Only Make Believe (9 page)

When I agreed this might be so, he turned to headwaiter Homer Meadows, who I’d asked to stand by, just in case. “Eee-you don’t suppose Miss Emma Mae had the fishing boat out over the weekend? I hear grouper and sea bass have been running nicely. So would you see if there are any fresh fish on hand? Fillets to be fried perhaps? With a dab of that delicious Cole slaw you make? And pie? Chocolate cream? Lemon? Yes?”

I nodded at Homer. He nodded back. “Sah.”

“An hour?” I asked Doc. “Or longer?”

Doc drew a pair of rubber gloves from his hip pocket and slapped them together. “An hour at least. Now if eee-you will kindly lead the way?”

Bud met us at the door of room 522. “Ain’t been unsealed, sir. I locked it and nailed it shut myself after the medics left with the, uh—Mr. DiGennaro.” He indicated a smaller man standing beside him. “Officer Hurston here, he’s been posted the whole morning.”

Walter Hurston, the half-Filipino grandson of a pioneer family, was the first mixed-race cop ever hired by Lee County. He was twenty-two years old, five feet tall and solid as a mahogany log. A switch-hitter, he worked both the Anglo and Negro areas of town.

“Maid tried to get in, sir,” Hurston said, looking from Doc to Bud and briefly to me, seeking approval. “Name of Mrs. Concertina Brown. Claimed 522 was a check-out and at the top of her list to clean this morning first thing. Had to get the head housekeeper up here.”

“Good thinking,” I said. “Mrs. Smallwood must have forgotten to tell Mrs. Brown the room was off limits.”

“Sir. Thank you, sir.”

Bud quickly removed the nailed-up board, pulled on his own set of gloves, inserted a key in the keyhole, cursed when the lock wouldn’t budge, turned the key in the opposite direction and pushed the door inward.

Doc led the way. Drawing a breath, he said, “Ah, Chanel No. 5. I’d know it anywhere.”

The room was indeed heavily perfumed—a mixed bouquet of jasmine and roses, hair oil, male sweat, floor wax and cigarette smoke.

I stood in the doorway, watching Doc’s initial inspection of the scene. Bud had been right behind me early that morning when we rushed upstairs, so he held back too, at least at first.

The room was quiet now, no shouting, no agonized groans, no barked orders. Doc glanced at the closet and bathroom doors, the disordered bed, the overturned chair, the gloves and the jewelry, surveying the room.

“Dust the doorknobs, please,” he said, turning to Drackett. “And up and down the door’s butt edge.”

“Sah.”

“Wallet’s there on the dresser,” said Bud. “Can you get prints off that?”

“Leather? Highly unlikely.”

Bud moved forward to inspect the wallet at close range. “Appears to of been gone through.”

“Dust it, Drackett. Also the wrist watch, the rhinestone tiara, the pearls, the small change, that big ring with the inset diamonds—looks like a ruby or a garnet—might as well do the entire dresser top while you’re at it. And the drawer pulls and top rail.”

“Suh.”

“Note the position of the chair, the bed and what looks very much like blood on the floor. Mose, the Graflex if you please. With the flash. Thank you.”

Shepherd quickly documented a series of drops and one smear of coagulated blood on the floor, did the same with the dresser top and handed the camera back to Mose.

“Lovely light in this room,” Doc murmured. “These shots will come out very nice.”

Next, Doc knelt beside the dresser and peered beneath it. A weak spot along the polished floor’s boards creaked as if pained by the man’s weight.

“Where would the throw rug normally be, Mr. Eeew-ing?”

“Between the door and the bed.”

“But it’s scrambled all up under this chest of drawers. A struggle?”

“Don’t think any man would just let somebody kick him in the nuts,” Bud said, “without putting up some kind of fuss.”

“I take that as a yes. Now Mr. Eeew-ing, how should the furniture be positioned? Do you see anything else out of place besides the bed and overturned chair?”

“The table should be next to the bed.”

“And the mattress appears to be askew.”

“Exactly.”

“The coverlet’s turned down,” Bud said. “But don’t look like nobody got under it. You figure they could of started fighting on the bed?”

Fighting or something
, I thought. “Diva was on the floor by the phone when we got here,” I said.

Doc shot me a glance.

“Mr. DiGennaro was down, that’s what I meant,” I said, correcting my mistake. “That’s where the medics were working on him.”

“Anything else?”

“Just the bed, the chair and the rug. Doesn’t even look like much of a fight. Except for the blood spots on the floor.”

“Medics might have moved the bed to get to him,” Bud offered.

“Or to get they stretcher in,” Mose suggested. “If you don’t mind me saying.”

Doc nodded at Bud. “You may want to ask them. Good point, Mose. You’ve carried your share of stretchers over the years.”

“Suh.”

Doc moved to the other side of the bed and admired his own imposing image in the specially ordered full length mirror. “Having begun the post mortem at Lee Memorial, I can tell you that the deceased was hit in the face and kicked in the groin area and upper leg. There appears to be a heel mark on the left interior thigh. The gentleman’s left testicle and scrotal area were contused.”

I felt a chill in my own scrotal area. “Doc Graves at the hospital said the beating probably didn’t kill him,” I said.

“Not in itself, I don’t believe. He—hum-um—was punched in the face, and he may have fallen against some piece of furniture—the edge of the desk, right here, for example. I see a little dent and three—hmm, humm—three hairs. Would that be normal, Mr. Eeew-ing?”

I crossed the room, careful to avoid the drops of blood on the floor. “The desk is two years old. Dings and dents happen. We can ask the maid. I don’t usually get involved in damages unless somebody tears the toilet out or sets the curtains on fire, that kind of thing.”

Doc arched an eyebrow. “I had no idea.”

“Assuming the guest is good for the cost of replacement, it’s not usually a problem.”

“Ah-ah-amazing. In any case, something hit Mr. DiGennaro or he hit something hard enough to give him a concussion, crack his jaw, perhaps knock him out briefly, perhaps cause him to pass in and out of the conscious state.”

“Which tallies with the phone call for help,” I said. “He spoke to Phil on the desk, asked for Carmen but dropped the phone. He was out cold when the bell boy entered the room.”

“But he came to when the medics arrived.” Doc removed a knife from his bag, turned to the desk and carved out the dent, carefully preserving the sprig of hair.

I winced. The desk would have to be replaced. “Yeah. One of them said they had to give him a needle to cut the pain.”

“Ah ha,” Doc said. “That wasn’t in the report. I wonder what they gave him. Mose? Evidence bag, if you please.”

“Morphine,” I said. “That’s what the medic told the nurse.”

“Could it have any effect?” Bud said.

“On the pain? Oh my, yes. Morphine—hum-um. With some individuals, it’s like turning a switch.” Doc wiped the knife on the arm of his suit and put it away.

Bud rocked back on his heels. “I seen some real bad battle damage in the Pacific, Doc. Remember? I meant did it affect whether he lived or not.”

“I believe I’m going to find an enlarged heart, history of cardiac involvement, lack of exercise, something like that. He might not have felt the infarction coming on. Can’t be sure. If Dr. Graves had had a medical history they might have given him something else in the ER.”

“Ain’t no prints on this door, Suh,” Drackett announced. “Wiped as clean as Mrs. Roosevelt’s teacup. I be startin’ on the wallet and dresser now.”

“That’s fine. Thank you.”

“Fuck,” Bud said under his breath.

“If the boy Chuck was drunk and angry enough to kick his daddy in the balls,” I said, “can you see him stopping to wipe down the door on his way out.”

Bud grunted and threw me a quizzical look. “Could be Junior had a buddy with him. Say the buddy was sober—and good with his hands.” He glanced at Doc. “You suppose any of them towels in the bath could of been used to wipe for prints?”

“If wishes were horses—ha ha—we’d all rent clubhouse boxes at Hialeah Park, over in Miami. No, I don’t think we can find any evidence of that.”

Doc gently inserted a gloved finger under the bottom edge of the cracked-open closet door and pulled it forward. “Drackett, my friend, you’ll want to dust this knob too,”

“Suh.”

Inside the closet, a light wool businessman’s suit, a challis necktie, a pair of gray slacks and a dark blue evening gown were arranged on hangers. Black oxfords and a discarded sport shirt, boxer shorts, socks and wrapping paper from a Bradenton laundry covered most of the closet floor.

Doc stepped back. “Mose, the camera please. We need to document the contents of the closet. Perhaps the bath as well. Let me see.”

“Suh.”

Doc looked at Bud, a twinkle in his usually dour eyes. “Promises to be a most interesting case for you.”

While Doc worked with the Speed Graphic, Bud knelt beside the blood on the floor, making notes as Drackett collected samples on glass slides. He then peered under the bed. “A lady’s evening bag under here,” he said. “And what’s—aw, fuck—what’s this shit?” After donning gloves he slowly drew out four black and white, eight-by-ten photographs, all professionally printed and protected by cellophane sleeves. Three were pornographic: dark-haired, unsmiling young women wearing corsets, garter belts, hose and high heels. Each was seated on a bed or chair with her legs spread apart, touching herself. The fourth photo was a publicity shot of an older, prettier woman costumed as Floria Tosca: Empire gown, tiara and gloves—clearly the model for DiGennaro’s visual transformation. The photo was signed: “To Nick, With Best Wishes and Amore, Stella Roman.”

Doc turned to look. “My, my. We’ll want to dust all of these. Drackett? Gloves please. Watch those hands.”

Drackett drew back, as if the last thing he wanted to do was touch the filthy pictures.

“DiGennaro was still wearing one shoe when we got here,” I said. “I think it’s at the hospital. The other’s in the corner.”

Doc turned and looked. “Oh, yes, Mr. Eeew-ing. With the panties and the athletic supporter. Your guest had quite a variety of—hum, um—interests and impedimenta.”

Drackett, gloved and with evidence bags now at the ready, began to gather up the sad evidence of Nick DiGennaro’s stay: the lone shoe, the photographs, the rug, the wrinkled coverlet, the opera-length kid gloves and a blood-spotted bath towel that lay under the phone. After depositing each item in a paper bag, he gave the package to Bud to label and seal.

I glanced inside the bathroom. Same story there: Shaving kit open to reveal toothbrush, toothpaste, aspirin, toothpicks, Tums, Nair depilatory cream and a box of rubbers. Makeup kit, shut tight. Open bag of face creams, lipsticks, rouge and perfume samples from Flossie Hill’s department store. Dozens of discarded tissues, most smeared with color. Behind the shaving kit, a squat Old Spice shaving mug crouched next to a bottle of Joy perfume. Doc might know the scent of Chanel No. 5 anywhere but it seemed he hadn’t sniffed it in room 522.

On the floor, the thick, white cotton bathmat was stained with what looked like vomit. In the sink, a bloody wash rag lay like a dead goldfish in an empty tank.

I knew what I was seeing and smelling. And it didn’t seem to add up.

Doc was suddenly behind me. I turned.

“Smile for the camera, Mr. Eeew-ing.”
Flash.

Diva Capri was no Carmen Miranda
, I thought. “The magic chamber,” I said, my hand sweeping over the assorted paints and creams.

“Or the fairy’s cave!”
Flash
.

“You didn’t notice him last night? He was at the piano bar in the club. Sang Puccini. Wore that tiara. But about as fairy as John L. Lewis.”

“Step aside please.” Flash. “Oh, the tiara and gloves, of course. Hum-um, Before you kindly sat in for Wayne Larue at the poker table, I was winning—ha, quite a nice streak. Two hundred dollars up at one time, though I didn’t go home with that much.
Thank
you.”

Bud leaned in through the open door. “Doc, this was a man in a woman’s dress and wig and all. I was five feet away from him at the bar and I didn’t figure her—him—out. You got more experience in clubroom society, that right? And you didn’t notice either?”

Doc shot several close-ups of the bath mat, said, “Drackett, this is for the lab, careful now, just roll it right up,” and turned to Bud. “What was to notice? A man dressed like Josephine Bonaparte? We’ve seen worse behavior here. It wasn’t even Halloween.”

I didn’t like the sound of this. “We don’t get a lot of members wanting to dress up. Except for Halloween, like you say. And aside from Carmen, which is a different matter altogether, I don’t know much about, uh, persons like Nick.”

“Not much
is
known about transvestites, Mr. Eeew-ing. Theories abound. The subject is not covered in the Kinsey Report, at least that I remember. Granted, our incident here may have nothing whatever to do with sexual behavior. Those art photographs to the contrary notwithstanding.”