21 Tales (18 page)

It was a long time before Pete could move. He stood frozen, a hard grin etched on his face, his eyes narrowed to thin slits. Toni took the betting slips from him and ripped them up.

"Come on, lover," she said, a warm ripple in her voice. "It's a sign from god."

As she led him away, Pete broke out laughing. "Forty thousand thrown away."

"Well, sort of."

"Sort of?"

Toni smiled. "After a really good day at Saratoga I bought a new Cadillac. At least we can drive back to New York in style. And married."

# #

Hurley looked dazed as he answered the door. "What happened here?" he asked.

Pete clapped him on the shoulder as he pushed his way by. "Gloria gone?"

Hurley nodded. Pete walked past him to the guest room. Hurley followed.

"My guess is she won't be coming back," Pete said as he folded his clothes into one of Hurley's suitcases.

"What happened in my bedroom?" Hurley asked weakly. "There's blood stains on the carpet and -"

Pete cut him off. "Your friend George is a little accident prone." Pete closed the suitcase and headed towards the door. He glanced back at Hurley and stopped.

"Were you supposed to be home around five today?"

Hurley nodded. "I promised Gloria I'd be home at five-thirty. I was held up at the office."

"Lucky thing you were. Otherwise, they still might have tried to go through with it. When you didn't show up they probably thought I tipped you off."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"George and Rat made a deal with Gloria. I guess they figured a cut of her insurance money was as good as yours. I'm not sure what they planned, at least not exactly, but I'm pretty sure it was something where we both ended up dead."

  Hurley started to look a little green around the temples. Pete took Hurley's confession from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to him.

"Consider this my letter of resignation," Pete said with a grin. "I quit."

The Dover Affair

After the hell I dragged Johnny Lane through in Fast Lane, I figured I owed him at least one chance to play the Lew Archer-type hardboiled PI, even if it’s in something as sordid as the Dover Affair.

I arrived at Tom Morton’s office at nine o’clock as we had agreed, but Morton wasn’t in yet and his secretary had me wait in the reception area. I wasn’t happy with being kept waiting, especially since Morton had set the time, but I was willing to put up with it. Morton was Richard Dover’s attorney. Richard’s fiancée, Susan Laem, had been found strangled in a motel room five days earlier, and Richard was being accused by the State of Colorado of her murder. What made this such a big deal was that Richard’s mother, Margaret, was wealthy and a well-known Denver socialite. Richard himself had several million in a trust fund. When I told my editor at the Denver Examiner, Eddie Braggs, that it looked likely that I would be able to write about this case for my monthly ‘Fast Lane’ column, he was thrilled.

After about ten minutes of waiting, Morton’s secretary brought me some coffee and shot the breeze with me for a few minutes, telling me how much she enjoyed my column and asking what it was like to be a private detective. Around nine-forty Morton came huffing in. He thrust his square jaw in the direction of his secretary and ordered her to bring us both some coffee and bagels, a smug expression on his face. He always seemed to have a smug expression on his face. His old man had bought him his law partnership when he was thirty-five and that only made him all the more smug. Morton, still huffing, told me to join him in his office.

As Morton got behind his desk, he put his briefcase away and then looked at me. “Damn traffic,” he complained. “Denver’s getting so damn congested these days. Lane, what do you know about this Richard Dover business?”

“Only what’s been in the papers,” I said. “They seem to be hinting that there’s physical evidence against your client.”

Morton’s secretary knocked and came in with the coffee and bagels. After she left, Morton asked, “Before we get into that, I’d like to know if you plan on writing about this for your column?”

“I’d like to.”

Morton seemed satisfied, took a bite of his bagel, and stared at me as he chewed it slowly. “Richard’s mother, Margaret, is going to be here at ten. She has a few concerns, but don’t worry, I’m sure we can work past them.” He glanced at his watch. “Shit, we only got about ten minutes.”

“What concerns does she have?”

Morton waved the question away. “I said don’t worry about it. Now about the physical evidence; forensics found skin and traces of blood under the dead girl’s fingernails. An initial test matched Richard’s DNA. Blood samples have been sent to Washington for more precise DNA testing and I guess we can pray for a miracle.” Morton paused for a moment and showed an uncomfortable smile. “Police also found fresh scratch marks on Richard’s arm,” he said.

“What’s your client saying?”

“Nothing that makes any sense. Only that he’s being framed. But he is being adamant about it, and you know, I almost believe him. Lane, I’m counting on your column to sway public opinion. That’s my only chance with this case.”

There was a knock on the door and then Margaret Dover walked in. She was a tall woman, about six feet, but a better word to describe her would be long. She had long legs, a long torso, and a long neck. Kind of a Greta Garbo type. She was probably in her early fifties, but her hair was already more gray than blond. Until recently she probably would’ve been considered attractive. Now, though, she only looked worn out.

“Your secretary told me to come right in,” she explained.

“That’s fine,” Morton said. He shook hands with her and introduced her to me. “Johnny Lane’s the best we have here in Denver,” he said. “I’ve worked with Johnny a number of times over the years.”

Margaret offered me her hand and then sat down to my left. She seemed ill at ease. “Mr. Lane,” she said, “I have to tell you, I am not comfortable with the idea of hiring you and having my family’s private matters publicized”

“Well, now,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment, “ I respect my clients’ privacy and only use cases for my column if I’m given permission up front. If you would like me keep the matter private, I will certainly honor that. But Tom feels that my column could help your son.”

Morton jumped in, “Margaret, the newspapers are going to be digging up and printing every piece of dirt they can. It could help us tremendously to have a forum where we can get our version of the story out. Especially with all the physical evidence going against Richard. Johnny’s column carries a lot of weight in this town.”

She still seemed undecided. “Mrs. Dover,” I said, showing my most sincere smile. “What I am going to try to do is find evidence to exonerate your son. You believe he’s innocent, don’t you?”

Margaret nodded. “I know he’s innocent, Mr. Lane. He was home with me at the time Sue was murdered. I don’t understand why the police won’t accept that.”

Morton shrugged. “If it wasn’t for the physical evidence against him, they probably would. But you’re his mother so they’re going to take the alibi you’re providing him with a grain of salt.”

“I’m not lying,” she said.

“I know you’re not,” Morton said.

She turned to me. “You’ve had your clients’ permission for all of the cases you’ve written about?”

“That’s right,” I said. I was mostly telling the truth. There were a few times where my clients had lied to me and tried using me. In those cases all bets were off.

“And you think you can help free my son?”

“If he’s innocent, I’ll do my best.”

She wavered for a moment, but agreed to hire me and also agreed to let me write about the case for my monthly column. My daily rate was four hundred dollars and she wrote me a check for eight thousand dollars. It was a lot more that I was going to ask for. She got up to leave, shook hands with both of us, then hesitated at the door.

“Mr. Lane,” she said, “If you can exonerate my son, I’d like to pay you an additional ten thousand dollars.”

Morton got up so he could escort Margaret out of the office. When he came back he informed me that he had arranged a twelve o’clock conference with Richard at the CountyJail. I asked him if he had any photos of Susan Laem.

He took a folder from his desk and handed it to me. Inside were several photos of the victim while she was still among the living. One was a studio shot and a couple had her posing on a tennis court. She was so young in these pictures, barely looked twenty, and was a knockout. Long red hair, green eyes, peaches and cream skin, and a toned near perfect body. I studied her pictures and felt something funny in my throat. There was so much life in her eyes. They seemed almost to sparkle on the photographic paper. And this little smile she had like she was the only one on our little planet who knew the joke, and maybe, just maybe, she’d let the rest of us in on it someday. I put her pictures back in the folder.

“The one they’ve been running in the papers doesn’t do her justice,” I said.

“Yeah, her murder was a hell of a waste,” Morton acknowledged.

I got up to leave. We agreed to meet at the Denver County Jail at a quarter to twelve. On the way I stopped at my bank to deposit Margaret’s check. I also called Eddie Braggs at the Denver Examiner to tell him things were all set.

Morton was waiting for me at the CountyJail. We were both given perfunctory searches and then taken to a small interview room. It had already been a long morning and I guess neither of us felt much like talking. Morton sat quietly and worked on his nails with a small manicure file. I just sat with my eyes half closed, squinting against the sunlight. I glanced at my watch.  It was a few minutes before noon.

The door opened and two guards brought Richard Dover into the room. He was a slight but good looking man. Also on the short side, no more than five foot six. He had some of his mother’s features, her nose and her high cheekbones, and maybe it made him look a bit effeminate. He waited until the guards removed his ankle and wrist chains and nodded to Morton. The guards left, closing the door, and he sat across from us.  Five days in county jail and his skin was already showing an unhealthy grayness to it.

Morton introduced me. Dover’s eyes brightened. “You’re the detective in the newspapers,” he said, smiling slightly. “I read your column sometimes. It’s good stuff.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“I didn’t kill her,” he told me plainly, his smile turning a bit sour. “The blood evidence is a frame.”

 “You think the police planted your blood?” I asked.

Morton cut in to score some brownie points by showing he was paying attention. “It’s not like it never happens,” he offered, jutting out his square jaw.

Dover’s smile had turned more sour. “It’s a frame. There’s a lot of money behind this.”

“And what about the scratches?”

“Just lousy luck. I got them in a barroom altercation. Sue had nothing to do with them.”

“What was she doing in that motel room?’

“I don’t know.”

I sat back and considered him at length.  His story seemed far-fetched. The scratches and his blood found under her fingernails. But he was far from stupid and he was showing a damn good poker face. “You think you know who’s framing you?” I asked finally.

He shrugged. His smile was gone. He looked away for a moment before meeting my eyes. “This is a bit awkward. I’m going to have to admit to some bad behavior. I don’t see any way around it. This thing with Sue could end up screwing me.”

“You’re taking your fiancée’s murder awful hard.” 

“Sue wasn’t my fiancée,” he said.

“No?”

For the first time Morton looked like he was paying attention. Dover leaned forward, “Sue was, uh, more of a business associate,” he said quietly.  “She was, well, how should I say, helping me raise money from some of my mother’s friends.”

“Shit.” Morton said.

“And how was that?” I asked.

Dover tried to show me a smile but it didn’t stick. “Sue was a prostitute when I met her. Very high end. She was very good at what she did. I’d introduce her around at parties. Later, as far as they were concerned, they were screwing my fiancée behind my back. Sue would make them pay to keep things quiet.”

“You were blackmailing your mother’s friends?” Morton moaned.

“How much would you take them for?” I asked.

“Sue was expensive. Usually between ten to twenty thousand.”

“And would this be a one-time deal or an ongoing concern?”

“As far as I knew it was a one-time payment. Maybe Sue was going behind my back and double and triple charging them. I don’t know. Maybe that’s why she was killed.”

“So you think one of them killed her and set you up for it?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Dover said. His lips had compressed into a harsh smile. “I’m pretty sure of it. It’s the only thing I can come up with that explains why my blood was supposedly found on Sue. These guys have the money and the political weight to fix something like this.”

“Jesus,” Morton said. “What a goddamn mess. Even if I get you off for murder, blackmailing is still going to cost you at least ten years.”

 “Maybe. Sue always played it as if I didn’t know what was going on.”

“You’re sure of that?” I asked. “You’re sure she never told any of your victims that you were involved?”

“She wasn’t supposed to, but who knows?”

“Jesus Christ,” Morton swore.

I had a pad of paper in front of me. I gave it to Dover and asked him to write the names and addresses of the family friends they had blackmailed. He worked on it for a little bit and then handed me back the pad. There were six names on it, three that I recognized. I couldn’t keep from whistling.

 “Pretty impressive list,” Dover said.

“Sure is,” I admitted. “You like any of these more than the others?”

Dover thought about it and shook his head.

“I’ve got to ask you, “ I said,  “Your mom is wealthy, you’ve got a nice trust fund and all the opportunities in the world. Why have you been doing this?”

Dover stared at me before showing a slight smile. “Why not?”