Good Lord, Deliver Us (26 page)

Recovering from the kiss, Z flashed on what
she should do. "Can you report to Ashlock today? Get your
money?"

"If it mattered."

"Do it."

"Why?"

"Just
do
it."

Not happy to be kept in the dark, but seeing
that Z meant business, she nodded.

There was no need for the
girl to know about the bodies in the basement; who needed to be
haunted by
that
kind of ghost?

Sure, she'd also noticed the odor; but how
many people knew what that smell meant? (Z did because he'd
discovered the dead girl in that field, plus the missing prof.) In
its faint form, death smelled like poisoned rats, crawled off to
die within the walls -- Z's guess when he'd picked up that smell on
his first visit to the cellar. As the boy had begun to dig,
however, the odor had grown stronger until .....

Z and Jamie had gone on to
agree to coordinate money matters; had exchanged phone numbers, Z
giving her his office number. The deal was that Jamie would figure
out what they should charge the Vice Chancellor, but hold up her
report until both bills were paid; if she had to, hint that the
report's conclusion might be influenced in
favor
of ghosts should there be the
slightest delay in payment.

If Z was right to think that Ashlock was
running this whole "ghost house" operation out of his hip pocket, Z
had the feeling the Vice Chancellor would give them their money
willingly, thinking he would get to bulldoze the property right
away.

Z's task was to alert the cops, but not
until the shifty little administrator had paid up. (Z's first
pleasant thought of the day was about how surprised Ashlock would
be to learn that his problems with the ghost house were just
beginning; that the police would seal up the property for the
foreseeable future.)

After the goodbye kiss,
little Jamie in the truck and hunched over the steering wheel, Z
had bent down to whisper through the window that he wished he could
see her again. "Pillow talk" that
was
and
wasn't
true -- Z not knowing himself
how he felt about their relationship.

And that's how they'd left it at dawn.

The rest of the morning had been for a nap,
then for heavy thinking. (And to give Jamie time to get their
money.) Z had built a fire; left the apartment to eat lunch; all
the while trying to line up the facts.

The first thing Z had wondered about was how
many bodies lay buried in that grave-of-a-cellar. No way he could
know, but a number of them -- if he could trust the kid's
interpretation of what the probe had indicated.

A number of bodies, meant a number of people
missing, the TV news curiously silent about these
disappearances.

Z's conclusion? The bodies
in the cellar
weren't
missed, not by relatives, not by friends.

Why?

Because they were Ted's
"bums," men who
had
no family and no friends. "Bums" who didn't turn up AWOL
until other "bums" reported there was something fishy about the way
men of their community had been vanishing.

The other thing Z
couldn't
help
but
think about was the way the man he'd found had been mutilated, most
of Z's pondering getting him nowhere, of course, Z reminding
himself that, in criminal work, solutions to
every
problem took time. Assuming a
solution could be found at all.

Z's final conclusion was that, since the
murders were not his responsibility, he should dump this dirty
business in someone else's lap.

The sky was a cheerful blue as Z drove to
the office that afternoon, heaven at is best when ignoring human
horror.

Inside the Ludlow, sitting on the outer
office desk, Z dialed Ted, Z routed through to be put on hold, Ted
undoubtedly in the bathroom, his favorite place to hide out at
work.

"This is Detective Ted Newbold,
speaking."

"Z."

"You again? Don't tell me you've rounded up
the missing bums already?"

Z didn't know what to say for, in a matter
of speaking, he thought he might have done just that. "I may be
onto something."

"Yeah?" Ted, being skeptical and eager at
the same time, contradictory attitudes not easy to portray with a
single word.

"But in some other guy's jurisdiction."

"Hell. I'm nothing if not cooperative. I can
share with other law enforcement." As long as Ted got credit for
the initial discovery, was what he meant.

"Could be you'd need Addison."

"Who?"

"The black, K.C. dick."

"Oh, yeah." Teddy, being less than pleased.
"I don't know, Z. I don't trust him."

Normally, you'd think that
kind of comment about not trusting a black would mean Ted was
prejudiced, except that Ted wasn't a racist. (Unless the
term
racist
could
include someone who considered himself superior to
everyone
else.) It
wasn't Addison's race that bothered Ted; it was the K.C.
cop's
competence
,
Ted wanting nothing to do with anyone who might show Teddy
up.

"I better call Addison."

"Wait a minute. Wait a
minute. I didn't say no, did I?" Z waited. "As long as I'm in on
this first, I could see my way clear to cutting him in. You
probably found out that the bums are the black guy's case, right?"
Though Z knew the "bums" were someone
else's
case, Z said nothing, on the
grounds that
real
detectives like Ted didn't want everything spelled out for
them.

"Got to call in Clay County, too."

"Hell, Z. Where'd you sniff this out,
anyway?"

Z didn't want to think about "sniffing it
out."

"In Liberty. I'll get back to you."

"Hey, Z. What you got for me? Don't leave me
hanging on this."

"Got to."

"Well ..... OK. We've been friends for a
long time, right?"

"Yeah."

"And I've done you a considerable number of
favors in the past, right?"

"Yeah."

"So I trust you not to
freeze me out." If Ted
really
trusted Z, Ted wouldn't have had to remind Z of
their long friendship. But Z let that pass.

After hanging up, Z rolled his wrist.
Checked his old, stem-winder.

Almost eleven.

Hanging up his "secretary's" phone, Z picked
it up again and dialed Willis Addison, direct.

Got nothing but a bunch of rings.

Dialed the K.C. police.

Got referred here and there, only to learn
that Detective Addison was out, but was expected back some time
today.

So Z called later.

And later still.

No luck.

Filled in the time by
reading some more about Lawrence Block's New York City, where there
was a difference between payoffs a cop
could
take and still be "clean" and
"dirty" money a clean cop couldn't take.

What a town!

Called Addison again at 5:00. ....... Not
there.

Read some more. Called Addison at 5:30
....

"Addison, here." The black man's voice,
while still "snowman" white, sounded tired.

"Z. Been working you hard?"

"Helping homicide. Today, it's
suicides."

"The weather?"

"Sometimes it seems to be. Or a full
moon."

Even law enforcement
officers -- and Z put himself in that category -- passed
some
conversation
between them before getting down to business.

"Right. About those missing ...
vagrants?"

"Still missing."

"I don't think so."

"
You
found them?" Tired though
Addison was, Z heard him chuckle.

"If so, it's not good."

"Didn't think it would be."

"Dead and buried."

"Where?"

"I ... got this problem. My friend,
Ted."

"The Gladstone cop?"

"Yeah. You're in, and agreed to by Ted. It's
just that the remains are not in either jurisdiction. The Clay
County sheriff is the man to call."

"Let me fix that. I know Larry Overfelt.
Worked with him before."

"Good. But then there's Ted. Ted wants to
make the discovery. Do him some good."

"That's agreeable with me. And I also speak
for my friend, whose case it is. We're so jammed up here, he just
wants it off his back the quickest way."

"OK. The thing is, Ted's story about how he
discovered the bodies? It'll be pretty thin."

"I see."

"Any decent cop, if he started to ask
questions, could ....."

"Break it down."

"Yeah."

"Decent cops know when not to ask."

Thinking about it,
Addison
could be one of
New York's finest. He had that kind of savvy.

"Appreciate it."

Another thing about decent cops, was they
didn't bring up favors. Z had done Addison a good turn in the
painting case; they both knew it; and both could let the other
forget it.

"Expect a call from Ted."

"What's his last name, again?"

"Newbold."

"Right. Probably a good
idea to have him leave a message that I'm to call
him
. I'm going to be in
and out tonight. Be better to have me notified so I can call him
back."

"Good."

How much should Z tell bright, black Willis
Addison, a detective good enough to be one of New York's finest?
Maybe, a little more.

"Another thing."

"Always."

"It was accidental, how I found the bodies."
Addison chuckled again at having it confirmed that Z was the sort
of man Addison thought he was, the kind who stumbled into trouble.
"I only turned up one, but got a strong suspicion there's more." Z
paused; caught his breath; sneezed without warning.

Just how was Z going to tell this in a
civilized manner? ... Decided there was no good way. "The man I
found had a cut-off dick in his mouth."

"Christ!"

"Been dead awhile."

"Get on this, Z! We got to get this
stopped!"

"Expect a call. Soon."

After hanging up, Z dialed Ted. "Detective
Ted Newbold, speaking."

"Z."

"It's all set up?"

"Yeah. You discover, then call Addison. He
fixes things with the Clay County sheriff."

"It took you long enough."

"Yeah. Anyway. You go to Liberty. The
address is 2609 East Franklin. Behind Bateman College, this side of
some soccer fields. Just two houses there. Looks like the rest of
the block's been atomic-bombed."

"And what were
you
doing there?" Ted
had to feel he was contributing something.

"My case. At night."

"OK. I won't ask."

"Anyway, go around to the back. Probably
best to do it late tonight. The cellar doors are open. Pull them
back. Go down. There's a shallow pit dug. A little further down and
you find a body."

"Jesus! I wonder if I could get one of the
blues to do that. That's what blues are for, stupid bastards that
they are."

"And share the credit?"

"Yeah -- better do it myself." Ted didn't
like dirty work; but liked it better than having someone standing
in his light.

"Been thinking up a story. Why you got onto
this."

"OK."

"Somebody -- say, an old lady -- tipped you,
by phone, that there were ghosts in that house. You don't believe
that. But your detective's instinct is aroused. Something strange
going on. Needs investigating. Still, not enough smoke to yell fire
at Clay County. So, on your own time, at night, being the
public-spirited citizen that you are, you check."

"Yeah!" Ted liked the part about him being a
public-spirited citizen. If Z knew Ted, that part would get a big
play in Ted's explanation of how he found the bodies.

"You got 'probable cause' because, walking
around back, you smell this smell. The smell of death."

"Yeah."

"Not 'breaking and entering,' because the
cellar doors are open."

"That'll play."

"You go down and, smelling the smell even
worse, decide to dig. Some tools are in the cellar."

"That's great, Z. And believe me, I really
appreciate this favor. I needed this because ....." For a moment,
Ted had reverted to his high school self, when all he wanted was to
walk in the shadow of Northtown's football star -- a thankful mood
that evaporated fast, Ted long ago "maturing" into an asshole of an
adult. "What I mean is, I'll investigate to see if there's anything
to this fantastic story of yours. Let you know what I find."

"First thing after discovery, call Addison.
You don't do that right away and Addison drops a brick on your
head."

"Yeah. I'll do that, for sure." Teddy, again
being a scared little boy in grade school.

"And Ted, one more thing." While the only
kick Z got out of this sorry business was Ted having to do
something on his own, Z wanted to be fair. "Don't eat supper before
exploring."

The rest of the evening was a blur. Though Z
didn't do it often, he went to Bud's Tavern on Oak to get a
six-pack, bald Bud a hulking, square-shaped man with the friendly
warmth of any successful tavern owner. A year older than Z, Bud
played a good right guard. Many a time, it was Bud Izard's hole
that Z had looked good squirming through.

More out of courtesy than anything, Z had a
couple of drinks in the cool dark of the bar, talking over old
times with Bud, Bud's barman taking up the slack of what was a
quiet Tuesday night. It was always a little embarrassing, though,
to have Bud go through the games play-by-play, Bud remembering Z's
high school glory more than his own. The offensive line. Big men,
doomed to be ignored for the major contributions that they
made.