Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite (35 page)

“Okay. I’ve got something really important to ask you now:
Why,
for Christ’s sake? Why would the man admit to any of this?”

“I’m not a hundred percent sure. When I challenged Lou about that photograph, he realized as well as I did that it wasn’t anything conclusive. But it did rattle him. And then I said that I got a glimpse of him driving the car that ran me down. A lie, of course,” I put in quickly. “But maybe that’s what got him talking. Or maybe deep down he just wanted to get the whole horrific mess off his chest, and I gave him the opening. Like I said, I don’t really know. But anyhow, what did he have to lose? He figured it was his word against mine.”

Chief Hicks inched forward in his chair now, preparing to rise. “Listen, you’ve presented me with some interesting allegations tonight, but that’s all they are: allegations. You have nothing that comes anywhere near being actual evidence. But I told you before that I’d have a talk with Lou and I will. However, I wouldn’t count on anything coming of it. As I’m sure you must be aware, he figured right. It
is
your word against his.”

“That’s not quite true.” And without saying anything further (it was more dramatic this way), I hoisted myself up and leaned over the end table that’s next to where I was seated. There’s a large Oriental vase with bright silk flowers in the center of that table. I picked up the vase, then sat back down again, cradling it in my lap. Taking out the flowers, I very gently laid them on the cushion alongside me. Then I reached down into the vase and removed the small black object at the bottom.

“It isn’t really my word against Lou’s,” I stated quietly. “It’s
his
word against his.”

And I handed Hicks the tape recorder.

John Hicks was sitting on the very edge of his seat, hands dangling between widespread legs, fingers intertwined. As we listened to his fellow police officer and long-time friend damning himself again and again, I searched the chief’s face for some sort of reaction. It was expressionless.

Finally, the tape wound down, and he stood up and walked over to the sofa, looming above me. His voice was deadly calm. “Why didn’t you just play the fucking tape in the first place?”

“Well, I . . . uh . . . I thought . . . that is, I wanted you to have some background first,” I answered nervously.

“Like hell you did. All the background I needed was already on the tape. What you
did
want was for me to make an ass of myself defending one of my men when all along you had proof of his culpability.”

“Listen, it wasn’t that way at—”

Hicks whirled around, and his eyes burned into me. “Cut the crap, huh?”

I decided to oblige him. Because, you see, the chief was right on the money. I hadn’t planned it like that, but he’d been so damn hostile right from the outset. And the thing is, after my nerve-shattering confrontation with Lou, his attitude was more than I could take. So I’d just gone ahead and laid out the facts, knowing that he’d fight me on every point—and be that much more embarrassed after hearing the tape. Granted, this was childish. Granted, also mean-spirited and vindictive. But what would you expect from a Scorpio?

Anyhow, perching himself on the arm of his chair now, he remarked in a more reasonable tone, “I suppose, though, that as much as I resent your method of presenting the information to me, I’m not really justified in shooting the messenger. I just wish to God that things had turned out differently, that it hadn’t been Lou.”

“That makes two of us.”

“For the first time in my life I’m sorry I didn’t get a plumbing license like my father did. But no, I had to become the lousy chief of police. Which means that I’m going to have to do everything I can to find something to back up that tape.”

“You don’t feel that we can make the case on the confession alone?” I asked.

“The answer is no. Listen, his lawyer could get up in court and say Lou was putting you on. That he could just as easily have claimed to be the second gunman in the JFK assassination—the guy on the grassy knoll. We need corroborating evidence.” Then before I could get out a word, Hicks threw in, “And for God’s sake, that was just a damn example.”

Well, I
realized
that, of course. What I’d been about to say was, “I have a thought.” I said it now.

“And what would that be?” Hicks inquired.

“Lou’s official story is that Mickey phoned
him,
right?”

“So?”

“Well, if it wasn’t a local call, wouldn’t the telephone company have some record of who contacted who?”

“First of all, Polansky probably has a place right here in town. And besides, it’s very possible Lou used a pay phone. But I did hear the tape, you know,” he reminded me sourly. “And naturally, we’ll be following up on that.”

“There’s something else, too,” I ventured courageously. I mean, it was obvious the man wasn’t exactly panting for my input.

“I’ll bet there is. But go on.”

“At the time Mickey was murdered, Lou was supposedly having dinner with a friend. You . . . well, you also might want to check that out.”

“You may have a problem believing this,” Hicks shot back, “but I had every intention of establishing Lou’s whereabouts between eight and ten that evening. I also plan on getting a search warrant for his apartment. And my men will go over his car for any evidence it was involved in a hit-and-run. If that doesn’t pan out, though, we’ll keep an eye out for any vehicles reported stolen around the dates you and Polansky were run over. What I’m trying to explain is that among a whole lot of other things, verifying alibis is precisely the kind of thing we in the police department
do.
I trust, Miss Shapiro, that this is now crystal clear to you.”

“I didn’t mean—” Then censoring myself: “Yes, it is. Umm, you
will
keep me posted on what’s happening, won’t you?”

He growled the “Yeah.”

 

First thing Tuesday morning I called my client with the news he had been waiting all these weeks to hear.

“I know who killed Frankie.”

He said nothing for a few moments. And when he spoke it was in a whisper. “Tell me.”

I provided him with a fairly comprehensive summary.

“I am very grateful to you, Desiree,” he murmured when I finally wound down.

“I want to assure you, Mr. da Silva,” I hurried to add, “that the police will be going all-out to obtain additional proof in order to ensure a conviction. Uh, you’ll let them handle things, right?”

“I promised you this when it was agreed you would take the case, correct?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then accept it. I am a man of my word, Desiree. But one thing I must know. Did you believe this partner of yours when he insisted that the widow was unaware of his intention to shoot Frankie?” I hesitated just long enough for da Silva to put in impatiently, “I will take no action in this matter—regardless.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I didn’t believe him. And I told him so. But he absolutely refused to implicate Sheila. I’m sure that Chief Hicks will make every effort to induce Lou—Lieutenant Hoffman—to change his mind, however.”

“And what are the chances the lieutenant will oblige him, do you suppose?”

“I honestly don’t know. But with Sheila’s having been in France at the time of Frankie’s murder, I can’t imagine any other way we’d be able to nail her. So I keep reminding myself there’s at least a possibility that Lou will see the light.”

“You will, of course, inform me of any new developments.”

“Naturally.”

“At any rate, for now, we can content ourselves that at least the person who actually pulled the trigger will be made to pay for this terrible crime.”

Well, let’s hope so, anyway,
I thought.

I needn’t have worried.

On Wednesday Chief Hicks got in touch with me. It seemed that Mickey Mouth did live in Riverton, so the phone company had no record of his receiving that call from Lou. But two police officers visited the apartment Mickey shared with his girlfriend, and the woman had no objection to their searching the premises.

And guess what was on the tape in his answering machine?

Yup.

There was a message from Lou telling Mickey that it was vital he see him and asking that Mickey get back to him as soon as possible. Which unfortunately, is just what poor Mickey did.

Well, Hicks lost no time in tossing this damaging information in his old friend’s face. Following which, he insisted that Lou give him the name of the person with whom he’d claimed to have dinner plans on the night of the snitch’s murder.

Lou’s response was a demand to see his lawyer. And shortly afterward he was arrested for the murders of Frank Vincent and Michael “Mickey Mouth” Polansky—the attempted murder of one Desiree Shapiro being in the hands of the NYPD.

 

No sooner did I finish talking to Hicks than I contacted my client with the update.

“This is wonderful news!” he exclaimed, an animation in his voice that I’d never heard before. And then I spoke of my frustration concerning Sheila.

“Do not allow yourself to be overly concerned about the widow, Desiree,” da Silva offered encouragingly. “One can never tell about these things.”

I opted not to read anything ominous into these words. I had his promise—didn’t I?—that he wouldn’t take any action. Plus, he was right. Things really
did
have a way of working out.

If you were very, very lucky, that is.

 

On Tuesday of the following week I returned to the Riverton police station for the last time. I gathered my few belongings, which included such treasures as a close-to-threadbare black cardigan and a maroon umbrella with only four spokes intact. And then while Ellen waited in my office—she’d assumed the role of my driver that day—I stopped off to see Chief Hicks.

Now, I can’t say the man seemed exactly pleased at the sight of me. But with Hicks, the absence of a sneer was sort of like a warm hug. I suppose he was slightly more kindly disposed toward me as a result of my parting words to him that Monday night at my apartment—which were that he claim I’d made the tape at his instruction. I mean, I appeared to have moved up from being lower than a snake’s belly to maybe having reached the status of a horse’s patootie.

I took the seat he didn’t offer. “Uh, Chief, you may have wondered why I handed over that tape to you instead of bringing it to the district attorney’s office.”

“I never gave it a thought.”

“Well, anyway, it was because it looked as though Lou could end up being the only one doing time for any of this. What I’m trying to say is that Lou thinks very highly of you. And I’m hoping that maybe you can persuade him to stop protecting that conniving bitch. He could probably make some kind of deal with the DA if he gave her up—don’t you think?”

“You and I are finally on the same wavelength, Miss Shapiro,” Hicks answered dryly. “And, yes, I do think he’d be offered a deal. But I’m surprised that that doesn’t bother you.”

“Put it this way. Sheila’s getting away with murder bothers me even more.”

“Listen, I’ll tell you one thing. None of this could have been Lou’s idea. Not the Lou Hoffman I know. The fact he let himself get pulled into this mess—well, he must have gone a little crazy.”

“You’ll speak to him, then?”

“I already had a private conversation with him right after the arrest, but Lou isn’t admitting to anything beyond the fact they were having an affair. A picture of Sheila with her chignon has been ID’d by both the maid and the manager of the Breeze Inn, so I guess he had no choice there. Other than that, though, he’s pretty well dummied up. I assume this is on the advice of that shyster lawyer of his.”

Hicks began drumming his fingers on the desk. “The problem is, you never can tell with a jury. While what we have at present is enough to get him bound over for trial, I’m not that confident it would result in a conviction. And apparently Lou is of the same opinion, so he doesn’t have much incentive for turning State’s evidence. Even if the case against him were a helluva lot tighter, though, I have grave doubts we could convince him to deliver his honey to us. The poor fool refuses to believe that the woman was only using him. ‘How much could she care for you if she made you into a murderer?’ I said to him. For all the good that did!

“ ‘I didn’t kill Vincent, so she didn’t make me into anything, ’ he tells me. What chilled my blood, though, was the sappy way he looked just talking about her.” Hicks shook his head in disgust. “Listen, we’re not dealing with Lou and Sheila, for crissakes! We’ve got ourselves Romeo and Juliet here.”

“Uh, about not having enough evidence for a conviction?” I put in now. “Well, I find that hard to believe. We don’t just have the tape anymore. There’s also the message on Mickey’s answering machine. And what about that non-existent dinner alibi?”

“Oh, I don’t see that it would be much of a problem to concoct a couple of nice little lies to cover those things. Trust me, we can use something a lot more substantial in the way of evidence than what we’ve got. If we could only come up with that 9-millimeter semi-automatic—and the damn thing could be tied in to Lou. Or if we could dig up an eyewitness who’s able to make a positive ID. What I’m saying is that we need to find
something.
”

“You
will
speak to Lou about Sheila again, though? Maybe he’ll change his mind and decide that rather than take his chances with a trial, it would be safer to go for a deal.”

To my astonishment, the chief dredged up a genuine smile. “I like the way you think. But if I were you, Miss Shapiro, I wouldn’t bet my bottom that’ll happen.”

It was about a month before John Hicks and I spoke again.

By that time I was no longer officially on the case. By that time, too, my leg was pretty much healed, my bruises had faded, and the headaches had all but disappeared. In fact, just a couple of weeks after Lou’s arrest I was back in my own office, involved in a challenging new investigation. But I always managed to squeeze in a couple of minutes here and an hour there to anguish over the Riverton mess.