The Perfect Crime (13 page)

“This guy called in, thought it might be his dog that got blown up. Would this--”

“Help? I hope to smile,” Grady said, turning the paper around to read it. “What’s a ‘Chef Menteur’?”

Whitney smiled. “Not a ‘what,’ a ‘where.’ It’s a street. I’m going with you.”

She grabbed her purse.

“I was planning on talking to Mr. Pelkerson myself. Come on. You’ll never find it.”

***

She was right Grady would have had a hell of a time finding the house. It was in one of those subdivisions where all the homes look alike. A ranch, next to a two-story colonial, next to a ranch, next to a... The contractor had only used three colors for maybe a hundred or so houses. White, yellow and a salmon shade of pink. He saw a blue one that must have been repainted. The neighborhood rebel. The house he was looking for turned out to be one of the standard pink ones.

“I knew I shouldn’t have sold Fritz to that asshole.”

The man--Pelkerson he’d introduced himself as--no “Mister,” no first name, coughed horribly. The Camels he kept chain smoking couldn’t be helping, Grady thought, and he remembered the pack of Marlboros in his own pocket. He saw Whitneyr*s glance at Pelkerson and guessed she was a nonsmoker by the look on her face.

Pelkerson was telling them what had happened with his dog.

“It’s just...I...well, I don’t have long to go and I wanted Fritz to have a good home. I didn’t want him to end up in the pound.”

It would have been better if you had, thought Grady, but didn’t say so to the man. He looked at Whitney and could tell she was thinking the same thing.

“Is there anything you can tell me about the guy who bought your dog?”

“Naw. Wish I could. You on the case?”

Grady didn’t say anything, only nodded. Let Pelkerson assume what he wanted.

“Yeah, well, like I said, he never introduced himself. I don’t think. I don’t remember him saying his name. I can describe him though. Imagine a creep.”

Grady and Whitney both laughed at that. Grady said, “I could use a bit more than that.”

Pelkerson went into a coughing fit that lasted more than a minute and brought tears to his eyes. At the end of it he was bending over. When the coughing ended he stood up, took out another cigarette and lighted it.

“Fucking lungs,” he said, inhaling deeply. “Probably look like a couple of wharf rats got run over by a semi. I’m an organ donor, but I don’t think those’re the organs they’re gonna want.”

He took another drag and waved his cigarette, indicating they should follow him into the living room where he sank down into an easy chair. Grady noticed overflowing ashtrays everywhere, as well as a nearly empty vodka bottle on the coffee table. Pelkerson waved his hand with the cigarette in it at the couch and Grady and Whitney sat down.

“He was about medium build, skinny little asshole--brown hair, long, like a hippie.” Grady wondered how old the man was and wondered if he knew hippies were long gone from the contemporary scene. Like about twenty, thirty years maybe. He was writing on a notepad as Pelkerson talked.

“Oh. One thing might help. I knew this guy wasn’t a dog lover...I tried to catch him...drove off before...anyway...he wore these fancy shoes. Alligator. You don’t see those much. That’s when I went after him, only he drove off before...when I
think
about those shoes! Guy likes animals don’t wear shoes like that. He kicked him.”

“Kicked who?” Whitney asked the question, leaning forward.

Pelkerson went into another coughing spasm and predictably, when the spasm was over, lighted another cigarette off the one that was going. Grady felt an overwhelming urge himself and shook out a Marlboro medium, almost asking permission before he caught himself. When he saw the look on Whitney’s face, he wished he had.

“Kicked my baby. Kicked Fritz. That bastard!”

There wasn’t much else. He couldn’t remember the color of the man’s eyes or the make or year of the man’s car. Only that it was brown.

Out in Whitney’s car, she said, “Did you get much out of that?”

A few minutes later, they were back at the animal shelter and shaking hands goodbye.

“I’d like to see you again,” Grady said, self-consciously. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wanted them back. Damn! He felt like a friggin’ schoolboy, asking for a date to the junior prom. Somehow, this woman intimidated him and he couldn’t figure out why. All he knew was that he wanted to see more of her.

She surprised him.

“Okay,” she said. “I think I’d like that. Tonight? I get off at six. Eight would be perfect. Actually, it’d be nice to go out with someone who didn’t have a New Orleans accent for a change.”

At his surprised look, she told him she was a Yankee herself. Born and bred in New Hampshire.

When she said that, Grady almost said something about his and Jack’s dream to have a fishing camp in next-door neighbor Vermont, but didn’t. That was something he could save for later. Damn! He
was
a schoolboy! Already he was looking for nuggets of information to impress her with.

He decided to leave before he put his foot in his mouth and ruined what must not have been too bad a first impression.

***

Driving back to the motel, Grady decided he’d had enough of smelling his own sour perspiration. He wanted a shower and clean clothes. He quickly made a U-turn and headed over to Jefferson Highway, nearly sideswiping a beat-up pickup truck that looked like it had been in its share of accidents. That was the ticket. He was getting into the New Orleans driving rhythm. The guy in the pickup didn’t even blink. What was odder, when he considered it, was that
he
didn’t either.

His hunch was probably no good, but you never know. He’d solved cases on less.

“Sally in?” he asked. A huge woman was tending bar when he walked in who must have weighed three hundred pounds. Her arms looked like giant sausages. Only one customer at the bar. His head was down on the bar, apparently in the midst of a nap.

“Who’s asking?” she said, wiping a glass and giving him the eye.

“Tell him it’s Fogarty. We met last night.” Grady was surprised at the softness of her voice, considering her size.

“My wife,” Sally said when he came out. “Veronica, meet Grady Fogarty. Hey, wake Pete up and tell him it’s time to go home.” He nodded to the woman in the direction of the sleeping drunk and led Grady back to a table. Veronica came over with two beers, although neither he nor Sally asked for anything, and it was only one o’clock in the afternoon. She set them down and went to stand behind the bar. She stood there a minute, then reached out and pushed the sleeping man’s head. He fell back, seemingly in slow motion and landed sprawled in a heap on the floor. Veronica looked over the top of the bar, shrugged and went back to polishing glasses.

“She’s Italian,” Sally said, turning back to give Grady his attention, eyes twinkling. “Everybody wonders, I guess. She’s a great gal, the apple of my eye. So she gained a few pounds? I love her. What’s on your mind.”

Grady felt embarrassed. Did it show in my face, he wondered. Still, I’d like to know the story behind this relationship!

“Sally, I got a description of somebody that might be the friend of the guy I’m looking for.” He gave it to him. Hair color, eyes, height, that stuff.

“That could be about six hundred guys,” Sally said, taking a swig and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Look around, take your pick.” It was true. There were maybe four guys in the bar at the moment that loosely fit the description.

“There’s something else,” Grady said. “This guy said the man wore alligator shoes. That mean anything? I figure, down here where they grow ‘em, about a million people wear alligator shoes.”

“No,” Sally said. “Only one I know. You’re gonna like this. The only guy I know wears alligators is that guy I was telling you about. The guy that was in the other night. What’d I say his name was? Eddie? Yeah, that’s it, Eddie something. Hold on a minute.”

He signaled for his wife to come over.

“Veronica, tell Grady what you can about that Eddie character. I don’t know if I mentioned it, but Grady’s a cop too, retired, same as us. Oh, yeah,” he said when Grady’s eyebrows shoot up, “Veronica was a cop, too. Worked vice mostly. Used to pose as a prostie.”

Man, thought Grady. That was all.
Man
.

“Veronica, you know that guy comes in once in a while, drinks Stingers--remember you were talking about him acting like a tourist or something--guy with the alligator shoes and those other shoes he’s always wearing--snakeskins--shit like that.”

“That’s easy. You’re talking about Eddie Delahousie.” Grady leaned in closer to hear her. The longer Veronica talked the lower her voice became. “Wears those goddamned shoes pimps wear. Stacy-Adams, I think they are. There’s a store up on Canal all the pimps go to. Lives over in Fat City in one of those apartments down on Arnoldt. You know, drug central. Boozer. Punk. I’ll get his rap sheet for you tomorrow, if you want.”

She got up and left.

“Well? There you go, Fogarty. She was a good cop. She never used to miss much. Still doesn’t.”

When he left, the drunk was still laying on the floor.

Grady was exhilarated on the drive back to the Day’s Inn. A solid, bona fide lead! He was getting somewhere.

After he’d finished soaping down, he gradually decreased the hot water until it was totally cold and he stepped out and pulled on his pants after wiping off with a towel.

“Fuck it,” he said aloud to the room. “I wonder how long it takes to get used to this godawful heat!” He dreaded having to go back outside. Once dressed, he checked his piece and got two extra clips from the suitcase, slipping them into his pocket. He spread out a city map he’d gotten from the front desk and opened the phone book.

He was in luck.

There were only two Edward Delahousies listed and one with the initial E. Checking out the addresses on his map he found one with a Metairie address. Locking the door of his room behind him, he went out and got into his car, burning his fingers on the steering wheel.

“Christ,” he muttered, turning the key. “A shower six minutes ago and I’m wetter than I was before.” The frosty air of the air-conditioning felt wonderful. He kicked it all the way up and let the Freon go to work.

Finding the apartment was easy, but Eddie Delahousie wasn’t in. He considered picking the lock and looking around, but decided against it. It was enough for the moment that he knew where the man lived.

As he was leaving, a blue Caprice turned in behind him from the cross street. He just caught a glimpse of the man behind the wheel and something jarred in his mind, but he couldn’t figure out the source until he was a few blocks away. Reader. That had been Reader. For a minute, he considered going back, but then discarded the notion. Not now. He didn’t want the man to see him and get suspicious. He was reasonably certain this was a guy who noticed everything.

***

The man in the Caprice hadn’t noticed him, but, as it turned out, he didn’t need to. Reader received a phone call from his old friend Bobby that tipped him off.

“Reader?”

“Yeah. What’s the problem?”

“I thought you might like to know there’s a guy asking around town about you. He’s got your picture and everything. Funny thing. This guy’s a Yankee.”

“A Yankee?” Christ. He should have taken care of that waitress.

“Yeah. I got his license number. Looks like a rental. That help any?”

“That helps more than you know. I owe you, Bobby. I owe you big.”

After he got the guy’s description, he called another friend.

“Lionel,” he said. “I got something I want you to trace.”

***

After he returned and after his second shower of the afternoon, Grady lay down on the bed with only a towel around him and enjoyed the delicious frost of the air-conditioning on his moist body. The phone rang.

“Mr. Grady Fogarty, please.”

“Dr. Lyons?” He recognized the voice. “How’s my...” Grady paused as it hit him why the doctor was calling him. He sat up and his towel fell to the floor.

“He didn’t make it, did he?”

After he hung up, he just sat there staring at the floor for long moments, until he noticed he was naked. He dressed, putting on each article of clothing on slowly and methodically. His mind refused to function at first and then the magnitude of what the doctor had said overcame him and he lay face down on the bed and his body shook as he wept silently.

***

He wanted a drink in the worst way. What he did instead was to pick the phone back up and call Whitney.

“I don’t think I’ll be very good company tonight,” he said. He told her why.

“Oh, Grady! I’m so sorry! You poor darling. I’m coming over.”

He tried to talk her out of it but she wouldn’t take no. He hung up the phone and walked around with his head in a daze.

After what seemed like hours, there was a knock on his door. It was Whitney. Without saying a word, she stepped over the threshold and put her arms around him. Gently, she led him back to his bed and sat him down, sitting next to him, her arms around him, her head on his shoulder.

After a while, he turned to her and started to kiss her but buried his head in her neck. She sat there, patting his head, not saying a word. At last, he lay back on the bed and Whitney got up and went to the closet and got out a blanket and put it over him. They still hadn’t spoken a word, either of them. She went to sit in the only chair in the room and just watched him.

In a little bit, his eyes closed and he went to sleep. Whitney sat there for hours, never moving except to go to the bathroom or get a drink of water. She just watched him, the only light a bit of moonlight peeping over the curtain in the lone window.

Along about three in the morning, Grady stirred, sat up and looked around and saw Whitney sitting in the corner.

“What time is it?”

She told him.

“I’m sorry,” was all he could think of to say.

“It’s all right. Come on.”

“Where?” he said. She was looking through his closet for something.

“Here.” She came out with a light brown sport coat. “This one looks right. Put it on.”