective Jerry Weaver’s greeting as
Maharos walked into the squad room.

“Bragg?”

“How many lieutenants we got?”

Ed Bragg was in his usual posture, leaning over
his desk on which was spread a paper sandwich wrapper. He was eating the BLT
that had come wrapped in it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand when
Maharos came through the door, and tipped his head toward the chair while he
swallowed the mouthful of food.

He sucked some food from between his teeth,
swallowed again and said, “You planning to draw your check from the Stark
County Sheriff’s office?”

Maharos wrinkled his forehead.

Bragg went on. “I figure you’ve been in this
office twenny minutes and in Canton the rest of the time over the past four
days. Meantime, you’ve used up two of the three weeks I give you on the Horner
thing. And also meantime, I got reporters crawling up my ass wanting to know
what’s happening.”

“Chief, we’re not sitting on our asses. We’ve
already nailed down five homicides, including Horner, that fit the M.O. We’ve
got a definite link between two of them, and it’s just a matter of time before
we establish that all of them are connected. That’s the angle we’re working on
now.”

“Who’s this ‘we’?”

“Deputy Sheriff Vandergrift and me.”

“This Vandergrift know shit from shinola?”

“Yeah. Vandergrift is bright and a good worker.”

“Why doesn’t he come here instead of you going to
Canton all the time?”

Maharos was putting off any discussion of gender
as long as he could, although he knew the truth about Vandergrift would
eventually come out. “Because two of the cases are from Canton. The one we’re
tracking now is a gay nurse. We’re trying to find out if any of the other
victims were homosexual. Maybe that’s the thread that will lead us to a motive
and to the killer.” He paused five seconds. In a low, almost inaudible voice,
added, “Besides, it’s ‘she’ not ‘he’.”

“You mean the nurse was a dyke?”

“No, the sheriff is a ‘she’.”

Bragg sat looking at his desktop. His bald head
became pink, then red. When he raised his head he stared at Maharos. He seemed
unsure how to proceed. Maharos sat with his hands in his lap, fingers
intertwined tightly. He lay in a foxhole, seeing a grenade roll in, waiting for
the explosion. When it came it wasn’t loud. A corner of Bragg’s mouth turned
up. A smirk, not a smile. His voice was low. “You think you’re one smart-assed
dick—and I don’t mean detective. Let me tell you something, Maharos. You’re
still workin’ for me. I hear there’s any dickin’ around with this lady
cop—sheriff, whatever the fuck she is, you’re on suspension. Got that? Now get
the hell outta here.” He swept his arm in a broad wave.

Maharos remained seated. Inside, he seethed with
resentment. This bull seated on a throne he occupied only because of seniority,
was acting like a prosecutor, judge and jury. Although he secretly wished
Bragg’s insinuation were true, he couldn’t let it pass. “How long have you
known me, Ed? Fifteen years? In that time have you ever seen or heard of me
doing anything unprofessional? You know goddam well I’ve played by the book
every minute of the time I’ve been on this police force. I’ve got a wall full
of commendations to prove it. I didn’t ask for this ‘lady cop,’ but I’ll tell
you this: she’s got more brains than a lot of guys I’ve worked with.” He waited
a moment glaring at the lieutenant, then went on. “If you can’t trust me to
handle this case, lady partner or no, I shouldn’t be working for you.”

Bragg took a deep breath. He pushed himself off
his chair and walked to the window, looking out at the cars streaming down the
sunlit street on a perfect June day. He spoke to the window. “Al, I’ve got more
respect for you than anyone in my division. I guess the pressure got to me.
Like I told you, I’m hearing it from the chief, the D.A., the bar association,
shit, you name it. Maybe I been around here too long. Forget what I said.” He
turned, faced Maharos with a weak smile and extended his hand.

Maharos shook his hand. “It’s forgotten. I don’t
envy you your job, Ed.” He started for the door.

Bragg said, “And Al, this lady sheriff, you wanna
grab yourself a piece, be my guest.” He chuckled.

*
  
*
  
*

Vandergrift, in uniform, was driving the black
and white patrol car with the large star decal on both sides, Maharos in the
shotgun seat, when they pulled up in the parking lot of Friar’s Tavern on
McKinley Avenue in Canton. Maharos had in his lap a brown manila envelope.
Vandergrift said, “This is it.”

Maharos said, “You mean Canton only has two
gay-lesbian bars?”

She shrugged. “I’m surprised there are enough
customers for two places. Canton’s so straight you could roll a bowling ball
down Tuscarawas Avenue from one end of town to the other and never touch a
curb.”

Maharos said, “I would have said the same thing
about Youngstown until recently. Now the closet doors are opening a crack and
you see married guys and women peeking out.”

They walked to the front door under the swinging
sign on which was painted a chubby, smiling man, top of his head shaved,
wearing a brown monk’s habit. It took half a minute until their eyes adjusted
to the darkness of the dimly lit room. The sweetly rancid smell of stale wine
and liquor hung in the air. At two-thirty in the afternoon there were only two
people in the place. The bartender was polishing glasses, and a young man with
very blonde hair, wearing cut-off jeans was seated on a stool in front of the
bar, a cocktail glass in his hand.

Maharos followed Vandergrift to the far end of
the bar and the bartender ambled over. He glanced at Vandergrift’s badge. “What
can I do for you, officers?”

Maharos took a dozen pictures out of the manila
envelope and laid them on the counter. They included photos of Horner, Gibson,
Graves, Hamberger and Burnstein. In addition, there were photos of several
others, not connected with their investigation. “We’re trying to locate several
people. Recognize anyone in these photos.”

“You’re looking for gays, right?”

“That’s who your clientele is, isn’t it?”

He nodded scanning each of the pictures in turn. He
hesitated when he came to Burnstein’s picture, glanced through the others and
came back to Burnstein. “Isn’t this Flossie Burnstein?”

“You know him?”

“Knew him. Sure, he used to come in here with
Lance Harwood

before—.”

“Recognize any of the others?”

He shook his head while he squinted at the
pictures once again. “Why the sudden interest in Burnstein’s case? I thought
you had Harwood nailed to the wall.”

Vandergrift said, “Just checking. Thanks.”

Maharos put the photos back in the manila
envelope and they walked out into the bright sunlight. They had already been to
the Blue Heron, Canton’s other gay bar and had gotten the same response.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to ask at that steam
room,” said Maharos.

Vandergrift drove north on McKinley to 2nd, then
east to a street that consisted of residential buildings on one side, and a row
of five stores on the other.

She stopped in front of the store with a sign
that read “Interiors By Harold.” In the showcase were two shiny black, plastic
chairs that appeared suitable only for someone who was sway-backed, and a low
Lucite table over which was draped a length of cloth, black with broad,
diagonal white stripes. On the back wall were hung two abstract paintings that
carried out the black and white theme.

The store next to it bore no identifying sign.
Its showcase contained only a pleated beige curtain hung on a brass rod
extending the width of the window. Behind it, barely visible over the top of
the curtain, a wall, painted white, shielded the interior of the store from the
street. In a lower corner of the store window, a cardboard sign read, “Parking
In Rear.” The glass door of the shop was covered by the same beige material as
the curtain in the showcase, so the interior was obscured.

Maharos said, “This is the steam room?”

“Uh-huh. Harold, the guy that owns the decorating
shop next door, runs it. I’ll wait out here in the car.”

Maharos got out and walked to the front door. The
door was locked. He pushed the doorbell on the doorframe. There was no response
from inside the store, so he rapped on the glass of the front door. A
half-minute later, the door of the decorator shop next door opened and a man’s
head poked out. “Can I help you?”

He was in his mid-thirties, six-feet tall, and
weighed no more than 135 pounds. His face was as thin and gaunt as the rest of
his body. His brown hair, drawn back from his face, was fastened by a rubber
band in a short ponytail. A small gold ring dangled from his left earlobe. His
white shirt was open at the neck exposing a gold chain. The shirtsleeves were
rolled up to his mid forearms.

Maharos held his gold shield up for the man to
see. “Detective Maharos. Do you run this steam room?”

“The steam room doesn’t open until after six.”

“Are you connected with its operation?”

The thin man hesitated. “Well, in a way.”

“Are you Harold?”

“No, I’m Troy Woodridge, Harold’s partner.”

“I’d like some information. Can you help me?”

“I’ll try. What is it?”

“Can I come in and discuss it?”

Woodridge glanced to the street where Vandergrift
sat in the Sheriff Department patrol car. “Did you say you were a detective?”

“Yes.

He held the door open and followed Maharos into
the decorator shop. The shop was much more spacious than appeared from the
outside and was crammed with furniture, mostly ultra modern living room sets,
and lamps. Maharos sat on a white leather couch, took the photos out of his
envelope and spread them on a low coffee table. He asked Woodridge if he
recognized anyone in the pictures.

 
Maharos
watched his face as he went through the stack. He thought Woodridge hesitated
when he came to Horner’s picture. When he had examined them all, he pointed to
Burnstein’s picture.

“Sure, I knew Burnstein. Poor guy.”

“Did he ever come into your steam room?”

“No. I met him through his friend, Harwood. Lance
is a decorator too. One of our competitors, you might say. I guess you people
took him out of competition.” He laughed, then suddenly grew serious. “I’m
sorry, I didn’t mean to make light of it. It’s hard for me to believe that
Lance would kill Frank. They were so happy together—most of the time.”

Maharos got up as though to leave. Suddenly he
turned to face Woodridge. “What do you know about the times when they weren’t
so happy together?”

Woodridge tugged at his earring. “Well, they—I
guess you know they had a few spats. Who doesn’t?”

Through Maharos’ mind ran the question: Was there
someone jealous of the relationship of the two—jealous enough to murder
Burnstein?

“Did Frank or Lance have anyone else on the
side?”

The young man shifted his gaze from Maharos. He
said nothing for a few moments. Finally, “You’ve got to understand, Lance was a
very intense person. Frank was an easygoing guy. Everyone was his friend.
Whether or not either one had affairs with anyone else, I honestly don’t know.”

Maharos extended his hand. “Well, thanks for your
help.”

“Not at all. By the way, I’m curious. Who were
those other people whose pictures you showed me?”

“Oh, just some people we’re trying to get
information about.”

“Are they gay?”

“Why, do you know most of the gays around here?”

The thin man shrugged. “I’m quite active in the
Gay Rights Movement of Northeastern Ohio. I know a number of men and women in
that movement.”

“How about Youngstown and Akron?”

“Yes, they’re in our chapter.”

“What if the people in these photos were not open
about their homosexuality? Would you be likely to have any contact with them?”

“Maybe, maybe not. I’ve been to parties where
there are, what you people like to call, ‘closet gays’; doctors and lawyers,
for example, who feel it would damage their image to be known as homosexual.”

“Without asking you to identify which ones you
mean, are any of the people in the pictures I showed you closet gays?”

There was no hesitation in his answer. “No.”

Maharos sank back in the car seat. “Well, so much
for the “gay connection” theory.” He glanced at his watch. “Let’s call it a
day. I’ll head on home, fix myself a TV dinner and see if I can get any bright
ideas watching re-runs of ‘Hill Street Blues’.”

Vandergrift looked straight ahead as she drove.
“I was wondering, if you don’t have plans for dinner, how would you like to
come over to my place? I’ll fix us a couple of steaks I’ve got in the freezer.
I’m not a great cook but you won’t starve.”