Midnight Rain: A Detective Jack Dunning Novel (10 page)

CHAPTER 18

Cookie has never had so many crippling headaches without a clear vision presenting itself. Anxiety at the loss of her precious elixir is making things worse. She’s furious with Joe for sticking his nose in her business. Then there’s the withdrawal from the narcotic that made the golden liquid so…so…she had to admit it…habit-forming. She’s damned if she does and damned if she doesn’t.

Last night another fragment of the puzzle took shape, a little girl peering from behind a row of collapsing sunflowers at the back of the schoolyard. She knows it’s not the child’s face she needs to see, but what the girl is looking at and that part refuses to come into focus.

If Cookie’s vision hadn’t been so full of holes, she’d be on the phone with Jack Dunning. Then again, what’s unclear to her might make sense to him. With weary steps she makes her way to the phone, sinks onto a kitchen chair and dials the station.

“Sergeant Green, here,” comes the voice on the other end. “How may I help you?”

“Hello, Bruce. This is Cookie. Is Jack in?”

“Sorry, Cookie. He’s tied up on a case right now.”

“Does it have something to do with Orchard School?”

“I know he was out there this morning. You want to leave a message?”

“I don’t know if I can leave one that makes sense.”

“Another vision?”

“Not a very good one. I can explain it better to Angel. By the way, how is Curley coming along?”

“He’s home from the hospital. I’ll tell him you asked.”

Cookie hangs up and redials. When Hank answers she asks for Room 210.

* * * *

Leland walks into Community Bank at 10:30 A. M. He should have arrived sooner, but he had a bad night and overslept. When he woke, Frances was gone and he didn’t see Sahara Princess in the pasture.

“Good morning, Mr. Dietrich,” says the teller.

“Good morning, Miss Starling.”

“Lovely morning. I was beginning to wonder if we’d ever see the sun again.”

“Me too,” he says. “I’d like to close my account if you don’t mind.”

She glances at his checkbook.

“You mean the joint checking?”

“Yes, Miss Starling, the joint checking.”

“Sir, Mrs. Dietrich has already done that for you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Five minutes sooner and you would have bumped into her. The checkbook you’re holding is obsolete.”

The earth shifts beneath him and he feels faint.

“Are you alright, Mr. Dietrich?”

“Yes, yes of course, I simply didn’t think she’d have time today. Since I’m here, I’d like to access my safe deposit box.”

“Did you bring your key?”

“Yes, I have it right here.”

“I’ll take that,” she says.

“What do you mean?”

“Frances had hers too. Everything has been transferred to Citizens Bank in Manteca. Since we’ll have to reassign the box, we can’t have an extra key floating around, now can we? Mr. Dietrich, are you listening?”

His body is numb. He can’t think. He drops the key in her hand.

“We hate losing you as customers, but you know how Mrs. Dietrich is when she gets the bit between her teeth.”

“I do indeed.” Her stupid colloquialisms make him want to jump over the counter and choke her until her eyes pop out, but instead he smiles miserably. “I’m having serious reservations about a check I issued on Saturday. I’d like to put a stop payment on that.” He refers to his checkbook. “Here it is, check number 4705.”

“It cleared just minutes before Mrs. Dietrich got here. I remember because we don’t see a draft in that amount every day.” She gives him a sympathetic smile. “Well, what can I say? The early bird gets the worm.”

He flees the bank in a dissociative fugue, dropped onto a street he’s never seen before, in a town he’s never been to. Frances has cut him off and his passport now sits in a safe deposit box in Manteca. He stumbles into an alley between two brick buildings, puts his hands against the wall and throws up behind the garbage cans. Little by little his mind and body reconnect and his air of imperial insouciance slips back in place. After several minutes he straightens his tie, wipes off his shoes and steps from the alley. He buys a newspaper and reads it in the car.

Photos of the fire are all over the front page, an inspector being sent from San Francisco to determine the cause. Leland had no idea that torching an old building belonging to a few ragtag Jews was going to cause such an uproar. In Germany’s current political climate, making an issue over such trivia would be a crime in itself. Much to his relief there’s nothing in the article about a body being discovered in the ashes…yet.

Dietrich is suddenly struck by a brilliant idea. He’ll ask Hansel von Stroheim to return the donation he made to the Deutschlander Club. He thought the money would make a favorable impression, help him move up in the organization and achieve some of the glory that his father had attained in the Great War. His heart aches for home. There’s nothing to hold him here, but first he’ll need money and traveling papers. As the Americans say so colorfully: It’s time to get the hell out of Dodge.

* * * *

Jim returns to the squad room after his lunch with Uncle Paulie. We face one another, the backs of our desks pushed together. “No one on the school board knows about Georgie’s demotion,” says Jim. “He passed all of his tests last year and deserved to be promoted. Miss Hanover is obviously not a team player.”

“The board may never have known that if the Geiger boy hadn’t spoken up. I’d like to know what her former boss has to say about her, wouldn’t you?”

“There’s the phone,” says Jim.

The operator patches me through to Saguaro Correctional as Jim listens on the other line. A secretary answers and puts me on hold for the head administrator. It’s a good minute before he picks up.”

“Churchwell here.”

“Mr. Churchwell, this is Detective Jack Dunning with Santa Paulina P. D.”

“Yes Officer, how may I be of assistance?”

“I’d like employment confirmation on a Miss Penelope Jane Hanover. Her resume puts her in your employ last year.”

After a slight hesitation: “Yes, that’s correct.”

“Can you give me a brief rundown for the record?”

“She taught English. She was well-liked and left of her own accord a few weeks before final exams. Is she alright?”

“Yes, she’s fine.”

“Well, that’s a relief. Her mother has been terribly worried. She hasn’t heard from her since she left Saguaro. Perhaps you could encourage her to give her family a call.”

“I will. Where do they live?”

“Culver City. It’s down in Los Angeles County.”

“How would you describe Miss Hanover?”

“Early twenties. Medium brown hair. A plain but pleasant face and modest attire. She always wears a large cameo at the collar of her blouse. She’s a bit naïve and bubbly.” Jim and I look at one another with raised eyebrows.

“What reason did she give for leaving?”

Again, the hesitation. “I can’t say for sure. She didn’t give notice. One morning she was simply gone. It isn’t the first time an employee couldn’t adjust to the remoteness of Saguaro. Knowing she’s safe gives me hope our missing students are safe as well.”

“What missing students?”

“Three runaways. Flyers are still up in the border towns, but the sheriff isn’t that interested in pursuing the case.”

“I imagine they’ll surface eventually.”

“That’s what he says.”

“One more thing. You say Miss Hanover taught English. How would she have spelled, misspell?”

“With two s’s of course. You’d never trip her up on that one.” I sense that he has more to say but holds back. We talk a few more minutes and hang up.

“Her story checks out,” says Jim. “She taught at Saguaro like she said. She also fits the physical description. But, naïve and bubbly aren’t the first words that come to mind.”

“I agree.”

I slide the files of Georgie Allen and Danny Battle across the desk. “Would you please go over these again? I’ve looked at them until I’m blue in the face. Homer believes Allen and Battle were killed for the same reason. If Georgie was suffocated, Platt thinks the Battle boy probably was too. There were no signs of molestation on either child and the adult motives of jealousy, greed or revenge certainly don’t apply.”

“So, what am I supposed to be looking for?”

“If I could answer that I’d find it myself.”

“Maybe the killer just likes killing and who’s more easily killed than kids? If we find the person responsible for Georgie’s death, we’ll know who killed Danny Battle, unless of course, he really was the victim of a hit and run.”

Jim takes an hour picking through the photos and files, but can’t find any connection other than the boys having gone to the same school and being found at the same location. We divide the list of students down the middle and go off in separate cars. We spend the afternoon interviewing kids, and their parents. When Mrs. Smallwood opens the door, she has a black eye and a bruise on her arm. She says Rebecca is ‘out somewhere’ and closes the door.

So, what have I learned? Not much. Georgie is quiet. He has one friend. He has cooties. He’s been demoted to a lower grade. The teacher seats him at the back of the room.

It’s late. Jim calls it a day and goes home. I’m beginning to think about food when the phone rings.

“Lieutenant Dunning, here.” No response. I hear soft hesitant breathing, a child’s breathing. Only one person comes to mind. “Rebecca?” I say. “Is that you?”

A male voice: “Put down that phone or I’m getting the switch!” There’s a click and the phone goes dead. I look the Smallwood’s up in the book and dial their number, but no one picks up. While I have the book out, I notice the ad for the St. Ambrose Hotel. A phone in every room. A bathtub in every two room suite. I lean back in my chair and dial the number.

“St. Ambrose Hotel.”

“This is Detective Jack Dunning.”

“Yes, Detective Dunning, how may I help you?”

“Who am I speaking with?”

“This is Henry at the reception desk.”

“Henry, would you please ring the room of Mr. Ludwig von Buccholz.”

“I can ring the room sir, but it wouldn’t do any good. Mr. von Buchholz is traveling on the Queen Mary.”

“What’s his room number?”

“On the Queen Mary?”

“At the St. Ambrose.”

“That would be 423, sir.”

“Ring it, please.”

“One moment, sir.” I listen to ring after ring. Henry comes back on the line. “Sorry, sir. Would you like to leave a call back number?”

“Did he say when he’d be back?”

“I have no information to that effect.”

“But, he hasn’t forfeited the room.”

“That’s correct.”

* * * *

I push my hunger aside, grab my hat and head for the car. It’s dark when I pull onto Cleveland Street, a rundown block of shabby houses just this side of the railroad tracks. The sidewalks are buckled and the street light shattered. The house is a narrow, two story building rented by the room. Half of the gingerbread trim is missing and the third step leading to the sagging porch is lying in the weeds. I knock on the frame beside the screen door. It’s a good two minutes before a middle-age woman waddles to the door. She’s has blond hair with black roots, dirty elbows and a cigarette clamped between nicotine-yellow teeth.

“Stella Bloch?” I say.

“Who wants to know?”

“Detective Dunning.”

“You’re wasting your time, mister. I run a clean house here.”

“I’m sure you do. Is Miss Hanover in?”

“Who?”

“Penelope Hanover, the school teacher.” There’s a vacancy behind the eyes. “She rents from you.”

“Oh her. I remember now. She won’t be in until late. I believe she’s at the library correcting test papers.”

“Is that the same place she’ll be if I call again tomorrow and the day after that?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she says, throwing her weight onto a lumpy hip.

“Can you show me which room is hers?”

“I can’t do that. I’d need either her permission or a search warrant.”

“I’ll just stand in the hall while you open the door. I won’t even go in.”

“Sorry, the ladies are bathing. Men aren’t allowed inside the premises after dark.”

I bet. Everyone is lying to me, but I don’t know why.

CHAPTER 19

Don Swackhammer considers himself monumentally over-qualified for the position of mail carrier. After all, he was with S.P.P.D. for three years before his forced resignation on trumped up charges of Dereliction of Duty. If it weren’t for his Uncle Mort on the city council, he’d be working late shift at the packing plant.

He sure did miss those lazy Sunday’s at the station, kicked back with his girlie magazines, his feet on the desktop. Hardly a call would come in all day, everybody at church or too hung over to move after a night in Santa Paulina’s watering holes.

Today he gets to drive the truck around town, collecting mail from the big curbside boxes. It’s sure a sight better than humping the heavy leather bag from door to door with nasty little dogs savaging his ankles. He pulls up to the box on St. Finnbar Street and accesses the security door. He finds a dog-eared notebook among the stamped letters. A ring of keys slides to the ground. Swack opens the notebook. Inside are scribbled notes. Times. Dates. Places. Initials. It’s common practice for people to drop lost items down a mail slot, so he puts the book and keys in the truck with the rest of the mail.

Further up the block he stops in front of the rubble that was once the synagogue. Even before it burned it was a blight compared to the neat bricks and manicured lawns of St. Finnbar’s. Swack has strict orders not to leave his vehicle except to collect mail or go to the diner for lunch. All right, so one day he stopped at Bunny Mifkin’s for a nooner and the unattended mail bags were ransacked. Big deal! It’s not like he went to sleep on guard duty and terrorists blew up the Denver Mint.

Curious, Swack looks around, gets out of the truck and approaches the rubble. It’s quiet on the street, classes in session and no one in sight. The heaping piles of ash pulse with heat, like the building clings to its last vestige of life.

He looks once more to make sure the coast is clear, then walks through the lot to the back. He kicks at the ashes, wonders if there’s money in the ruins or religious artifacts of silver and gold. Everyone knows Jews pretend to be poor, while they hide fortunes in cash and jewels. Maybe, he’ll come back and dig around when the site cools off.

In the rubble is a leather shoe curled with heat. He nudges it with his foot. Ashes rise in a powdery cloud and slowly resettle. He bends over and pokes the melted heel with the butt of his jack knife. It’s attached to something. He crouches down for a better look. It’s an old dog bone. No, it’s an ankle bone and the ankle bone is attacked to a leg and the leg is…

Swack jumps up with a frightened yelp and runs for his truck.

* * * *

Frances is back at the house by one o’clock. She goes to her room, calls the Pinkerton Agency in San Francisco and asks for Mr. Andrew Culver, Singleton’s superior.

“Mr. Culver, this is Frances Dietrich, calling from Santa Paulina.”

“Yes, Mrs. Dietrich, I know who you are.”

“Has Darrell Singleton checked in with you today?”

“No he hasn’t. As a matter of fact we were about to call you.”

“I haven’t heard from him. I’m afraid the investigation has turned into something more complicated than surveillance of a cheating husband.”

“Like what?”

“I’ll have to get back to you on that.” She hangs up before he can formulate his next series of questions. The phone rings, but she doesn’t pick up. It won’t be Singleton, now or ever.

* * * *

At three-thirty that afternoon, the electrician has completed his work and climbs the stairs from the basement on Hilliker Road.

“You’re all set up, Mrs. Dietrich.”

“I’d like to pay now. Any objection to cash?”

“I prefer it.”

He names his price and she throws in an extra twenty.

“You look like a man who knows how to keep his mouth shut,” she says.

“Lady, I wasn’t even here.”

* * * *

Leland needs to make a phone call. He decides on the indoor booth at the Tammany Hall Bar, noisy with blue-collar Irishmen, the slap of dice cups and click of pool balls. They can’t hear one another over the racket, let alone eavesdrop on a telephone conversation.

He orders a whiskey straight and gets a handful of dimes and quarters from the bartender. Inside the booth he pulls out von Stroheim’s number. Long distance. Los Angeles. He finishes half the drink before he gets up the nerve to dial.

“Yeah, Hansel Von Stroheim here.”

“Hansel, this is Ludwig,” he says, keeping his voice sunny and casual, just two friends shooting the shit.

“Yes, Ludvig, ve had a very successful first meeting, no? You vill be very important asset to da Deutsch-American Bund,” he says, breaking into his native tongue. “The generosity of your donation is being spoken of all da vay to da top.”

“Yes, well that’s the reason for my call.”

“I can barely hear you, Ludvig.”

“What I’m saying is, I’m going to need that money back, the donation money, just for a while you understand.” Silence.

The operator comes on the line and he shovels a few more coins into the machine.

There’s a chill on the other end of the line.

“Hansel, are you still there?”

“You vant back da money? I cannot be hearing correctly.”

“Yes, as soon as possible, actually. I’ve gotten myself in a bit of a jam, but in a month or two I can double the donation and we’ll both be ahead of the game.”

“Certainly you understand, it’s not
my
money to give back. Already it has gone up da chain of command. To ask for it back vould be a great embarrassment to me.”

“Would you consider a personal loan? I’ll have it back to you in sixty days.”

“I cannot believe vut I am hearing.”

“Listen, I’ve already done the Bund a great service. I’ve initiated our racial policies here in Santa Paulina. My cousin and I are both dedicated to the cause.”

“I have no idea vat you’re talking about.”

“The synagogue fire. It’s all over the front page. I’m surprised you haven’t heard.”

“You fool! Da first meeting of da Club and already a fire to incriminate us? Have you lost your mind, Ludvig? You have no authority to act unilaterally. You vill ruin da mission for everyvon.”

Dietrich is stunned. “I thought you’d be pleased. We want to drive out the Jews, right, eliminate the inferiors?” He thumps his forehead against the phone booth and sits through another drawn out silence. “Hansel, don’t make me beg.”

“I must do some thinking.”

“I hope that means you have my back on this. I want to go home. I will need a new passport.”

“All dis is not so simple. Dere are people I have to answer to. Call me back tonight, let’s say around 2:00 A.M. By den I may have solution.”