“Hardesty Investigations,” I said, picking it back up without waiting for the second ring.
“Dick, Marty. I have some news on Ferguson you might find interesting. He claims he has an alibi for the time of Jefferson’s murder, but it’s a pretty weak one.”
“Yeah?” I noted a mild rush of adrenaline. “What’s that?”
“He admits he was in town on the twentieth, but claims that he’d picked up a hustler around six and dropped him off at quarter to eight, which would cover him for the time of the murder.”
“Convenient,” I said. “I don’t suppose they exchanged addresses and phone numbers.”
Marty laughed. “Uh, no. He says the hustler’s name is Joey and he picked him up on Genessee, a block or so down from a bar called Hughie’s.”
“I know the place.”
“Figured you might. Anyway, we checked out Hughie’s and a couple of the other hustler bars. Not surprisingly, nobody had ever heard of Joey.”
“Did Farnsworth give a description of this guy?”
“Butch, five-eleven, torn jeans, black skintight tee shirt…”
“Well, that rules out all but about seventy-five percent of the hustlers in the city,” I said. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. Farnsworth says the guy had a small tattoo of a mouse on the inside of his right wrist.”
A mouse tattoo on the inside of his right wrist? Bingo! And thank you, Small World!
“I know him!” I blurted, then quickly added, “I mean, I think I know who he is. I saw him at Hughie’s.”
“Gee,” Marty said dryly, “I can’t imagine why the bartender there said he didn’t have any idea who we were talking about.”
“Old habits die hard,” I said.
“So what can you tell me about this guy?”
“Nothing, actually. He hit on me last time I was in there.”
“You go to hustler bars often?”
“No, I was there looking for clues on Jefferson’s death.”
“In a hustler bar? Jefferson was a hustler?”
“No, no,” I said. “It’s a gay thing…you couldn’t be expected to understand.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“You know what I mean.” I knew he did and was pulling my leg. “Anyway, he fits your description, and I remember the tattoo. I can go back there this afternoon and see if I can find out anything more about him.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Marty said. “I’m going to try to get out of here at five for a change, so if you can’t get back to me tonight, I’ll call you first thing in the morning.”
After hanging up, I had two choices. One was to call Jonathan and tell him I’d be a little late getting home, then wait around here until four thirty or so to go down to Hughie’s in the hopes that—what was the name the guy used?—Joey might show up, though I wouldn’t be able to stay long because it was Jonathan’s school night. Alternatively, I could go down around three in hopes Bud would be on duty and ask him what he knew about the guy.
I opted for the latter course of action.
I had no doubt but that Bud knew who Joey was despite his unwillingness to tell the police. Bud would also probably know when he’d be most likely to come by, or where he might hang out when he wasn’t in the bar. Marty said Farnsworth told him he’d picked Joey up on Genessee, which is a couple blocks from Hughie’s in the opposite direction from my office; it was one of the busiest pick-up areas in town.
*
Hughie’s was all but deserted, with only three or four regulars and one identifiable hustler, a guy I’d seen around for years. He had to be coming up on his mid-thirties now—pretty old for a hustler—and the years had not been kind. I remembered what a beauty he had been when he was younger, and part of me ached to think he was still at it. Vestiges of his looks remained, but they had a leather-skinned and hardened quality.
I fished my billfold out of my pocket before I reached the bar, and Bud had my napkin and frothy mug waiting by the time I got there.
“How’s it goin’, Dick?”
“Fine, Bud. You?”
The usual shrug. “Can’t complain.”
He turned to get back to whatever it was he’d been doing when I came in, but I stopped him.
“I’m looking for one of your customers,” I said.
“Which one?”
“I think he goes by Joey. Nice-looking, dresses like he’s doing a fifties musical—torn jeans, tight black tee shirt…”
“Yeah, I know him. Cops were asking about him the other day.”
He didn’t ask what the cops might want him for, but I wouldn’t expect that he would. Bud wasn’t the curious type.
“Does he come in regularly?” I asked.
“Couple times a week. He usually hangs out on Genessee.”
“Has he been in lately?”
“Not for a couple of days, so I’d guess he’s due.”
“Any particular time?”
“Sometimes around seven, sometimes around ten. Varies. I think he only comes in when the street traffic’s off.”
I wasn’t about to spend all my time sitting around waiting for him.
“Tell you what…could you do me a favor?” I reached into my pocket for a business card. “When you see him, could you give him this and tell him I’d like to talk to him? Tell him it’s worth a twenty for the call.”
“Sure,” he said, pocketing the card. I took a ten out my billfold and passed it to him. “To cover your expenses,” I said. He gave me a slightly raised eyebrow and the hint of a smile, putting the bill in the same pocket as the card without comment.
I took my time finishing my beer and headed back to pick up my car from the lot across from work and went home.
*
With Joshua tucked in for the night, Jonathan and I sat on the sofa watching
TV
while he wound down from his evening class. When the local news came on, I was reaching for the remote to turn off the set when my finger was frozen in mid-motion by a photo of Crandall Booth on the screen.
“Prominent auto dealer Crandall Booth was found dead at his Central Imports dealership, apparently the victim of a homicide…”
The screen switched to the parking lot of Central Imports, where a large area of one side of the outside wall of the main showroom was cordoned off with yellow police tape.
“Police are releasing no information as to the cause or circumstances surrounding the death.”
Chapter 12
Needless to say, I didn’t get much sleep Wednesday night. Booth’s death could conceivably have been totally coincidental to his having withdrawn his financial support of the chorus the day before—a botched robbery or mugging, say. Yet I was certain the klieg lights of suspicion had swung directly back to the chorus, though with a narrower beam—Rothenberger and…and who? The only member of the chorus itself who might have a sufficient grudge against Booth would be…Eric? But either Rothenberger or Eric a killer? Sorry, I couldn’t buy it.
The one thing I could buy was that if Farnsworth’s story panned out, he was all but eliminated as Grant’s killer.
Square one, anyone?
I finally got to sleep around 3 a.m. after convincing myself there was absolutely no point running off in all directions until I knew more of exactly what had happened and what the police knew—and would be willing to tell me.
Ah, but you’ve forgotten Charles Stapleton
, a mind-voice pointed out as I felt myself relaxing.
He had a good reason to see Booth dead.
Maybe, but if he wanted him dead, why wait until now?
another replied.
With effort, I was able to get them to shut up, and I finally drifted off to sleep.
*
Despite my having had little sleep, I was up in time to catch the early morning news, which not surprisingly had Booth’s death as its lead local item. Basically a rerun of the footage from the night before, read by the morning news anchor, the only new bit of information—if it could be called that—was that it appeared to be a robbery gone bad. His body was found next to his car in the parking lot adjacent to the main building; his empty wallet was found a few feet away. A police spokesman surmised he had been struck from behind with a blunt instrument while getting into his car after working late. The police were investigating.
I left for work early in a dull drizzle that pretty much matched my mood, and was on my third cup of coffee when Marty called.
“You heard about Booth?” he asked.
“Yeah, which pretty much lets Farnsworth off the hook.”
“Why would you say that? We don’t know—yet—that there’s any connection between the two deaths, and as far as we know Booth and Farnsworth never even met. There’s no way, even if they had met, that he could have killed Booth, but I wouldn’t be so quick to rule him out on Jefferson.”
He was absolutely right.
“So, did you and Dan get Booth’s case?” I asked.
“No, Dan’s brother Earl and his partner got the honors.”
“Oh, great!” I think I mentioned earlier that Earl Carpenter’s partner, Ben Couch, hated my guts—the feeling was mutual—and wouldn’t give me the time of day let alone any information he might have on the investigation. “Do you know anything you can tell me about what’s going on with it?”
Marty sighed. “Earl plays it close to the vest, and Ben is wrapped pretty tight, but I’ll see if they can tell me anything. Right now, I really don’t know very much other than that the cause of death was one blow to the back of the head with a blunt instrument, which hasn’t been found. Motive apparently robbery; they found his billfold—empty—and keys on the ground near the body. A tan line on his wrist indicated he’d been wearing a watch.
“It appears as though he was getting in the car when he was attacked. If the killer knew who Booth was, he could easily have taken the keys and gone into the building to look for more money, or gone into the key box in the showroom and driven off with any car on the lot. Or he could have taken Booth’s car, for that matter. But he didn’t, which indicates to me—at least at first glance—that it was a screwed-up robbery by somebody who didn’t know the victim and wasn’t very bright.
“I might know something more later in the day, and I’ll call you if I do.”
“I’d really appreciate that, Marty,” I said. “So, what do we do in the meantime about Farnsworth?”
“I say we go where we were headed before Booth got himself killed for now. Did you get a chance to follow up on his alibi?”
I quickly filled him in on what I’d found out from Bud during my visit to Hughie’s.
“Did
you
get anything more from Farnsworth?”
“Not really. He’s sticking to his story. And we did verify that he’d rented a car from the nineteenth to the twenty-first. When we asked where they’d gone to transact business, he claims they drove all the way out to Prichert Park. Granted, that’s a pretty popular cruising area, but it’s a long way off the beaten path. If he’d taken the guy to a motel or somewhere where they’d been seen, it would have given his alibi a lot more solid basis.”
“Well, he had no way of knowing he’d
need
an alibi,” I pointed out.
“That’s what he said, too. But if that Joey character can verify his alibi, I’d really like to find him. I can tell Earl, and he and Ben can start looking for him.”
“Why don’t you hold off a bit and see if he calls me first. He might be a little more willing to talk to me than to the police.”
“Do you think he’ll call?”
“If he thinks there’s money in it, I think the odds are pretty good,” I said. “But we’ll have to wait and see. I’ll get back to you the minute I hear from him, though. I assume Farnsworth’s been arraigned on the stolen property charge?”
“Yeah, day before yesterday,” Marty affirmed. “He was denied bail because of being a flight risk, so he’s not going anywhere. No trial date set yet—the court docket is really backed up right now—so I think we’ve probably got several weeks yet. I hope by that time…”
“You and me both,” I said.
*
So maybe Booth’s death was one of those detective-novel coincidences, but deep down, I didn’t believe it. Marty apparently wasn’t giving much thought yet to the idea that if it was the same guy who killed Grant—and specifically, if it was someone from the chorus—they wouldn’t have had any particular interest in breaking into the showroom or stealing a car. His purpose would have been to kill Booth, and that he did, then emptied Booth’s wallet and took his watch to make it look like a robbery.
At three thirty, the phone rang.
“Hardesty Investigations,” I said after the third ring.
“This is Joey. I’m calling about the twenty bucks.”
Well, now, the day just got interesting.
“You’re at Hughie’s now?” I heard the click of what I assumed to be pool balls and muffled voices in the background. The pay phone is on the wall nearest the pool table. I figured he had probably decided to try his luck at Hughie’s rather than getting drenched standing on the curb trolling for johns.
“Yeah. So, you want to meet me here? Maybe we can go someplace to talk. Like your place?”
Uh, not the best of ideas. “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” I said.
*
Though the rain had started by the time I got to work, I’d left my umbrella in the car and opted to run across the street to my building, assuming it would clear up before I came out. It didn’t.