The Fifth Script: The Lacey Lockington Series - Book One (17 page)

Curtin turned to peer at Lockington as you’d peer at a centipede in your omelette. He said, “You’re a cute guy, Lockington—real cute.”

Lockington said, “Modesty would dictate that I make no comment.”

Curtin said, “There never was a fucking private dick who wasn’t a complete asshole.”

Lockington nodded, yawned, and walked away. It was nearly 1:00. He’d give Moose Katzenbach a simple assignment for the afternoon, thereby allowing himself some thinking room. Moose glanced up from a tattered girlie magazine. He said, “We had one telephone call—I didn’t answer it.” When Lockington had nodded approvingly, Moose said, “There was a guy here—seemed wound mighty tight—didn’t say a helluva lot except he wants to be contacted immediately. He left a business card.”

Lockington took the card, studying it—Gordon G. Fisher, Attorney at Law, 440 West Randolph Street, Chicago, Illinois. 440 West Randolph Street was just a couple of blocks west. In Chicago a couple of blocks is like just next door.

Lacey J. Lockington sat in Duke Denny’s spavined swivel chair, leaning back, feet up on the cluttered desk, lord of the manor, master of all he surveyed, and the odds-on choice as murderer of a pair of free-wheeling ex-newspaper floozies—probably the
only
choice, as matters stood.
Stella on State Street
had been highly instrumental in costing Lockington his police career, so he’d brooded over it and gone on a killing rampage, a vendetta against the column’s proprietors—or such would appear to be Lieutenant Buck Curtin’s theory—logical enough in essence, but without a leg to support it. At the approximate hour of Eleanor Fisher’s death, Lockington had been at home, talking to Duke Denny on the telephone—on the night Connie Carruthers had been murdered, he’d been in bed with Edna Garson around the clock, seven-to-seven, so unless Lockington’s witnesses got struck dead by lightning, Buck Curtin could take his theory and shove it where the sun didn’t shine.

Lockington’s smile was wry. Right about now, Erika Elwood should be spooked half out of her skivvies. Erika was the last of the Mohicans, the current Stella Starbright, and the Stellas were a vanishing breed, going down in order. Well, the backstabbing little minx had earned herself a few sleepless nights, but if these killings hadn’t been the most far-fetched coincidences imaginable, her life was in considerable danger, no doubt about it.

The telephone rang at 2:00 and Lockington grabbed it. Duke Denny was on the line, bright, chipper as always. “Howdy, partner—called earlier—guess you were out to lunch.”

“Yeah—how’s it going in Cleveland?”

“Not sure yet, but I just may come out with a few bucks. I should know more by the time by lawyer closes shop for the day, so I have three hours to sweat. Anyway, I should be in Chicago no later than Monday afternoon. How’re things at that end?”

“How much time you got?”

“Hey, are you telling me that we’ve come up with a new client?”

“Not yet, but that’s a possibility. By the way, another of the
Stella on State Street
writers got knocked off last night.”

“I’ve heard nothing on it here in Cleveland—I don’t believe that
Stella on State Street
is syndicated, so the case would be of little interest in Ohio. You see a pattern?”

“Why, hell,
yes
, I see a pattern, don’t
you
?”

“Right about now I don’t see much of anything—I’d have to think on it.”

“Look, this LAON organization we’ve discussed—I can’t find a thing. Seems like only you and Erika Elwood have ever heard of it.”

“Well, to tell you the truth, Lacey, I haven’t heard much myself—just casual mention on a couple of occasions.”

“Who made the casual mention?”

“Christ, I don’t remember—it was probably
months
ago! Lacey, for God’s sake, don’t get yourself involved in this mess!”

“Don’t get
involved
in it? I’m
already
involved in it! I got the number one homicide bull in Chicago tailing me all over town!”

“Who’s tailing you?”

“None other than Buck Curtin!”

“Buck Curtin—Curtin’s bad news—what’s he got for you?”

“Well, think about it, Duke—the Stella column helped get me suspended, it branded me as a trigger-happy lunatic—then a couple of Stella Starbrights bite the dust—so, who’s
likely
to fall under suspicion?”

There was a lengthy silence before Denny said, “God
damn,
yeah, I get the picture—Curtin sees motive and means. How about opportunity?”

“That’s where I have the bastard by the balls—no opportunity!”

“Good—another tempest in a teapot! Say, not to change the subject, but you said something about a new client.”

“A man close to these murders has requested me to contact him.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“You haven’t talked to him?”

“Not yet.”

“Who is he?”

“Guy named Fisher—the name ring a bell with you?”

“Fisher—
Gordon
Fisher—the cat who was married to the first Stella Starbright?”

“Got to be.”

“And you think this may have something to do with the murders?”

“I’d imagine so, be it directly or indirectly.”

“Fisher’s a good man to know—a legal whiz!”

Lockington sighed a desolate sigh. He said, “Duke, this is one bewildering bucket of bagels.”

Denny said, “Well, partner, I gotta hand it to you—you have a special knack!”

“Yeah, everything I touch turns to shit.”

“So check Fisher out and I’ll call you this evening.”

“Calling me may not be that easy. I got a sinister urge to get crocked immediately after I close this firetrap.”

“Nothing wrong with that—wish I could join you. Where do you do your drinking—still that joint on Grand Avenue?”

“Right—Shamrock Pub.”

“You got a shoo-shoo there?”

“A
what?
”

“A lady-in-waiting?”

“Only if she waits.”

Denny chuckled. “Have a blast, partner!” He hung up and Lockington lit a cigarette, blowing smoke rings, thinking. For a sliver of a second there, he’d had hold of something, but now he’d lost the damned thing. He shrugged clear of it—Alzheimer’s Disease, chances were—like hay fever, very bad in August. He checked Gordon G. Fisher’s business card and punched out the number. A sultry female voice answered. “Gordon G. Fisher offices—Andrea Kling speaking.”

Lockington asked to speak to Gordon G. Fisher.

Andrea Kling said that Mr. Fisher was on another line—would the caller care to hold?

Lockington said no, he’d ring back in fifteen minutes.

He rang back in fifteen minutes. Andrea Kling said that Mr. Fisher had just left the offices on an emergency matter—was there a message for Mr. Fisher?

Lockington said no, when would Mr. Fisher be back?

Andrea Kling said that she was unable to say—possibly before closing time, but she couldn’t guarantee that.

Lockington asked what time Mr. Fisher’s offices closed.

Andrea Kling said 5:00, of course—the same time
all
legal offices closed.

Lockington said that
all
legal offices
didn’t
close at 5:00, because he’d known a lawyer who’d closed at
noon.

Andrea Kling noted that he’d probably been a charlatan.

Lockington said no, as a matter of fact, he’d been a Presbyterian. He’d asked if it’d be possible to call Mr. Fisher at his residence.

Andrea Kling said absolutely not, Mr. Fisher accepted nothing but personal calls when at home.

Lockington gave Andrea Kling his name and the Classic Investigations telephone number, thanked her, and hung up.

He located a dog-eared Chicago telephone directory in a bottom desk drawer. Gordon G. Fisher’s law offices number was shown but no residence number was listed. He called Information. The operator advised him that there was no Gordon G. Fisher in any of Chicago’s suburban directories. She said that this was because Gordon G. Fisher’s number was unlisted.

Lockington said aha.

The operator said true, but life was like that. Lockington dropped the phone into its cradle, frowning. He’d just located his lost wisp of thought. He toyed with the truant, weighing it, balancing it, studying it from a variety of angles, unable to make head or tail of it, and this disappointed him because at first sight it’d seemed important. Early impressions are so often deceptive.

Lockington wasn’t a storybook detective. He didn’t smoke pipes and wear deerstalker caps, nor did he sit by his fireside, staring into the embers, assembling the pieces of a puzzle before rounding up a cast of seven or eight people and picking an unlikely killer from the bunch. Lockington had been a rather unimaginative, reasonably honest, heavy-footed, often heavy-handed detective, plodding doggedly through the muck of the most corrupt city on the face of God’s once-green earth. He’d made arrests by the hundreds and he’d shot a few people, the bigger chunks of his action coming after long and patient stakeouts, or simply because he’d been told to go to such-and-such a number on such-and-such a street and bring in a man named something-or-other, and Lockington had complied, oftentimes not knowing the particulars involved. He’d rarely considered hunches, possibly because he hadn’t gotten many, he’d played the cards he’d been dealt, always anticipating the worst and usually getting it. By and large, hunches were for neophyte horseplayers, but there’s a difference between playing a hunch and catching a slip-up, if it’d been a slip-up rather than a simple mistake. It was the little slip-ups that tripped people, and
if
was still the biggest word in the English vocabulary, antidisestablishmentarianism notwithstanding. If those people had been able to find that horseshoe nail, they wouldn’t have lost the shoe, the horse, the rider, the battle, the war, and eventually the whole flaming kingdom. The first inning error can cost you the nine inning ball game, and on that note Lacey Lockington filed his pesky thought under ‘H’ for horseshoe nails, dug deeply into the recesses of the desk’s knee well, and dragged out the cardboard box housing the Cider Press Federation.

To hell with the deep thinking—Pepper Valley was at Delta River.

Trailing by two at the end of seven, the Pepper Valley Crickets had pulled it out, beating the league-leading Delta River Weevils on Nick Noonan’s eighth-inning, two-out, bases-loaded double into the right field corner. That happy turn of events had put the Crickets on a one game roll, and Lockington was seriously tempted to play one more until a look at his watch changed his mind. Cider Press Federation games averaged an hour in length, and he didn’t have an hour. It was 4:30. He set the league records straight, and he was returning his imaginary athletes to their temporary quarters under Duke Denny’s desk when he heard the agency door click open, then closed. There were light, quick footsteps and Lockington straightened in the swivel chair to see a slender young woman approaching the desk. At sight of Lockington the visitor’s eyes grew wide and she stopped dead in her tracks, throwing up her hands in a defensive gesture. She gasped, “Oh, my God, not
you
!”

Lockington said, “Excuse me, but that should have been
my
line.”

Erika Elwood spun on her heel to leave, then hesitated, turning back to face Lockington. She said, “Perhaps I’m mistaken. You see, I was looking for Classic Investigations.”

Lockington said, “You’ve found it, according to the sign on the door.”

“You—you’re working here now?”

“Just filling in—temporary thing, but it’d make one helluva column—Mad dog killer cop terrorizes West Randolph Street.”

Erika Elwood didn’t smile—her brown eyes were frosty. She said, “All right, since I’m here, I’d like to speak to the gentleman in charge.”

Lockington said, “You’re looking at him. What’s next—another show-and-tell session—followed by a Judas kiss?”

She said, “Mr. Lockington,
please
—this is
business
! I’m desperately in need of assistance!”

Lockington nodded. “Yes, I’m sure you are.”

“I—I believe my life is in jeopardy!”

“So do I, Miss Elwood, so do I.”

She shuffled nervously on the cheap brown carpeting, clutching her handbag tightly to her impressive bosom with both hands. “Well, then—what can I say—or
do
?”

“I’d recommend that you consult good old Stella Starbright, because good old Stella Starbright has all the answers. Should you doubt that, just ask good old Stella.”

She winced, standing slightly pigeon-toed in her tailored gray gabardine business suit, tiny, frail, defenseless, looking a great deal like a drenched mouse, Lockington thought. She said, “I suppose I had that coming—but isn’t there someone I can talk to, someone who’ll help me? Mr. Lockington, I’m afraid to go home alone!”

Lockington put a match to a cigarette, relishing the moment, however perversely. He said, “Turn off the tape recorder in your purse, and sit down before you fall on your face.”

She nodded uncertainly, cranking up a wan smile, wobbling to the straight-backed chair next to the desk, sagging onto it, not at all the brash, confident young thing who’d breezed unannounced and uninvited into his apartment just a week earlier. She said, “I don’t
have
a tape recorder in my purse!” She turned to plunk her handbag onto the desk top with unsteady hands. Tremulously, she piped, “See for yourself.”

Lockington waved her offer away. “I’ll take your word for that, seeing as how you’re such a straight-shooter.”

Erika Elwood searched his face with great, round, brown eyes. “Mr. Lockington, do you know—do you know what’s been
happening
?”

“Yes, Miss Elwood, I know what’s been happening, but be explicit, if you will. You’re in serious trouble, that’s obvious, but why are you
here
—what do you
want
?”

“I—I want a man to spend the night with me!” She’d blurted it out like a first grader reciting a nursery rhyme.

Lockington said, “That’s what I call laying it on the line! Well, shucks, there must be a million guys who’ll take you up on that one.”

“Don’t pretend to misunderstand! You know what I mean—I’m talking about a
bodyguard
! He’d sleep on my living room couch, of
course
!”