The Staked Goat - Jeremiah Healy (5 page)

I went into the bathroom. Toilet articles were spread
out on the sink area. Funny how little a man's habits change over the
years. I closed my eyes and pictured how our place in Saigon would
look. I opened my eyes. Certain items outside of the toilet kit.
Right Guard stick instead of Right Guard spray, but the same shaving
cream. Twin-bladed floating head instead of the adjustable "track"
razor. Toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash all the same.

Inside the kit . . . I could peer inside, without
touching, because the kit was unzipped. I expect I frowned.

"Notice something?" said Murphy. I looked
at me in the mirror as I turned my head left toward him.

"I don't know. Can I ask Mackey a question?"

"Sure. Mackey?"

Mackey's face appeared behind Murphy's.

"Mackey, did the maid say she left the room
untouched or just that she didn't bother with the still-made bed?"

Mackey closed his eyes and answered with them shut.
"I asked her, 'Had you cleaned the room?' She replied, 'No, the
place hadn't been used, so I moved on to 302.' "

Murphy was staring at me. I spoke. "Can you find
out if she touched anything in here today?"

Mackey looked at Murphy. Murphy nodded, and Mackey
was off.

"Good cop," I said.

"He'll be better when he can repeat an exchange
without having to keep his eyes shut. What's up?"

I sighed. "Maybe nothing, but when we lived
together, he always kept the toilet kit zipped up."

Murphy looked at it. "When I was in the army, I
did too. When I got home, I didn't bother."

"Like I said, maybe nothing."

He turned and went back into the main room. I leaned
over the tub and looked up at the vent above the shower. There were
some bright nicks around the screws holding it. I decided I would ask
the hotel staff about recent maintenance myself.

We carefully opened drawers and looked under the bed.
Mackey returned to report that the maid never even entered 304 that
morning. Cross and Keller provided us with the names and addresses of
the clerks and bellhops on duty. Cross also reported that Al had made
the reservation at the Midtown eleven days earlier and had checked in
at 11:30 A.M., Monday, the 22nd. The day before yesterday. He had
stayed there Monday night, but apparently not Tuesday night. No one
had seen him enter or leave on Tuesday. He had placed two long
distance calls to Pittsburgh, presumably home and office, and two
local calls,· me and presumably a customer, early Tuesday morning.

"Was my message to him still in the box?" I
asked.

"Yes." Cross handed it to Murphy. He
glanced at it and gave it back to her.

Murphy told Mackey to lock and seal the room, Cross
remaining to go through it with the lab technicians she had called
from the desk.

"C'mon," Murphy said to me. It seemed to be
one of his favorite phrases. We walked back through the lobby to his
car.

"Unless the lab comes up with something, this
one's going down as what it appears to be."

We were stopped at a light. I chose my answering
words carefully, the autopsy I had just witnessed still vivid in my
mind.

"I still don't see it that way, Lieutenant. Al
wasn't gay."

"Maybe he'd gotten a little drunk." The
light changed and we eased forward in the traffic that is a constant
of Boston driving during all daylight hours. "He gets a little
drunk, some guys talk about having a good time, he thinks combat zone
bar or hookers, realizes the real scene a little too late. Maybe he
gets insulting and somebody gets mad."

"First, Al was too smart and experienced not to
recognize something like that. Second—" I was interrupted by
Murphy's horn as a bread truck tried to slam us broadside. I started
over. "Second, what was done to him is pretty extreme for
somebody getting mad."

Murphy swung onto Boylston Street, bobbing his head.
"Agreed. So what's your view of it?"

"I think he was tortured, the rest was red
herring."

Murphy shot me a glance and nearly creamed a kid on a
moped. "Goddamned things shouldn't be allowed in the city!"
He snorted once. "You got any idea why a salesman for some
outtatown steel outfit would be tortured?"

"None," I said, omitting Al's gambling
remark.

We circumnavigated the Public Garden as we talked
about notifying Al's wife. Murphy gladly let me take that.

The lieutenant turned down Charles Street to drop me
off at my apartment. As we were pulling to a stop, he said, "Could
it have anything to do with his left pinkie being broken'?"

"His pinkie?" I said.

"Yeah," he said, giving a false,
conspiratorial smile, "you know. The hand you were trying to
look at when you bumped me with your indignation routine."

"I don't know."

The smile faded. "You just told me a lie,
mister. One more lie in a murder investigation, and your license is
just a memory. Dig?"

"Yes, sir. Thanks for letting me ride along."

"Be seeing you," said Murphy as I closed
his door.

My primary goal had been to confirm for myself that
Al's death was not what it seemed. The pinkie and the carefully
tossed room did that. My secondary goal had been to give Murphy
enough doubts to make him accept my eventual explanation. It was
important for him to have only a little doubt now because I did11't
want him investigating too deeply. Somehow I didn't think Murphy's
and my view of squaring things would be equally extreme.

As I watched him pull away, however, I wondered if he
wasn't a step ahead of me in the doubt department.
 
 

FIVE
-•-

THE TELEPHONE RANG AT THE OTHER END OF THE LINE. I
glanced down at my watch. 4:35 P.M. A time of traffic tie-ups, Sesame
Street, and kids' afternoon snacks. A mundane time of day to tell
someone she's a widow.

The fourth ring was interrupted by an adult female
voice. "Hello?"

"Hello, Martha'?"

"Yes, who is this?"

There was a faint scratchiness on the line.

"Martha, it's John Cuddy, Al's friend from the
army. From Boston."

"Oh, yes, John, so good to finally talk with
you. Al said he was going to be seeing you. Is he with you now?"

"No, he's not." I took a chance. "Al
told me you had a very close friend in your neighborhood," I
lied, "but I forget her name."

"Oh, you mean Carol. Carol Emmer. I mean,
Krause. Emmer was her married name." I could sense her thinking.
She gave a little laugh. "John, are we setting up some sort of
long-distance blind date?"

I clamped down hard on my jaw to retard the gagging
reflex. "I'm afraid not. Are you alone right now?"

Her pause on the other end told me she thought it was
an odd question. "Yes, except for A1 Junior, of course. He's
napping. I was afraid the phone might have woken him up, but I don't
hear him."

A darkening. "John, what's the matter?"

"Martha, when I'm finished talking with you, I
want you to call Carol right away, and ask her to come stay with you
.... "

"Why?"

"Martha, Al is dead. Somebody killed him, here
in Boston. I was with the police .... " But I was talking into a
dead line. I hung up and dialed again. Busy.

Twice. I called long-distance information. Pittsburgh
directory assistance had eight "C. Krauses" and three "C.
Emmers." I explained the situation to the directory assistance
operator, who said she could not help, but would switch me to a
supervisor. As I waited for the connection, I cursed myself for not
pursuing the blind date opening and getting Carol's number from
Martha.

"Hello, Supervisor Seven speaking, may I help
you'?"

I re-explained the situation to Supervisor Seven.

"I'm sorry," she replied, "but I
cannot provide any information beyond that listed in the directory."

When you face that kind of answer, your options are
several but limited. You can blow up and slam down the receiver. You
can ask to go above that person's head, with the person usually
poisoning his or her superior against you before you get to speak to
the superior. Or you can try a different tack.

I decided to tack. "Look," I said, "my
best friend from the service was killed here. I'm really concerned
for his wife, widow, but I'm not about to send a police car to her
home. Can you do this? Can you cross-check the addresses of the "C.
Krauses" and "C. Emmers" against the address of "A.
Sachs" and tell me which Krause or Emmer lives closest?"

I heard the supervisor speak to someone off the
phone. The supervisor came back on. "If this is a test by
Internal Operations, I will personally rip your dialing finger off."

I gave a little laugh. I had discovered a human
being. "It isn't, and I really appreciate your help."

Twenty seconds or so passed before the supervisor
came back on. "We show a C. Krause on the same street as A.
Sachs, probably just a few houses away. Here's the number."

I took it down and thanked her again. I called the
number and got a pick—up on the fifth ring.

"Hullo." The voice of a small boy.

"Can I speak to your mom?"

"She's at work."

"It's very important that I reach her. Can you
give me her telephone number there?"

"No. Mom said never to give out that
information. "

Click.

This time I chose option number one. I slammed down
the receiver.

I kept trying Martha's line every fifteen minutes or
so. Busy for two and a half hours. I finally got a ring through about
eight o'clock.

"Sachs residence." It was a lilting male
voice.

"May I speak with Martha Sachs, please?"

"I'm so sorry, but she can't come to the phone
just now. Who is this please'?"

"John Cuddy. If you're there, I take it you know
about Al."

"Yes." There was a catch in his voice.
"You're the bastard from Boston who gave her the news
sledge-hammer style."

Before I could respond, I heard a brief muttered
argument and another male voice came on. "Hello, Mr. Cuddy?"

I sighed. "Yes, who is this?"

"Dale Palmer. Please excuse Larry, we were all
close friends and neighbors of Al, and . . ."

"That's all right. Forget it. Is Martha in shape
to talk?"

"Ah, yes." He lowered his voice and said,
"But I don't . . . When Carol—do you know Carol'?"

"Only by name."

"Well, when Carol called from the lounge, she
got me. Naturally, I rushed over, leaving a note for Larry. I've been
with her, Martha that is, since five, and she hasn't shed a tear. She
just keeps writing on a list."

"A list?"

"Yes. A list of things to do. About Al." He
stifled a sob. "I tell you, it's like she was morosely planning
a vacation. It's breaking my heart."

He sounded sincere, and I found myself clamping my
jaw again. "Listen, Dale, I'll take care of claiming the body
and transporting it to Pittsburgh. Is there a funeral home there
Martha would want to use?"

"I don't know, but I'll find out."

"Good. How can I reach you?"

"Well, one of us, Larry or I, will be here until
Carol, who's really Martha's best friend, gets off work. I'll give
you our home number and Carol's, since I'll be either here, at
Carol's watching her son, Kenny, or at home."

Dale sounded like he had an orderly mind and reeled
off the numbers, one of which I already had. "I'll call you when
I have more information," I said.

"Thanks, Mr. Cuddy."

"John."

"John, thanks for your help and . . ."

"Forget it. He was my friend before he was
yours."

"Good-bye."

I felt like having a good drink and a good cry. But I
had a lot yet to do. I called a college classmate named George who
had gone into the funeral business with his father. George said he
would take care of the arrangements and call me with the details.

I then bundled up and
headed back to the Midtown.

* * *

The same kid was behind the desk. Same blazer, same
tie, too. I gave him the benefit of the doubt on shirt and underwear.
He saw me coming and frowned.

"I wasn't quite straight with you last night,
Mr. Bell," I said, using the first name Cross had mentioned.
"I'm a detective. I was here this morning with Lieutenant Murphy
and Detective Cross." Never tell a direct lie when a misleading
truth carries you as far.

"I assume she spoke with you today at home?"

"Yeah," he said. "My landlord didn't
appreciate cops coming looking for me."

"I'm sorry, but we are talking murder here."