Midnight Rain: A Detective Jack Dunning Novel (11 page)

CHAPTER 20

Early darkness erases the last of the orange and violet sunset from the sky. I drive toward the Rexford with both Georgie’s and Danny’s files on the seat beside me. I’m so preoccupied with the case, I’m not sure how long I’ve been driving behind the yellow Auburn. I snap to attention, follow it down Cork and into the lot behind the St. Ambrose Hotel.

The driver gets out of the car. He’s tall, white-blond, expensively shod and tailored like a character from the pages of
The Great Gatsby
. I park, wait a few minutes, then follow him inside. Until now I had no idea what Dietrich looked like and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know me.

When I enter the Gold Dust Lounge, he’s sitting at a table against the far wall. The room is deeply carpeted and softly lighted. I take a stool at the bar where I can watch him in the smoked-glass mirror in front of me. I order a gimlet. Dietrich looks nervous. He lights a cigarette, keeps running his fingers through his hair. The cocktail waitress brings him a bourbon.

Ten minutes later a statuesque young woman walks past me toward Dietrich’s table. She wears a black satin dress with a glittering gold belt, strappy high heels and a stylish red hat. She sits across from Dietrich facing the room, a veil with velvet dots obscuring the upper half of her face.

Dietrich lights her cigarette, her scarlet fingernails catching the light from the candle on the table. The waitress brings her a drink with a paper umbrella in it. Dietrich leans forward as he speaks, like he has something of great urgency to impart. She stiffens and shakes her head. Whatever it is, she’s not going for it.

“Who’s the lady?” I ask the bartender.

“Who wants to know?”

“Jack Dunning, Santa Paulina P.D.”

“I thought you Irish hung out on Lower Cork?”

“They ran out of little pink umbrellas.”

He pops a laugh. “She’s the school teacher. Has a suite on the fourth floor.”

“Saint Finney’s?”

“The one in the orchard.”

I study her more closely, mentally stripping away the veil and the scarlet war paint on her lips.

“Jesus, don’t tell me that’s Penelope Hanover.”

“Ever know a teacher who looked like that?”

“I’ve never known
anyone
who looked like that. Is she his mistress?”

“His cousin from what I’ve heard.”

Hanover rises so quickly the back of her chair strikes the wall. Whatever he said has really pissed her off. I look away as she exits the lounge, leaving her drink untouched. She takes the elevator to the fourth floor. The woman looks like she’s made of money. I pay for my drink and station myself outside the alley door.

Two cigarettes later, the door opens and Dietrich steps into the dim glow of the exit light. I snap an elbow into his face and hear the cartilage snap in his nose. He stumbles back against the wall. I follow with a blow to the solar plexus and a rabbit punch to the back of his neck. It felt good, really good, maybe not to him, but to me. He’s on his knees, his hands trying to catch the blood that dribbles from his nose onto his cashmere coat. I grab his collar and pull him to his feet.

“My wallet’s inside the coat,” he moans.

“I don’t give a damn about your wallet, Dietrich. This is about Angel Dahl. I don’t know what you did to her, or how long ago, but I have a pretty good idea, you unmitigated pervert. You ever come near her again and I’ll kill you. If I catch you in Little Ireland, I will gun you down like a dog in the street. Am I getting through to you? Am I?”

“Yes, yes, I get it.”

* * * *

Dietrich stumbles onto the seat of the Auburn. He never dreamed that so many things could go wrong in one day. Now that he’s in hot water his cousin wants nothing more to do with him. She’s certainly not going to lend him money and she refuses to return the Dictator. Frances has stripped him of his assets, von Stroheim has his money and some guy with a fist like a rock just beat his head in. He drives toward Hilliker Road, the last place in the world he wants to go. If von Stroheim comes through for him, he’ll be out of the country in a day or two and his troubles will be over.

* * * *

When I enter 210 Angel comes out of the bathroom in her terry cloth robe and greets me with a hug. I breathe in the scent of Ivory soap and the clean smell of her hair. I touch my hand to her forehead.

“The fever’s almost gone,” she says, “and I can hear out of my ear again. I missed you so much today.”

“I’m sorry I’m late. There’s a lot going on at the station. Homer thinks both of the boys who were found on the road are homicides. The motive is staring me in the face, but I can’t see it. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to drag the job home. It’ll take me a minute or two to unwind.”

Angel strokes my hair. “It’s alright, Jack. You’ll figure it out. You always do. I saved you a couple hamburgers from the café.”

“Great, I’m starved.”

I set the boy’s files on the windowsill beside a big bouquet of flowers. She hangs my coat in the closet and pours me a cup of coffee. I sink into the easy chair and attack the bag of hamburgers. Angel takes the chair across from mine.

“Jack, you have blood on your jeans.”

“I wonder how that got there. I’ll take them down to the wash.”

“You’re not hurt are you?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“You don’t want to talk about it.”

“It’s not important.”

She studies me in silence for a few beats.

“Cookie called today.”

“How are her headaches?”

“Bad, right now.”

“She really needs to see a specialist.”

“I know. She’s having visions again, something about the one room schoolhouse. She made me promise to pass along what she told me. It didn’t make a lot of sense really, something about the teacher at Orchard School.”

I wolf down the first hamburger. “I’m listening. What about Orchard School?”

“In her dream, the teacher was dressed all prim and proper, but when the wind blew her skirt up, there was a bright red petticoat underneath, the kind can-can dancers wear.”

“What did she make of it?”

“She says Miss Hanover isn’t who she pretends to be. She’s one person on the outside and another person underneath. In the dream, she was dancing with a lunch box. I know it sounds silly, but I promised I’d tell you.”

“A lunch box. I’ll give that some thought. Anything else?”

“She saw a girl in braids peeking from behind a row of dead sunflowers, but she wasn’t able to see what the girl was looking at.” I finish the second hamburger rand toss the napkin in the waste basket.

A girl in braids. Could be Rebecca Smallwood. “Let me sleep on it.” I stand and feel the weakness in my bad hip. I work a knot out of my back. “Where did the flowers come from?”

“Albie brought them up. They’re from Tom Kelly, along with a get well note.”

After a pause, I say: “Tom Kelly is interested in you, Angel. I think you should know that.”

“Interested in what way?”

“In
that
way. He asked me if he could take you to the movies.”

“But, we’re together Jack. I don’t understand.”

“Neither does he. He thinks I’m your father.”

“I’m so sorry, Jack. What did you say?”

“Nothing. I walked away.”

“I’ll throw the flowers out if it makes you feel better.”

“Please don’t. Flowers aren’t the problem. Let’s face it. He has a lot more to offer you than I do. Another few years and I’ll be one more over-the-hill cop and you’ll still be young and beautiful. You can do better. I know it and so do you. I see your opportunities slipping away one by one. I look at myself and I don’t like what I see.”

“Please, don’t say that Jack. I’ll talk to him.” She studies me with those blue-as-rain eyes. “If you’re trying to get rid of me, you’ll break my heart. If you are, just tell me.”

“Get rid of you?” I put my finger beneath her chin and turn her face toward mine. “I plan to die in your arms,” I say, pulling her close. “That proves what a selfish bastard I am.”

* * * *

When I come out of the shower the next morning Angel is in the easy chair looking at the photos of Georgie Allen and Danny Battle, two small fragile bodies on ice cold slabs.

“I’m sorry, I should have left those in the car,” I say. “You don’t need to see all this bad stuff.” She continues to study the photos. Finally, she looks up.

“I think I see the connection,” she says. “I know why they were murdered. I’m not saying it makes sense, but look.”

I stare at the photos. “What? I don’t see it.”

“Georgie Allen had head lice, right? With his head shaved the scabbing is visible on the photo.”

“That’s right.”

“Now, look at Danny Battle. The boy is covered with some kind of rash. There’s blistering and inflammation all over his arms and legs. It’s either eczema or psoriasis. It itches. Kids scratch it. It bleeds. It can be an unpleasant distraction to other people, especially if they think it’s contagious.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“Remember how Miss Hanover wouldn’t let Albie enroll in her class? She doesn’t think he’s good enough to mix with white children. Dark skin. Head lice. Eczema. Don’t you see the pattern, Jack? These children are being systematically weeded out of the gene pool and that teacher has something to do with it. We’re lucky she turned Albie down or he might have ended up in the ditch too. This is exactly the kind of thing Nathaniel Forsythe has been warning people about on his radio show.”

“It sounds terribly far-fetched!”

“That’s because we don’t think the way some people do. In her philosophy the genetic race goes to the swift and the strong with no room for imperfection.”

* * * *

Leland Dietrich steals up the back stairs to his room, unwilling to be seen with his broken nose, his eyes black and blood dripping down the front of his coat. He washes up and begins collecting valuables to hock at Sal’s Pawn Shop: two jewel-movement watches, diamond cufflinks, matching tie clip and new set of golf clubs. Now he wishes that he hadn’t gone into Chinatown and let Fu Gang rob him blind. They could at least have waited until he got his money’s worth.

At 2:00 A.M. he picks up his bedside phone and calls von Stroheim, who’s in a far better mood now that he’s had a chance to think things over.

“Yeah, yeah, your money you can have back, but vill take a vile to get in order, including passport. Day after tomorrow, ve’ll meet across bridge on River Road and I vill hand over. Midnight vould be good time. No vorry, is all taken care of my comrade.” Dietrich breathes a sigh of relief.

“Thank you, Hansel! Thank you! Heil Hitler!”

CHAPTER 21

The next morning Jim wakes up with an abscessed tooth and won’t be in until later in the day. I bring my files up to date, then put in a call to Amos Duncan who picks up on the third ring.

“Dunk, it’s Jack Dunning.”

“Hi, Jack. How you doing?”

“Hanging in there. Could you have Hayden or Priscilla call me? I have a question for them.”

“Priscilla’s right here at the kitchen table. Hang on a minute.” Priscilla comes on the line.

“How are you and Hayden holding up?” I ask.

“The best we can, Officer Dunning. How is the investigation going? Have you found out anything new?”

“We’re following a few leads, Priscilla. I’m sorry things aren’t moving faster.”

“Hayden and I want you to thank you for what you’re doing. I want you to know we’re going to be okay. We know our boy is safe with the Lord. Mr. Duncan is getting us train tickets back to Cutter’s Gap. We want to bury Georgie in the family plot.”

“Dunk is a good man. Has Mr. Platt returned Georgie’s possessions to you?”

“He has but there was nothing worth saving.”

“Was anything missing that should have been there?”

“Only his black lunch box. It’s adult size, the one his daddy took down in the mines back in West Virginia.”

“And he had it when he left for school that last morning?”

“Yes. Is that important?”

“It could be. When are you leaving?”

“Day after tomorrow. We’ll leave our address with Mr. Duncan so you can reach us. Back home we’re five miles from the nearest phone, so write and we’ll get back to you.

I dial the Geiger’s house and Kay picks up.

“Mrs. Geiger, this is Officer Dunning. How is Kenny doing?”

“Improving. We’re not going to tell him what’s going on until he’s feeling better.”

“Would you ask him something for me? Did Georgie have his lunch box with him the last time they were together?”

She steps away from the phone. I hear muffled voices and she comes back on the line.

“Yes, he had his lunch box when they ran into the orchard.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Geiger.”

If his lunch box wasn’t found in the orchard or the ditch, what happened to it and where is it now?

* * * *

A sweaty, sunburned young man in a model T. leaves a two mile trail of dust in his wake as he speeds through the gates of Saguaro Correctional and skids to a stop in front of the Administration Building. He asks to make an emergency phone call and due to his state of extreme agitation, receptionist Margie Springer, summons Horace Churchwell to the lobby.

Churchwell introduces himself and asks the man his name.

“Calvin Parvine, sir. I just come from rock climbing in the Alamillo.”

“If you tell me the nature of your emergency we may be able to assist you. It’ll take the sheriff a good two hours to get out here. If he’s tied up it could take longer.”

“Best I just show you what I found then.”

Calvin opens his backpack, pulls out a few items of clothing and turns it upside down. The receptionist stifles a gasp as a skeletonized hand adorned with a garnet class ring spills onto the desktop. A small Star of David on a tarnished silver chain lands on top of it.

“That looks like Miss Hanover’s ring,” says Margie, “but that’s not poss…oh, my god!”

“Steady, Miss Springer, steady now,” says Churchwell. “Take a couple deep breaths. Where did you find these, Calvin?”

“At the bottom of a crevice where all the skeletons are.”

“Margie, call the sheriff then find the number of that detective out of Santa Paulina. Dunning is not dealing with Penelope Hanover. He’s dealing with Hedy Greiss.”

* * * *

Frances isn’t feeling well so Mittie spends the night in the guest room. She lies awake into the wee hours listening to Frances cough and pace the floor. At eight-thirty she brings her coffee and a croissant and at nine o’clock she’s back with an armload of clothing.

“What in the world is that god-awful smell?” says Frances, looking up from the morning paper.

“These were in the garbage can, Mrs. D. They’re Leland’s clothes and they’re soaked with gasoline.”

“Gasoline? Leland wouldn’t pump his own gas if you held a gun to his head.”

Frances pours a second cup of coffee and unfolds the newspaper on her breakfast tray. An unidentified body had been found in the ashes of the synagogue. Frances has a very bad feeling in the pit of her stomach.

On the front page is a photo of Cantor Nemschoff being interviewed in the lobby of the Rexford by a reporter from the
Sun
. He’s quoted as saying that everyone from the synagogue has been accounted for. When he’s asked if arson for profit might be involved, he throws his hands up in dismay. The old relic was uninsured and uninsurable.

“Do you want me to toss the clothes out?” asks Mittie.

“No. Bag them and put them in the tack room for now.”

“I heard Mr. D. in his room last night. He left before I got up this morning.”

“Good.”

When Frances looks at Mittie it’s obvivous the girl’s potential is far beyond that of her current station. Who would have thought that in the end, her closest friend and confident would be a lady’s maid?

“What is it, Mrs. D? You look worried.”

“I’m losing you, Mittie.”

“Only as an employee, not as a friend. I’ll
always
be here for you, Frances.”

“You said that young man of yours passed the bar.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What’s his name?”

“Nehemiah Goldman.”

“Mittie Goldman. Yes, it suits you well. Got a good business head on him, does he?”

“The best. He’ll be practicing corporate law.”

“You set a date for your wedding yet?”

“We’re thinking June would be nice.”

“Sooner would be better. Make it a Christmas wedding, Mittie. I’d like to be there.”

* * * *

Jim comes in about eleven, his jaw swollen and his mouth stuffed with cotton. First I tell him about Cookie’s vision and then about Angel’s theory.

“I can’t absorb that right now. The gas the dentist gave me has deadened my brain.”

“Try to absorb this one thing. I saw Penelope Hanover at the St. Ambrose last evening. The man she met in the lounge was Leland Dietrich, husband of Frances O’Hara of bootleg booze fame.”

“You think they’re getting it on?”

“According to the bartender, they’re cousins. She looked like a high class hooker, black dress, scarlet lipstick, skyscraper high heels. She lives in Suite 423 and she reeks of money.”

“If I had to reek of something, money would be
my
first choice. Did you check out the house on Cleveland?”

“I don’t think she’s ever lived there. She just doesn’t want people to know she’s living in luxury at the St. Ambrose. It would ruin her schoolmarmish image.”

“What do you think is going on?”

“I think she’s the mistress of von Buccholz, the man who owns the Dictator. As we speak, he’s sailing on the Queen Mary, but we can question him when he gets back. Hanover certainly can’t afford that suite on a teacher’s salary. The woman’s a chameleon and boy can she change colors!”

Jim laughs around the ball of cotton in his cheek. “Okay, so she turns from a pumpkin into a tomato when the sun goes down, but what bearing does that have on our case?”

“I’ll be damned if I know. Let’s pay another visit to the school. I want to know what became of Georgie Allen’s lunch box.

“What lunch box?”

“Come on, I’ll explain on the way.”

As we exit the squad room we find ourselves walking elbow to elbow with Sergeants Boyle and Green.

“You look like you’re going to a fire,” says Jim.

“In a sense we are,” says Boyle. He holds up a notebook and a key ring. “Swack brought these in this morning. They were in a mailbox down the street from the synagogue.”

“And?”

“Haven’t you heard? An anonymous caller reported the body of a man in the ashes. Chief Garvey and the fire inspector are down there now. We’re thinking the notebook and keys might belong to the dead man. There was blood on the sidewalk near the school and a spent cartridge in the grass. Now we’re going to look for the car that belongs to these keys.”

“Any name in the notebook?” I ask.

“It’s pretty cryptic, mostly initials, dates, that kind of thing.”

“Well, good luck.”

“You guys still working the Allen case?” asks Green.

“We are,” I say.

“Give yourself a break. It was a hit and run.”

Jim and I are half way out the door, when Sergeant Duggan waves a message slip and calls my name.

“When I get back,” I call over my shoulder.

I wouldn’t know until later that it’s an urgent call from Saguaro Correctional.