The Hours of the Virgin (10 page)

Alderdyce nodded. “I was pretty sure it wasn't. Both her eyes are brown, and she's the right age, only twice. Did you ever meet?”

I said we hadn't. “Gilly told me about her. His latest love.”

“Last, too. He was staying in her apartment in East Detroit—excuse me, East
pointe
. He slept in, so she went out for breakfast at Bob Evans and brought some back for him, only he never ate it. She took the gun, graduation present from the old man, out of a drawer in the nightstand and gave him a break from all that cholesterol. Then she called nine-one-one. She was eating eggs and sausages in the kitchen when the uniforms came. Gun was on the table with the slide kicked all the way back.”

“How'd Detroit get it?”

“Eastpointe cops figured as long as all of Gilly's records were here, we ought to have the rest of it. It wouldn't be because her family kicked in to buy the city its new name.”

“She spill anything?”

“All the way downtown. The uniforms pulled over twice to read her her rights. We're getting it down now. On her way home from the restaurant she picked up her mail and opened a letter forwarded to Gilly from his last place of residence. It was from his wife asking if she could expect him home for Easter.”

“Which one, the one in Corktown or the one in Rochester Hills?”

“Corktown. I didn't know about Rochester Hills.”

“I think that one was common law. Her story check out?”

“She still had the letter in her purse. I just wanted you to get a look at her so we can deal you out of this one. One more domestic kill for the Eyewitness News maggots to munch on.”

“He said she thought he looked like Johnny Depp.”

“Love's blind. And as dumb as bottled water.” He turned back toward the elevators.

I went with him. “Who gets the body, the wife in Corktown?”

“She might not want it. He was a lot more entertaining when his mouth was moving, that's how he reeled them in. There's a sister mentioned in his jacket, but it's old. The number's disconnected.” He rang for the car.

“She's dead, I heard. Is there still a Potter's Field?”

“Developers snapped up the last of it years ago. We still get calls when some weekend gardener turns up a skull in his back yard. These days the county donates the unclaimed stiffs to the U of M medical college. I'd like to get a look at the med student's face when he cuts into Merlin and pure bullshit runs out.”

“Poor dumb bastard.”

“Yeah. They'll miss him in Stationary Traffic. He paid off a couple of hundred bucks in parking tickets a month just so he could go back to the Erin and tell the suckers who got them he'd put in the fix. Never could forget he was in Jerry Cavanagh's press corps, that was Merl's problem.”

“He could barely write his own name.”

“Sure. His job was pulling down the other guy's campaign posters.” He rang again, then said shit, and headed for the stairs.

I put a hand on his arm at the door. He looked at the arm. John doesn't like anyone touching his tailoring. I let go, but he stayed put.

“Can you get a fix on Boyette for me from the company that leased him his car?” I asked. “They need it in ink on a police letterhead.” I gave him the name of the place and the Toyota's license number.

“I got it.” He left his notebook in his pocket. “Who owes who at this point? I lost track.”

“Favor for a friend.”

“Is that what we are? What's my son's name?”

“Alderdyce.”

He pushed open the door. “I'll call you when I get around to it.”

It was a cue line and I took it out of the building.

Part Two

The Hours of the Acquisitor

11

I'd been fighting the bug long enough. It was time to go ahead and have it.

I dumped a fast forty at Rite-Aid on Robitussin, two brands of antihistamine, the brothers Smith, a generic Nyquil, and a paperback novel about Navajo detectives investigating mysterious goings-on at an Indian burial ground in New Mexico; I hoped it wouldn't give me nightmares about suburbanites spading up skulls. I admired the nose sprays for a long minute, but the doctor who had undeviated my septum the second time had made me promise never to use them on pain of hemorrhage. I had never used them before, but there was an option closed forever; one more of the continuing benefits of sixty-two rounds of amateur boxing in college. I went home, took drugs, and slept. I didn't dream of skulls. Instead I was hunting polar bears at the South Pole and wild boar on a steaming island off the coast of Madagascar—depending upon whether I was chilled or feverish—and Earl North kept showing up. He put me off balance by wearing a fur parka in the tropics and a grass skirt in the Antarctic. The only thing that remained constant was every time I reached for Dale Leopold's .45, it turned into something ridiculous. Once it was a Bubonic Plague.

The last fever broke sometime around midnight. I woke up in a puddle of sweat in the dark and didn't know where I was. Then I recognized the luminous dial on the 1948 alarm clock on the nightstand and found the switch on the lamp. Other familiar things on the stand—cigarettes, water tumbler, the new paperback, the portable pharmacy, my revolver—grounded me in my little bedroom. I used the bathroom, washed my face, changed into dry pajamas, replaced the soaked sheets, and sat up smoking and reading the novel until the print blurred. Then I put out the cigarette and lay back with my eyes closed and the book on my chest. I woke up with the sun in my face. The lamp was still on and I was as hungry as a polar bear. My breathing passages were open.

I showered, shaved, and brushed my hair. My eyes were clear for the first time in days. I put on a robe and made a pot of coffee and threw half a pound of bacon and six eggs into the skillet. Wiping my plate with the last of my toast I thought there might be something to this breakfast fad after all.

I burned my morning cigarette over the
Free Press
. Merlin Gilly got two columns in the first section under the headline
LATE GM DIRECTOR'S DAUGHTER ARRESTED IN HOMICIDE
, with a mug shot of Viola Blessing cropped from a ten-year-old file photo. I learned nothing new, aside from the fact she'd been married once, briefly, to a ski instructor at Mt. Brighton. Merlin was described as “a one-time Detroit politico with suspected ties to organized crime.” He might have planted it himself if he weren't floating in formaldehyde downtown.

I thought about Merlin. There wasn't anything in it for the eulogy. If the son of a bitch had married anyone but a Catholic straight from Dublin he'd have had a clean divorce years ago and I'd still have him to bounce off the floor until he told me who'd set me up and why.

By that time it was 8:00
A
.
M
., time to go to work. I got dressed and drove to the office, where I got out the reverse directory and looked for the Boyette number that I now knew didn't belong to the Detroit Institute of Arts. No listing. It was too soon after the last time to ask my contact at Ma Bell to look it up in the unlisted roster; getting caught by his supervisor meant instant dismissal and possible prosecution, and the favor he owed me didn't balance out the double risk. It wasn't worth burning a good source. Pending John Alderdyce's lukewarm promise to trace him through his leasing company, Boyette was as gone to me as the Hours of the Virgin.

At least through direct methods.

I found a number in the Birmingham directory and dialed it.

“
After Six
. This is Cynthia.” She sounded as if they'd imported her from London's West End.

“Good morning, Cynthia. Boss in?”

“I have many superiors, sir. With which one did you wish to speak?”

“Gordon Strangeways.”

“I'll transfer you to corporate.”

I listened to Gilbert and Sullivan for thirty seconds.

“Strangeways, Priscilla.” This one had an apartment in Windsor Castle.

“Hi, Priscilla. Can you put me through to Mr. Strangeways?”

“I'm sorry, sir.”

“That's okay. You understand American better than I understand English.” I repeated the request.

She waited in case I had anything else to say. Then, “I intended to explain that Mr. Strangeways isn't in. He seldom comes to the office.”

“Is there a number where he can be reached?”

“Again, I'm sorry. I'm not at liberty to give out that information.”

“Can you get a message to him?”

“One moment, please.”

This time I got Victor Herbert. If Queen Elizabeth came on the line I was going to have to put on a clean shirt.

“Hi, this is Tamara. You've got a message for Mr. Strangeways?”

They'd thrown me a curve; an American one with a gritty twang, straight from the 'hood. I put away my McGuffey's.

“Amos Walker's the name. Spelled like it sounds.” I gave her my number. “Tell him I'm about to swear out a complaint against his wife. Accessory to attempted murder and conspiracy in a kidnapping.”

For half an hour after I hung up the office was quiet. The environmental team hadn't reported to work for days and the pink carcinogenic mass hanging out of the ceiling in the hallway wasn't making any noise. My mail included two belated checks for old cases and a stack of bills that when they were paid would leave me with six cents over. I used eight cents' worth of ink to enter the figures in the ledger and since I was in the hole anyway I went ahead and brought the ledger up to date from Thanksgiving. Then I cranked down the Underwood from the top of the file cabinet and typed up my notes on the current mess. Everything I knew about it came to a page and a half double-spaced with wide margins.

The telephone rang while I was reading it over. I let the bell go twice more and picked up. The accent that greeted me, voice female, was American, but its owner wouldn't know Tamara socially. It sounded like it came from very high up in a building with sealed windows.

“Mr. Walker, please. This is Jillian Raider of Raider and Associates, Attorneys at Law.”

“This is Amos Walker of Walker and Detroit Manufacturers Bank. What can I do for you, Ms. Raider?”

“It's Mrs. I honor my husband's memory. My firm represents Gordon Strangeways in personal legal matters. I'm in receipt of a message that states you've made an accusation against Mrs. Strangeways.”

“You're misinformed.”

“I am.” It was neither a question nor a statement. She'd know her way around the witness box in a courtroom.

“I told Tamara I'm about to swear out a complaint against Mr. Strangeways' wife. Until I do that I haven't accused anybody of anything.”

“I would advise against it. The penalties under Michigan law for filing a false police report are severe. My firm would also file a suit against you on Mrs. Strangeways' behalf for libel and character defamation.”

“So far that's the only argument I've found in favor of staying poor,” I said. “Mrs. Strangeways would just end up owing eight thousand dollars on my mortgage.”

“What do you want, Mr. Walker?”

“I'll answer that question in Mrs. Strangeways' presence.”

“If it's money, this isn't the first extortion attempt that's been made. I should warn you this conversation is being recorded.”

“Yeah, I heard the echo. A big firm like yours should be able to afford someone who knows how to hook up the equipment. I can interview the lady in the comfort of her own home or I can wait till the showup downtown. I'm offering her the freedom of choice. If I were her attorney I'd advise her to take it. It may be the last freedom she sees for a long time.”

The reels on her end of the line took a couple of turns. “Who are you?”

“I'm a Michigan state licensed private investigator with a ringing in my ears with Laurel Strangeways' name on it. I got it when a friend of hers tried to put a bullet there instead. I also want to return one of her earrings. It's no good to me. I wear the clip-on kind.”

“You're talking gibberish.”

“I can't help it. It's my native tongue.”

“I may call you back.”

“If the line's busy I'm talking to the police.”

“I will call you back.” She left me.

I smoked and paid a couple of bills. Twice in two days I'd used the cops as a club. I was one taxpayer who was getting his money's worth. When the envelopes were sealed and stamped I got up and walked over to the window and looked out. The lunch counter down the street had been closed for two months; the sign on its boarded-up window informing customers where it had relocated flapped loose where a corner had torn away from its thumbtack. They were probably going to tear it down and build a casino, forty stories high and ten feet wide.

I went back to answer the telephone. “Police annex.”

This time there was no echo. “Mr. and Mrs. Strangeways will see you at their home this evening at ten.”

“Why so late?”

“Her plane doesn't get in until eight. She's been in Louisiana for a week, visiting friends.”

“They must not have any matches there. She flew back three days ago just so I could light her cigarette.”

Jillian Raider let two seconds go by. “Mrs. Strangeways doesn't smoke. Are you sure we're discussing the same person?”

“One blue eye, one hazel?”

“She has that condition.”

“Tell her and Mr. Strangeways I'll see them at ten.”

“Naturally I'll be present.”

“Naturally.” I got the address on Grosse Ile and we were through with each other for a while.

—What's the job, Dale?

Just another Dagwood Bumstead with a snake in his pants, kid. Don't worry your pretty little head about it. It's a one-man job
.

—You're always telling me a P.I. who takes on a tail job solo is keeping company with an idiot. I'm not doing anything tonight.