This Dame for Hire (24 page)

“So you didn’t know Garfield at all, is that right, Miss Quick?”

“That’s right.”

“Tell me again why you came here?”

“A case I’m workin on. I wanted to question him.”

We were interrupted then by a cop bringing in the guy from downstairs who’d told me which crib was Garfield’s.

“What the hell, you do this?” He pointed at me.

Lake said, “Shuddup, bud. What’s your name?”

“Jack Gorcey. Why?”

“You know Warner Garfield?”

“I seen him around. Why? What’s goin on?”

“Then you know what he looks like, right?”

“Sure. Why?”

“Take him,” Lake said to the cop holding Gorcey’s arm. To me he said, “Excuse me, Miss Quick. I’ll be right back.”

I nodded and smiled like some schoolgirl. But that’s what I felt like. Sort of all fluttery inside.

I was alone in the crummy living room. Detective Lake was taking Gorcey to identify the body in the tub. I was almost sure it was Garfield cause of the trousers and shirt hanging in the bedroom and the missing ones from the body. And I was sure Lake was, too. He just wanted a formal ID.

Suddenly I heard a noise from down the hall. It was definitely someone throwing up, and I didn’t think it was Detective Lake or the cop.

When they came back to the living room, Gorcey looked like he’d aged about twenty-five years. He was pale and shaky, the tough-guy pose gone.

“Sit down,” the cop said.

Gorcey fell into a stained and shabby chair.

“When’s the last time you saw Garfield?” Lake asked.

“Yesterday. Why?”

“Can the why, Gorcey.”

“Why?”

“What did I just say?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“How did Garfield look when you saw him?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Regular.”

“What’s regular?”

“He looked like he always looked. Wh—”

“Which was what?”

“Like Garfield.”

“Look, Gorcey, right now you’re the last person who saw Garfield alive, so you better stop cracking wise.”

“I ain’t crackin wise. I dunno what else to say. And I ain’t the last person to see him alive.”

“Yeah? How do you know?”

“Because I didn’t whack him.”

“Who did?”

“How should
I
know?”

Gorcey looked like a squashed can. I almost felt sorry for him.

“You ever see Garfield with anyone?”

“Sure.”

“Who?”

“I dunno. I mean, I didn’t know him or his friends.”

“You see him with men or girls?”

“I seen him wit boat.”

“Was he with anyone when you saw him yesterday?”

“Nah.”

“Where’d you see him?”

“By the mailboxes.”

Lake nodded to one of the cops, and he left the room.

“Did you talk to him?”

“We said hello, that’s all.”

“Was he coming in or going out?”

“Goin out. After he got his mail he left and turned right. That’s it. That’s the last I saw of the mug.”

“Excuse me,” I said.

Lake turned to me, a surprised look on his face. I guess he wasn’t used to being interrupted when he was grilling someone.

“I’m sorry to butt in, but I’d like to show Mr. Gorcey a picture.”

He took a beat, then agreed.

I got Claudette’s photo out of my purse and passed it to Gorcey.

“Do you know who that is? Ever seen her?” I asked.

“I seen her somewhere, but I ain’t sure it was with Garfield.”

Everyone had seen her at the time of the murder. This snap had been in all the papers, and that made it heavy sledding for me.

“Think,” Lake said.

I coulda clicked my heels that he was helping me out.

“I’m thinkin. Yeah. I coulda seen her with him. But not in a long time.”

“What’s a long time?” I asked.

“Maybe six months.”

“What was she doin with him?”

“How should
I
know?”

Lake said, “You can stop saying that along with ‘why.’ ”

“But I
don’t
know what the broad was doin with Garfield. What am I, a mind reader?”

This made me think of Anne. I needed something that belonged to Garfield. But there was no way I could explain this to Detective Lake.

The cop came back with something in his hand. Papers. No, mail. He handed the letters to Lake, who shuffled them like a deck of cards before handing them back to the cop.

I said, “Mr. Gorcey, did he seem chummy with this girl?”

“She was holdin his arm when they went down the street, that’s what ya mean.”

“That’s just what I mean.” I looked at Lake. “Just one more question.” Back to Gorcey. “Do ya think she coulda been his girl?”

Gorcey dropped his head into his hands.

Lake said, “He doesn’t know.”

“Okay. Thanks, Detective.”

“My pleasure, Miss Quick.” He smiled, and he looked adorable.

“Okay. Did you see anyone you didn’t know come in here between yesterday and today?”

“Only her.” He pointed at me. “And I wouldna seen
her
she hadn’t knocked on my door.”

“You live in a front apartment, don’t you, Gorcey?”

“What about it?”

Right then my hand slipped between the sofa cushions and landed on something. Something that wasn’t the sofa.

“Your windows face the street?”

“Window. Yeah.”

“You never look out?”

“What’s ta see? I lived on these streets all my life, I don’t need ta look out ta know what’s goin on.”

“So you only saw Garfield when you were at the mailboxes at the same time?”

“Or in the hall.”

“How about the other tenants in the building? You know any of them?”

“I keep myself ta myself.”

“Right. Okay, Mr. Gorcey, go back to your palace and don’t take any sudden trips.”

I carefully pulled what was lodged between the cushions until I saw it was white crumpled cotton. Whatever it was was probably Garfield’s. I slipped it into my pocketbook while nobody was looking.

Detective Lake handed out assignments. “You two question the other tenants. After the coroner and the fingerprint guys get done, you two toss this place. I’ll be back soon.”

Then he turned to me.

“Miss Quick, may I escort you out?”

How could a girl refuse? “Sure.”

As we walked down the hall, I realized my palms were sweating. The three flights seemed like twenty before we got down to the ground floor, through the door, and out to the street.

“Well,” I said, “thank you, Detective.” I hoped my voice wasn’t shaking like my insides were.

“Would you like to have a cup of coffee?” he asked.

Trying to sound easygoing, I said, “Why not?”

We walked in silence toward Eighth. When we reached the corner, he pointed across the avenue.

“That’s not a bad coffee shop over there.”

The sign spelled out
KELLAWAY’S
. I nodded.

As we crossed I kept bumping him cause I was walking like I had a few too many. I hoped he didn’t notice. When we got to the place, he opened the door for me and we went in.

It was your regular coffee and eggs joint, and we took a booth near the middle. The crowd was light this time of day. I lit a cig right away, and so did he.

A waitress with a rag of brown hair came to our table.

“So?”

“What would you like?” he asked.

“Just a cup of j . . . coffee.”

“Same,” he said.

“We got a nice blueberry pie,” she said.

I love blueberry pie and usually I woulda snapped up the offer, but I didn’t think I could eat in front of him. Besides, it would turn my teeth blue.

“No thanks,” I said.

He shook his head.

She looked at us like we were the scum of the earth for turning down the pie, then went to get our coffee.

Detective Lake smiled that smile. “I don’t think she likes us.”

“Not too much,” I said.

“So, Miss Quick, tell me how you happened to become a private investigator?”

“It’s sort of a long story.”

“I have time.”

The waitress put our coffee in front of us. I wondered if I’d be able to pick it up without my hand shaking. It was too hot to try, so I started my tale of how I became a gumshoe.

Lake listened without interrupting, which was a first from any man I knew, and halfway through the story I picked up my java and nothing shook cause I was concentrating on my tale.

“That’s very interesting,” he said when I was done. “Can you discuss the case you’re on now? I thought I recognized the girl in the picture you showed Gorcey.”

“Then ya know what case it is.”

“I suppose I do, but I thought it had reached a dead end.”

“Somebody didn’t think so.”

“I won’t ask who hired you.”

I knew I woulda told him if he had. After all, he was a cop. A detective, no less.

“Sorry,” I said.

“No, no. I understand and respect you for your professionalism.”

“Thanks.” I was such a phony I embarrassed myself. “What about you? What made ya become a cop . . . a policeman.”

He laughed, and the sound was deep, real genuine, and full of fun. “You can call me a cop, Miss Quick. That’s what I am.”

I smiled. “And you can call me Faye. That’s
who
I am.”

“I’m John, but most people call me Johnny.”

We exchanged a look that lasted a few seconds, and my stomach did a roller coaster.

“I became a cop because my father was a cop and his father was a cop. Not an interesting story like you have.”

“But ya like it, don’t ya?”

“I do. Especially since I made Homicide. I don’t usually mention that to girls, but I know you understand.”

Girls. Plural. I wondered how many there were. “Yeah, I do. It’s a lot more excitin than catchin burglars or breakin up car rings, I imagine.”

“How about you? Do you find murder cases more . . . interesting?”

“I’ll tell ya a secret. This is my first one.”

“And Garfield was your first body?”

“No. I’m the one who stumbled over Claudette West lyin on Thompson Street.”

A spark lit up his peepers. “Ah, that was you.”

“Yeah. Me.”

“That must have been quite a shock. Well, both of them must have been shocks.”

“I was almost expectin Garfield. At least once I got into the apartment. I could hear the water runnin and nobody was answerin my calls. I knew there was a good chance I’d find a body.”

“I can see that. But the West discovery was a true surprise.”

“That’s fer sure.”

He took out his gold pocket watch, and my heart sank a little.

“I should get back,” he said.

“Me, too. Not back to Garfield’s, but I got plenty a work left to do.”

The check was on the table, and he picked it up after laying down some change for a tip.

I waited while he paid, and then we went outside.

“Well, Faye, I’ve enjoyed meeting you.”

I thought I might die right then. He was gonna leave, and that was gonna be that.

“Yeah, me, too. Thanks for the coffee.” I held out my hand to shake.

He took it and kept it wrapped in his. “We should exchange phone numbers . . . since our cases overlap, and who knows? One of us might come up with something that might help the other one.” He let go of my hand.

Struggling not to come apart at the seams, I said, “Yeah. That’s a good idea.” I reached into my pocketbook and rattled around in there, bumping against the gun, until I came up with a paper and pen.

He was already writing on a pad. When we were both done we traded our numbers.

“When the boys finish tossing the apartment, they’ll probably come up with something for you.”

“Thanks.”

He put out his hand, and I took it. I wondered if he’d forgotten that we’d already done this.

“It’s been really nice, Faye.”

“Yeah, it has.”

He let go of my hand and touched the brim of his hat. “Goodbye for now.”

“Goodbye.”

He turned and crossed Eighth and I turned away fast, in case he looked back. I walked down Eighth toward my subway.

Nah.

I floated toward my subway.

TWENTY-SEVEN

On the way home I’d realized that during our yakety-yak Detective Lake and I had never once mentioned Warner Garfield. I didn’t know anything more about the clown than when I’d gone to his door, except he was dead and a lousy housekeeper. If he’d had a girl around, she wasn’t a practitioner of the domestic arts either. Which made me think of what I’d stuffed in my pocketbook.

Back on my sofa, the last thing I wanted to do was get up. Birdie’d been right. I’d done too much. But hell, how could I have known I’d be walking into a murder? Besides, if I hadn’t gone looking for Garfield, I would never have met Detective John Lake.

But so what that I’d met him? I’d probably never see the guy again. On the other hand, I had to remember that he’d said, “Goodbye
for now.
” He didn’t just say goodbye.
For now
were two very important words. Ah, the hell with it. Who was I kidding? For all I knew the monkey was married. I had to make myself stop thinking about him and concentrate on my case.

When I walked across the room to where I’d left my pocketbook, I wasn’t dizzy anymore.

Inside my purse, crumpled in a corner and underneath the grip of my gun, was what I’d lifted from Warner Garfield’s sofa. I scooped it up and shook it out. An undershirt.

With dried blood on it.

It could’ve been Garfield’s, but why would the killer stuff it in between the cushions like that? Also I’d seen an undershirt lying on the floor in Garfield’s bedroom. Maybe this one belonged to the killer. And the
blood
on it was Garfield’s. That made more sense. But stuffed in the sofa? That made no sense. Whoever it belonged to, I knew I should’ve turned it over to the police. To Johnny. I could give him a call to say I had it. But what would he think of me holding out like that? I had another idea.

I went to the phone and dialed Anne. I filled her in and we agreed to meet the next day. Then I called the West house.

A man answered and I asked for Porter. When he asked who was calling and I’d told him, he said, “Oh, hello, Miss Quick. Cornell Walker here.”