Nightlines (23 page)

Nudger waited a few minutes, then approached the spot where Kelly had gone up the steps.

The steps led to a small brick house with green metal awnings, almost exactly like the houses on either side. Without pausing, Nudger memorized the address as he walked past.

When he reached the corner and was out of sight of the house, he jogged back to his car. He was getting tired, getting old.

The Volkswagen was still miffed at him. Its engine had cooled, but the battery hadn’t built up enough of a charge to turn it over. Nudger talked two summer-school students from the high school across the street into pushing the car down Kingshighway. They thought it was great fun, as they held their half-eaten hamburgers from the diner in their mouths like dogs with bones, and leaned into the task with strong backs and young legs. At fifteen miles per hour, Nudger popped the clutch and the engine thunked and clattered to life.

With a grateful beep of the horn to the two scholarly stalwarts, he drove for his office. In the rearview mirror a hamburger hit the pavement.

The three-year-old reverse directory Nudger kept in his filing cabinet listed the occupant of the Hartford address as Luther Kell. He looked up “Kell” in the phone directory, ran his finger down the page, and found a Luther Kell at the same address. So far so good. Unless Luther Kell had moved recently and the blond man was someone else.

There was an easy way to confirm his identity. Maybe. Nudger dragged the phone over to himself and punched out Kell’s listed number.

“Hello,” said a monotonous deep male voice.

“Mr. Luther Kell?” Nudger asked, trying to sound like Monty Hall.

“Yeah.”

“This is Mike at J, T, and L Insulation and Remodeling. We understand you own your home on Hartford. We’re running our summer special on insulation—”

“The house is warm enough,” Kell said. “It don’t need any more insulation.” A slight drawl now, distorted by the phone.

“What about siding? We’re having a sale on our never-paint white vinyl siding.”

“It’s a brick house. It don’t need any siding. Anyway, I rent.”

“If you could give me the name of the house’s owner . . .”

“Hey, get screwed, Mike! You friggin’ pest!”

“You’ll like our summer rebate offer.”

But Kell had hung up. No tolerance.

Nudger sat back in his swivel chair, satisfied. He’d found Kell and knew where he lived. Damned if he couldn’t do some mighty smooth sleuthing on occasion. The squeal of the chair’s unoiled mechanism was like a trill of congratulation.

He reached again for the phone, to call Jeanette Boyington.

She didn’t answer. It wasn’t yet five o’clock. She was probably working somewhere on one of her Personnel Pool journeywoman secretarial jobs. He replaced the receiver and leaned back once more in his chair.
Greeeat
! it shrilly proclaimed again. It was a fan, all right.

But Nudger’s mood was more somber. There was danger here in getting carried away, “full of himself,” as his old grandmother used to say. It was just as well that he hadn’t contacted Jeanette. Sure, he’d found out where Kell lived, but where did that leave him? Kell had used the nightlines to make a date with Jeanette, and he fit the very general physical description of the killer, including the oversized hands, but it was a long leap in logic to assume his guilt on that evidence.

It was a leap the vengeful Jeanette might make with room to spare.

Nudger decided that it might be better if Jeanette didn’t know Kell’s address immediately. That way Nudger could observe the man for a while without having to worry about Jeanette ringing the doorbell on Hartford on a mission of sisterly revenge, and confronting and possibly harming or killing an unsuspecting man whose compulsions were only the usual and understandable urges of the flesh. After all, sex and food were the only things Nudger had seen Kell pursue. Who could cast stones at anyone for that?

Nudger picked up the phone again, but instead of calling Jeanette he called Hammersmith at the Third District.

Hammersmith wasn’t on duty yet. Nudger punched out another number and reached the lieutenant at his home in Webster Groves.

“I need another rundown from Records,” Nudger said. “On a Luther Kell. Spelled like ‘bell’ but with a
K
as in ‘kite.’ ” He gave Hammersmith the Hartford address.

“This Kell another crooked lawyer?” Hammersmith asked.

“No, it has to do with the Jenine Boyington case.” Nudger explained why he wanted the information on Kell. He could have predicted Hammersmith’s reaction.

“Something might be there, Nudge, but it’s vague. I’d never get Massey to act on it.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Nudger said. “But the ground rules are different for me. It’s a hunch I have to follow up on for my client.”

“Jeanette Boyington? Professional surviving twin?”

“The same.”

“No need to caution you to tippy-toe.”

“No need.”

“Seen anything more of the mother shark?”

“Agnes? She phoned and wanted to up the ante,” Nudger said, “or at least define the terms.”

“Which are?”

“Five thousand dollars. For not working. I declined.”

Hammersmith didn’t ask Nudger why. Nudger appreciated that.

“Which means,” Nudger said, “I’ll probably be saying hello again to Hugo Rumbo.”

“You want protection, Nudge?”

“Tough guy like me? Naw, I can handle cheap gunsels.”

“Good. I don’t have anyone we can spare to assign to you anyway. You’ll just have to rely on your gut. Where can I reach you with the information on Kell?”

“At my office,” Nudger said. “Or at this number.” He gave Hammersmith the phone number of Claudia’s apartment.

“Sometime this evening okay?” Hammersmith asked.

“Fine. Thanks, Jack.”

“Forget it,” Hammersmith said. “Everybody in Records thinks you’re on the payroll.” He hung up to phone Records, then return to whatever he’d been doing at home. Probably sorting through the collection of old baseball cards that Nudger knew he kept. Hammersmith figured a 1954 Stan Musial was better than a triple-A bond.

Nudger looked outside and saw that a wind was swirling and light rain was falling at crazy angles, whipping across the face of the building on the other side of the street in graceful, breeze-flung patterns. St. Louis, making good on its reputation for unpredictable, instantly changeable weather. This staid and schizophrenic city was a meteorologist’s nightmare and a sociologist’s sweet dream. So waveless and conservative. So fractioned and fermented. So few meaningful changes on the surface; so many changes below that seldom reached the surface, or reached it distorted years later. People in this city could kid themselves, sometimes, about which century they were in. Nudger and the city were not unlike each other. They were usually short of funds. They had problems. Somehow they lurched ahead, maybe toward better times.

Nudger had a key to Claudia’s apartment. He decided to go there and wait for her, put his feet up on the coffee table, drink a few cold Budweisers, and listen to FM music on the radio. When Claudia arrived, he might brag a bit.

XX
V

t’s for you,” Claudia said again. Nudger awoke slowly and opened his eyes to see her sitting up in bed, carefully extending the phone’s white receiver toward him with both hands, as if it were alive and fragile. Her dark hair was mussed in a way he liked, but her eyes bothered him. They seemed to be puffy from more than simply too much sleep.

Accepting the receiver, he pushed himself up to brace his shoulders against the headboard. Beside him, the sheets rustled as Claudia settled back down. The room was quiet, the air heavy, hazed by the morning sunlight knifing dustily between the blinds. Nudger pressed the cool receiver to his ear, managed to separate his dry lips, croaked a hello. Could that have been
his
voice?

“Are you awake enough to hear about Luther Kell?” Hammersmith asked.

“Sure, it’s already almost seven o’clock.”

“Folks like us have to rise before dawn to get a jump on evil,” Hammersmith said. “Early birds of the law, foraging for the worm of crime.”

“Luther Kell,” Nudger reminded him.

“Oh, him. Mr. Anonymous. Male Caucasian, thirty-three, unmarried, no police record, no military service.”

“Prints on file?”

“No. But then they wouldn’t be, without the police, mil
itary, or Civil Service in his past.”

Nudger felt weighted by disappointment. He’d hoped that Kell would have a police record with convictions hinting at or leading up to murder. He’d hoped Kell’s prints would somehow match the smudged ones found in Jenine Boyington’s apartment. These were the kinds of hopes that were bound to be dashed, but which Nudger seemed unable to cease embracing.

Hammersmith said, around a morning cigar, “Kell sheems sholid and waw-abiding.” He puffed and wheezed repeatedly until the coarse tobacco was burning fiercely enough to trust not to go out in his desk ashtray. “Sorry, Nudge, the guy is a white-hat type.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Nothing is.”

“Has the Major Case Squad come up with anything?”

Hammersmith chuckled. “Massey’s as busy trying to placate the mayor and news media as he is trying to conjure up a reasonable suspect. Besides issuing not untrue statements and doing routine legwork, very little can be accomplished at this point. The idea is to quiet the clamor while gaining time for the machinery of the law to grind slowly and exceedingly fine.”

“Makes sense,” Nudger said.

“More sense than you’re gonna like. Before we grind, we have to separate the wheat from the chaff. You’re chaff, Nudge.”

“There’s not a grain of truth in that.”

“Truth enough,” Hammersmith said, puffing on his cigar. He exhaled loudly, maybe in an exasperated sigh. “Springer and Massey had a long talk about you. Springer thinks you should bow out of the case. Massey agrees. I wasn’t consulted. That’s a bureaucracy for you, Nudge.”

“That’s Springer for you.”

“Yeah, he’s a brass-knuckle political infighter, cutting down on the number of people who might get credit in the game he’s playing. But why should you care; you’re only trying to make a living.” Hammersmith’s tone left no doubt about what he thought of Leo Springer as a cop. “The thing is you’ve got no choice, Nudge. Bow out.”

“I will,” Nudger said, “as soon as I’m officially instructed.”

“Fair enough. Springer’s sent a couple of blue uniforms to your apartment and office to bring you in for a chat with him. A judicious use of manpower.”

“Isn’t it, though,” Nudger said in disgust. “And just when I didn’t want to be reined in.”

“Sorry about this, Nudge. Life’s a Popsicle with a sharp stick.”

“And melting fast. I’ll stay scarce. Thanks, Jack.”

“For what?”

Hammersmith hung up abruptly. As far as he was concerned, the conversation hadn’t occurred. He had a sane cop’s knack of blanking out pieces of time. That’s how a sane cop stayed sane.

Nudger handed the receiver to Claudia, who untangled the cord from around her arm and reached to the night-stand. Plastic clattered on plastic as she hung up the phone.

“Business call?” she asked, turning onto her side to face Nudger.

“The police are going to tell me to back away.”

“What about Kell?”

“He doesn’t have an arrest record. A solid citizen without blemish.”

“Does that eliminate him as a suspect?”

“Not in my mind,” Nudger said. “I saw the expression on his face while he was waiting for Jeanette Boyington in the mall. It was something more than lascivious, something more subtle and harder to read, but spooky.”

“Maybe he was thinking of a lesser crime, like rape.”

“Or maybe he was hungry and thinking about onion soup.”

“That isn’t spooky.”

“You can say that, not being an onion.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“Take you out for breakfast. Want to shower together?”

“Yes to breakfast, no to mutual shower.”

She rotated on the mattress and stood up, her body a golden glimpse as she crossed a bright swirl of sunlight and left the room. A faucet handle squeaked, a water pipe rattled, and the shower began to hiss. Nudger patiently waited his turn.

From where Claudia lived, it was only a short drive to the riverfront. Nudger detoured through the brick-paved streets of Laclede’s Landing and bought a morning
Globe
, then drove down a steep grade to the riverfront McDonald’s.

He and Claudia sat at a deck table on the converted barge and watched the Mississippi roll by as they worried their Egg McMuffins. Nudger studied the newspaper for a few minutes. Hammersmith was right about the media’s applying pressure. The suddenly discovered series of murders dominated the front page. Wily Captain Massey was quoted at length, saying absolutely nothing concrete yet somehow giving the impression that strides were being taken along the road to ultimate justice. A police artist had even whipped up a composite drawing of a suspect based on Grace Valpone’s neighbors’ description of a man they thought might have visited her occasionally. The drawing vaguely resembled Leo Springer, Nudger thought, and didn’t look at all like Luther Kell. Not that it mattered. This suspect, if he even existed outside of police wishful thinking, would probably turn out to be a deliveryman or an insurance adjuster. Or possibly Grace Valpone had had a fiancé
and
a male friend who hadn’t killed her. Some women did.