Mike Reuther - Return to Dead City (24 page)

Apparently, the damn thing wasn’t as heavy as I’d suspected. That meant I just might be able to topple it.

Getting both hands wedged into the dirt beneath the mount, I flipped it to the upright position. As I’d hoped, there was a slot on the side. I pulled from my pocket my trusty flashlight and looked inside. My light caught the sight of gleaming metal. At closer inspection, I could see it was a knife with a slightly bowed blade, and all along the length of the blade, which went about four inches, there was dried blood. The knife’s handle was thin and went about four, maybe five inches. All in all, it looked to be a real efficient sort of instrument, the kind that could be stuck into someone then pulled back out with little effort, and small enough to be easily concealed. I took a peek behind me. By now, more fans were coming into the stadium and lining up at the ticket windows. I stood up slowly and stepped back from the foundation. I didn’t have the slightest doubt I’d found the murder weapon.

My seat was right behind the Mets dugout on the first base side. All around me, the stands were filling up. I wasn’t surprised. It was a gorgeous early September Day,
and
ticket prices had been slashed for this final day of the dismal season. People will do anything for a bargain, and for a buck you could take in a doubleheader and also watch grown men make fools of themselves in the pre-game festivities. I wasn’t greatly interested in the cow-milking, and after watching some local farmers leading their cows onto the field I got itchy. I was about to take a walk when I spotted Miller. He was just taking his seat behind home plate. There seemed to be a small entourage with him - a few guys in three-piece suits and some well-dressed women. Reba Miller, I noted, was there with her husband. She looked good as usual, this time dressed in a smart pants suit. I looked back to the field. Players were in front of both dugouts tossing balls back and forth. Normally, the Mets would be taking batting practice about now, but on this day the players seemed resigned to push the hitting aside for the goofy exhibitions.

Then Emerson popped out of the dugout and right behind him, Jack Walter. A few mock cheers went up among the players loosening up in front of dugout. And why not? They looked like a couple of junior Mafia types dressed for a big night of Atlantic City casino-hopping. Shades for their eyes, their hair greased down, they each wore cream-colored suits, with black shirts and white ties. Real wise guys. They went from player to player, shaking hands and slapping backs along the way.

They had just finished up with the glad-handing and the good-byes and were making it fast toward the dugout when I stopped them.

“Going somewhere Emerson?” I asked.

He saw me all right. So did Walter. They halted and looked up at me standing at the bottom row of the grandstands behind the dugout. Emerson took off his sunglasses and glared at me. Walter sneered.

“Whadda you want Crager?” Emerson said.

“You and the kid got a plane to catch?” I asked.

“Matter of fact we do,” Emerson said. “Jack here got the call. He’s pitching for the Mets tomorrow night at Shea Stadium.”

I looked at Walter. “I suppose I should say congrats.”

Walter shook his head and grinned. “Let’s go,” he said to Emerson. “We don’t need to waste our time with this chump.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Go ahead and catch your plane. Enjoy your time in New York while it lasts.”

“We plan to,” Walter sneered.

“Good. Make sure you have a good month there Walter. And make sure you’re compensated for those wins. You and your hanger-on there are going to need every penny for your trials.”

“You don’t know nothin’ Crager,” Emerson said.

“Interesting hiding places you find for your hunting knives Emerson. You could have at least wiped the blood off the thing.”

Both of them just gawked up at me. It was actually funny the way they stood there. A few moments before looking so smug and cocky, now just a pair of wise guys who’d just shit themselves.”

“What’s he talkin’ about?” Walter said.

“Nothin’,” Emerson said. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

I figured the two of them would make a quick exit from the ball
park. But I figured wrong. Five minutes later I spotted Emerson settling himself into a seat beside Miller. The two of them began to talk. Or rather, Emerson talked and Miller listened, the ball club owner looking very solemn as he sat listening to the groundskeeper. Reba was on the other side of her husband, but on the very edge of her seat stretched toward Emerson, obviously taking it all in. Reba was seated in such a way that she was facing me and looking plenty worried. Several times throughout Emerson’s spiel, she shot up from her seat and wrung her hands at which point Miller reached out to her, and she’d fall back heavily into her seat, burying her head into her hands. Finally, she shot up from her seat for the last time. Miller and then Emerson grabbed for her, but she tore away, turned, and rushed up the steps through the box seats.

And then Miller was talking into a cell phone, and Emerson was pushing his way past people to try and catch her. I didn’t waste a moment. When I got down the ramp behind home plate I found Reba and Emerson near the ticket booth talking. Reba was in bad shape. She was crying into Emerson’s chest, her whole body shaking. People queued up to the ticket booth were making curious glances their way. I was just about to push through the line separating me from the two when out of nowhere came Jeannette. She strode right up to Reba and began flailing away at her. “You killed him you son of a bitch. You killed him,” she screamed.

Emerson tried to grab Jeannette, but there was no stopping her. She was all over Reba, using her fists and feet to do a job on her. Reba never had a chance though she was doing her best to cover up as she back-pedaled beneath the stands. She was still doing a retreat when she stumbled and fell over one of the cross beams of the stands. At that point, Jeannette commenced kicking at her prone body. Before Reba got the living crap kicked out of her a couple of young guys from the line tore beneath the stands and grabbed Jeannette. And then two beefy security guards
dashed
down the ramp and under the stands. Right behind them
was
Miller.

And then, we were all gathered there beneath those crumby stands. Miller just stood there looking as if this was the last place he wanted to be. Jeannette, being held from behind by one of his security flunkies, was screaming at his wife. “You Goddamn whore. You killed him!” she screamed.

Reba, now on her feet and having gathered herself somewhat, was getting in a few licks of her own. “I killed him? Why you cheap tramp. You lousy, cheap tramp,” she said as Emerson slowly backed her away. She was a mess. Her hair looking matted and tangled, her clothes torn and dirty.

The two women traded a few more choice insults as a crowd of onlookers began to push their way closer to the action. Acting quickly, the other security guard moved forward, pushing back the crowd. Both women began to settle down. They continued glaring at each other though, like two attack dogs circling.

“Don’t just stand there Ronald,” Reba said to her husband. “Do something. Have this bitch thrown out of here.”

“Call me a bitch you whore,” shot back Jeannette as she attempted to disengage herself from the guard’s grip. Miller looked like he wanted to melt away. He began looking all about him. Hell. I almost felt sorry for the guy. “Do something for God’s sake Ronald,” Reba screamed.

He turned to the guard holding Jeannette. “Yes. Escort that woman from the premises. Immediately.”

“What about him?” Emerson said, nodding toward me.

Miller looked blankly at Emerson then back at me as if he couldn’t decide. “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave as well Mr. Crager.”

I smiled at Miller. “Fine,” I said. “Emerson takes the fall for you.”

Miller tried his best to smile.

“Shut up Crager,” Emerson said.

Now I turned to Reba. “Why did you do it? Emerson here would have been happy to kill him for you? After all, he had the most to gain.”

She glared at me.

“I said shut up Crager,” Emerson said.

“What in the name of God are you talking about Mr. Crager?” Miller said.

“You don’t know? Emerson didn’t kill Lance Miller. Maybe that’s who you thought did it. After all, that was the plan wasn’t it
?
Have your groundskeeper stick a knife in him. No one would suspect you got him to do it anyway. They’d pin it on the crazy druggies running around the city, or better yet that shady character, Mick Slaughter. After all, Mick’s the one with the drug connections. He’s the one you got the hotel clerk to say went upstairs the night of the murder. And Mick’s the one who had the beef with Lance back in June over drug money. Lance swore out the complaint with police against him without specifying the details. Yeah. Mick was the perfect fall guy all right, and with Lance out of the way you didn’t have to worry about your wife playing around on you.”

Miller looked at Reba. “What’s he talking about?”

“Ha,” she said. “He’s crazy.”

“Am I? Tell me this? What were you doing up in Lance’s room that night of the murder? Playing footsy?”

Miller’s mouth fell open. “Reba for God’s sake.”

Reba crossed her arms and glared at me.

I looked at Miller. “She didn’t tell you? I guess you really did think Emerson did it. Your wife was about to have a rendezvous upstairs with Vaughn. I’m sure you know him Miller. He’s one of the ballplayers on your payroll. Apparently, Lance found out your wife and Vaughn were about to get cozy with each other. He burst into the room and whisked her away. Ain’t that romantic? And well
…
you can guess the rest.”

“Oh sure,” Reba said. “And then I killed Lance.”

“Let’s put it this way honey. The passion between you lovebirds was still there. You two had been on the outs all summer. He was apparently making plans to get back with his ex-wife here though, and that wasn’t sitting too well with you. Sure. You killed him. Why not? That knife is just the sort of blade the Spinelli gives its customers at banquets.”

“You can’t prove it.”

“I think I can. The Spinelli Hotel insignia is engraved on the handle. My guess is it has your prints all over it.”

Everyone looked at me.

“You and Lance fought that night,” I continued. “You left his room and went back down to the banquet and got a knife from off the table. At least that’s my theory. And I think it’s a pretty good one. Probably you stashed it in your purse. It was small enough. Then you went back up to Lance’s room. Probably you apologized to him. At any rate, you got back into the room. Maybe you two smooched a little and made up, or pretended to, but you were still seething about being the wronged woman, and so you stuck the blade in his back.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she said.

“Is it? You sure as hell didn’t get into a struggle with the guy. He had no wounds on his hands or arms. Yeah. You slipped it into his back all right. Then, you took the back elevator down to the ballroom. But not before putting that steroid pill under the bed. By then, the program was all over, and everyone was cleared out of the place. Maybe you began to panic. The statue was sitting right there in the ballroom. There was no one around. You still had the knife in your purse. You saw the slot in the foundation of that statue and dropped it in there.”

“I knew it,” Jeannette said. “I knew it was you, you whore.”

“If it weren’t for you, you gold-digging bitch, he might still be alive,” Reba sneered.

“Okay. Nobody move,” Miller said. He was holding both hands around a pistol and pointing it unsteadily at his wife.

“Ronald. What are you doing?” Reba said.

“
Put down the
gun Miller,” I said.

“No, I won’t,” he said. “I want to know why you did it Reba.”

“Ronald please,” she protested.

“Why didn’t you just do as we planned,” he said. “You and I could have started over. I was willing to wipe the slate clean.”

“C’mon big guy,” I said
. “D
rop the gun.”

“Why Reba. Why?”

“Drop it Miller,” I said.

“Ronald please,” his wife pleaded.

“It’s not right,” he blubbered. “It’s just not right.”

And then he dropped the gun and broke down.

I picked up the gun and helped Miller to his feet. He continued blubbering like a baby. About then, a fleet of police cars came screaming into the parking lot.

“But how?” Reba asked. “How could you know?”

She was no longer so pretty. Her face looked defeated and worn.

“Mick was one step ahead of you,” I said. “He knew enough of what was going on with the team to see that a jealous woman may have a bigger ax to grind with a ballplayer than even a drug dealer. And he had the real connections with police. Put the squeeze on the cops real good too. Even if they’d have tried to hang him for the murder he was going to come out with all sorts of juicy stuff: like a corrupt police force led by a drug-taking chief who liked to shake down the street dealers. And there was Miller, his ball club losing games and drowning in red ink. Let’s just say, Mr. Mick Slaughter was willing to bail out our failing b
usinessman and his wife if he was left alone. That left either you or Hampton or even Jeannette here. Quite frankly, I don’t think Hampton had it in him. And Jeannette. Well, she had no reason to kill him if he was returning to her. That left only you honey.”