The Blackmail Club (2 page)

At the top of the stairs he paused to read a framed engraving he had brought back from Europe. The passage was from A
Tale of Two Cities
, and it summarized the last year of his life.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness. It was the spring of Hope, it was the winter of Despair.

Just when he thought Nora was winding down, she said, “There’s another matter. You have an appointment Monday at four in the afternoon.”

“I don’t really want us taking on anything else. Chris’s death gets our full attention. This one’s personal.”

“Let me call you back on my cell. I’ve got a date so I need to get out of here. We can talk while I’m driving home. Okay?” Jack grunted. Then Nora said, “Sometimes calls get dropped in the underground parking so it’ll be after I get up on the street.”

With the drink in hand, Jack stepped out onto the small patio off the second-story bedroom where he and Rachel used to sit and watch the Potomac River. He ignored the soft hypnotic rain falling from a sky flexing between dim and dark.

Some nights, when the wind was just right, the sounds from Georgetown drifted close enough to be heard, but not tonight, not in the damp air. He leaned on the wet rail and listened to the gentle sounds of leaves swaying in an easy wind, periodically punctured by the deep songs of distant frogs.

He had lived so many places during the past twenty years of foreign intelligence service, but he was beginning to consider Washington, D.C., home. It was a beautiful city, at least on the surface. A closer look revealed a city in which some people had way too much power, arrogant and corrupting power, while most struggled to sustain economic equilibrium. The seat of the most powerful government in the world, and yet a city that each year was looking more and more like a fortress.

After a few minutes he heard the cooing voices of a couple walking on the far side of the street. The woman reached beyond their umbrella to point at the lights twinkling off the river. The very lights Rachel always said made the river seem alive.

The man tilted back the umbrella. The couple kissed, giggled, and moved on leaving Jack with his memories and diluting whiskey. Then his phone rang again, and Nora picked back up with what she had been saying.

“The Monday appointment at four, you’re interviewing Max Logan. Now before you say anything, there’s a story to this. You’ll be getting me out of a hole. One I dug for myself.”

“Tell me.”

“You remember my ex-homicide partner, Frank Wade? Well, before me, Max Logan had been Frank’s partner. When Max retired, Frank tapped me.”

“How does that get me an appointment to interview Max?” Jack asked as he went inside, pulling the sliding door closed and wandering back downstairs.

“I run into Max here and there, sometimes he stops by the office to say hi. He tried being retired, but had no real hobbies. He works some as a security guard and doesn’t like it. He wants back in the game, part time. I kept telling Max I had nothing, that maybe when you got back and things got cooking. Listen, I dug the hole and I can get myself out of it, but Max is a first-rate detective. Frank always said he could read the streets like a child reads a popup book. And Max is a good guy. The job never corrupted him or jaded him. I know we don’t need him, but if we ever do need someone, well, Max would be a good choice. The man knows everybody in this town, and is well liked.”

“Sold. Four o’clock, tomorrow. Oops, I got an incoming, it’s Suggs. I’ll talk to you later.” Jack switched lines. “Jack McCall.”

“McCall, this is Sergeant Suggs, DC homicide. You called me.”

“Thank you for returning my call, Sergeant Suggs. We met briefly last year when—”

“I remember, The Third Coincidence case. The one that made you a bit of a legend in this town, but then legends around here are a dime a dozen. What do you need? And it better be important. This is Sunday, a day of rest if you haven’t heard?”

“I’d like to talk with you about the death of Dr. Christopher Andujar.”

“McCall, I was sorry to read of the death of your wife some months back. But let’s get something straight. I don’t like you private guys poking into my cases.”

Jack was about to tell the violent crime’s detective where he could shove his attitude when he heard Suggs exhale. “Ah, screw it,” he said. “The Andujar case is closed. Whatdaya wanna know?” The detective’s voice sounded weary.

“Thank you, Sergeant. I was very close to Chris Andujar. I’m going to see his widow on Tuesday. She’s asking for my help.”

“With what? It’s over!”

“Not in her mind, Sergeant. Whatever it is, I’ll be better equipped to help if you’ll give me a rundown on the death of her husband … Please.”

Suggs’s voice came right out of the freezer. “The bullet entered Dr. Andujar’s head from close range. The medical examiner found powder stippling around the wound and the star-like pattern which results from a close shot into the cranium. He was holding his own gun with his smudged fingerprints, and powder traces were found on his hand. There was nothing suggesting burglary and there were no signs of forced entry or foul play.”

No longer sounding weary, Suggs had charged through his summary like a telephone solicitor racing through a say-this-when-they-say-that script. After the detective took a deep breath, he closed with, “It was a suicide. Open and shut. End of story.”

Jack heard the dial tone. “Asshole!” he screamed at the silent phone. Somehow that seemed more adult than hammering the innocent phone against its cradle.

Chapter 2

At four Monday afternoon, Nora leaned into Jack’s office. “Max Logan’s in the lobby. He and I have talked plenty, so I’ll leave you boys to bond. I’ll watch the front.”

Jack walked out to see a fireplug of a man in his sixties with a full head of salt and pepper hair and a hint of a pot belly. He had a broad nose and busy eyes. He rose without effort and stood around six feet tall, several inches shorter than Jack.

“Mr. McCall, I’m Max Logan. Thank you for seeing me.”

“My pleasure, Mr. Logan. Would you like some coffee or tea, maybe a bottle of water?”

“A bottle of water, if you will. Except for a morning cup, I’m off me coffee. A large dose of water during the day, chased by a wee taste of the Irish curse at night. That’s the secret.”

“Sounds like a recipe for eternal life. I’m Jack. Will Max be okay?”

“It’s me name, so that’ll do just fine.” He settled into a chair and pointed toward Rachel’s picture on the credenza behind Jack. “Your wife?”

Jack nodded. “Rachel died a little more than four months ago. Hit and run. Unsolved.”

“Any witnesses?”

“A couple, but they only remembered a white van, like a million others in the city. No markings. The person behind the wheel wore a white baseball cap. They couldn’t even say if the driver was a man or woman.”

Max shook his head. “I understand the sadness in your eyes when you said her name. My wife died six years ago.”

“What was her name?”

“Colleen. Her maiden name, O’Grady. I called her Etain, an ancient Irish word that means ‘Goddess who married a mortal.’” Max’s face took on a sorrowful look. “We got married late, but we had twenty wonderful years together before the cancer took her.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Jack said, quietly wishing he had gotten twenty years with Rachel. They talked a while about Max’s thirty years with the DC police department, the last fifteen in homicide. Then Jack asked, “Did Nora speak with you about our not needing anyone now?”

“Yes. I still wanted us to meet. Hopefully reach an understanding. I can handle whatever help you might be needing, whenever you bump up against a situation.”

“That could happen, Max. We’re looking into something right now on which there could be something, but no guarantee. It’s loose, but the best I can do at the moment.”

“I appreciate your candor. When you call, I’ll be here.”

They shook hands, and Jack stayed near Max. “When you turn on the blarney, you have the lilt common to South Ireland, yet certain words suggest the lowlands of Scotland. Which is it?”

Max raised his eyebrows. “You’ve a good ear, Jack. My pa and his family were from a small town in Scotland on the north shore of the Firth of Forth. Both my ma and my wife were born in County Cork, Ireland. So I’m a mutt, I ‘spose.” He chuckled. “My folks moved to Chicago when I was very young. Ma insisted we speak English, so I was always hearing Pa with a Scottish accent, and Ma with her Irish brogue. Truth being, I’m not often sure which I’m using when.”

“Americans find the Irish and Scottish accents charming,” Jack said. “That’s probably why you selectively turn it on.”

“Aye, you’ve found me out. Nora told me a leprechaun couldn’t sneak past ya at midnight.”

Nora leaned in to put an end to Jack’s and Max’s spreading of the blarney. “Suggs is on the phone.” She pointed like Uncle Sam on a recruiting poster. “He wants you.”

Jack walked back around his desk, gave Max a signal to wait, and picked up his phone. Nora loitered in the doorway. “Hello, Sergeant Suggs. What can I do for you?”

“Forty minutes ago my partner and I pulled a call. City Sanitation found the ripe body of a man shot and left in a trash dumpster. Smells like at least two, maybe three-day leftovers. The dumpster’s behind your high-rise.”

The detective bit off his next words. “Chief Mandrake asks that you come to the scene.”

“This would seem a routine homicide, Sergeant. How did Police Chief Mandrake even know about it?”

“He was with the chief of detectives when the call came in. Chief Mandrake said, ‘Hey, that’s the building Jack McCall’s in. Get him down there. Maybe he knows something.’ So are you coming McCall?”

“How does this connect to me?”

“I’m getting to that.” Jack heard Suggs take a hard breath before continuing. “The victim had no ID on him, but he had a cigarette pack rolled up in his t-shirt sleeve with a matchbook slid inside the pack’s cellophane wrapper. Your name and address were written inside. I ain’t got all day to chat, McCall, you coming or what? It makes me no never mind.”

“Be right there.” Jack hung up and looked at Max. “You know Sergeant Paul Suggs?”

“A long time. We teamed on homicides for a lot a years.”

“How can I get the chip off his shoulder?”

Max grinned. “Paul Suggs is Wyatt Earp caught in a time warp. He resents the movement to coddle-the-bad-guys, but he’s determined to get his thirty-year pension, shouldn’t have long to go.”

“How do I get closer to him?”

“Don’t take his shit. Don’t let him get you angry, but don’t be intimidated. Kid with him some, but not about the squeak in his shoe.”

“Squeak?”

“Yeah. He’s worn the same kinda black soft-soled shoes like, forever. The left one squeaks, always has. His walk must have something to do with it, ‘cause it don’t stop when he gets a new pair. He can’t hear the squeak. His ears just don’t pick it up. The guys have razzed him to the point where it’s like picking at a scab.”

“I’m headed down there. Wanna tag along?”

“Sure. I was hoping you’d ask. Be good to see Pauli again.”

“Okay, Max. Let’s not keep the good Sergeant waiting. The man has a corpse with our name on it.”

Chapter 3

The late afternoon sky, smeared with illumination from the rotating lights atop the police cars, cast the alley in an eerie, reddish-grayish-yellowish hue.

As Jack and Max approached the scene, some local youths, with their caps turned backwards, sat along the top of a block wall at the back of the alley like fans in a first row of bleacher seats. One of them hollered, “Where’s the CSI babes?” They all giggled.

A uniformed officer stopped the two men. Max pointed, “There’s Pauli.”

Twenty yards away, Sergeant Suggs stood pushing down one side of his shirt collar that poked out the way collars do when one side lacks a stay. He moved toward them, unfastened his collar button, the erect side relaxed. Then he yanked loose the knot in his gray knit tie, the kind with a square bottom that was popular a few decades back.

“I’m pleased to see you again, Sergeant.”

“What’s pleasing about it, McCall? I got your nose in my case.”

“You called me, Sergeant.”

“You trying to fuck with me, McCall? Cause that’d come in real handy. I need someone in my life to give a ration of shit on days that turn sour. Make that every damn day.”

Suggs’s chin hinged along the deep lines that creased down from the corners of his mouth. He feigned a jab at Max’s mid-section. “Hey, Max man, you good-for-nothing mick, I thought you retired.”

“I’m working some with this lad.” Max stepped closer. “Don’t bust his chops. Jack’s one of the good guys.” Then he stepped back. “So, whatdaya got?”

The gruff cop shrugged. “A John Doe.” He jerked his head toward the dumpster and led them on a path that avoided the portions of the search grid the technicians had not yet completed. Two flashbulbs sparked on their right.

“We bagged two shell casings from a thirty-eight, down there,” Suggs motioned, “near the wall of the building at the far end of the dumpster. I need you guys to ID the vic.”

The two men leaned forward taking care not to touch the dumpster. Jack had never seen the blunt-nosed corpse, and he said so. Max shook his head, neither had he.

“A good soldier,” Max said, “never knows just when the Lord will be giving him passage to Fiddlers’ Green.”

Suggs, who stood about five-ten, raised his chunky body onto his toes and looked over the edge of the dumpster. “Come on, guys. This fellow was headin’ for your office. Take another look.”

Max took out a packet of menthol-flavored lozenges. They each took one.

“Sergeant, the body is on top of the trash,” Jack said. “Janitors come at night, so it’s a stretch to conclude this fella was coming to see us late on Friday after the janitors had finished. But if he was, he never got to us and wasn’t expected. We don’t know him.”

The unfortunate stranger had a Popeye tattoo on his right bicep. His t-shirt was dark enough that in the smorgasbord lighting, even with a flashlight, Jack couldn’t decide between black, dark brown, or navy blue. He guessed the victim’s age as somewhere in his sixties.