

# Road to Rouen

A Roy Cutter Novel

By

Jack Waddell

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 Jack Waddell

Other Books by this Author:

Tuesday's Caddie

ISBN: 9781311296436

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, media and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with or sponsored by the trademark owners. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.

Cover by Vila Design http://www.viladesign.net

# Table of Contents

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Three

Chapter Thirty Four

Chapter Thirty Five

Chapter Thirty Six

Chapter Thirty Seven

Chapter Thirty Eight

Chapter Thirty Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty One

Chapter Forty Two

Acknowledgements

About the Author

# Chapter One

**You know it** was a worse day than usual when the best thing about it was you got canned.

I was sitting at the bar having my usual kielbasa sandwich with my usual afternoon scotch when I got the call. Johnny brought the phone over stretching out the cord to reach me at my usual seat at the far end and handed me the receiver and said, "He sounds more pissed off than usual." He was right.

Norm was never cordial, most editors aren't. But the funny thing was this time he managed not to curse so much. "Listen, Roy," he said, his voice kind of higher and tighter than normal. "Enough already. We've had it here. I've had it. Consider yourself fired. Get your drunken ass back here and pick up your crap. I got a check for you. And you got a telegram and a pile of messages that came in for you this morning. Be here in twenty minutes or I'm ripping up the check. Click." That was it. "Click."

I'd been looking at Johnny and Johnny had been looking at me. He must have sensed what happened. He took the receiver back and put it in the cradle and kinda smirked. "Gotcha this time, didn't he?"

"Maybe so. Maybe not. He's got a tendency to overstate his case."

"Yeah, but you don't look so good."

"I'm all right. I'm always all right. I just gotta go." I slid off the stool and took a last pull on the scotch. I fished some singles out of my pocket and tossed them on the bar. "I'll see ya," I said except I had a funny feeling I might not.

"I'll be here," said Johnny.

Johnny's was only a couple blocks from the paper so I knew I didn't have to run. Which was good because once I got out onto the sidewalk the afternoon LA heat made me stop for a second and sort of gather myself up. I buttoned my collar and drew up my tie. I straightened my hat to shade my eyes, which I knew were more bloodshot than the occasion called for. If he really was going to fire me, I wanted to remind him he was firing a pro. I lit a cigarette and set off for the office. I didn't like that my heart was beating a little too hard on top of a stomach that didn't feel too good. Maybe that's why the sidewalk seemed to be moving just a little.

Now, before I get too far along, there are a couple things you should know about me. First off, I have an emotional dead spot that doesn't feel a whole lot in situations you'd think I would – feel something, that is. Anything maybe. Tragedies and episodes of pathos elicit not a whole lot of reaction. Now it's not like I'm some sort of sociopath. I am quite capable of a deep and abiding love. Or abiding as long as the object of my affection lives. Or wants to stay with me. So you could say I've proven that point a number of times. But the dead spot had proven troubling on occasion when people noticed I wasn't sobbing or shouting or carrying on like I cared. Otherwise, I'm a pretty likable guy. I am quite cordial and polite and even charming. Or so I've been told by the people who eventually come to dislike me because of the dead spot thing. I really don't know if it's just my nature or whether I picked it up at an early age when I was sucking on a nipple, probably rubber, or later when I was stabbing an inflatable pony my grandmother gave me with a pencil. I need to say all this so that so you take in what I'm going to tell you in some sort of context. I mean, it wouldn't be fair of me to tell you about all this if you didn't have some perspective. So when I get to the parts about Connie you'll understand if they aren't fraught with the emotion they maybe deserve.

As a result, and the second thing you should know, is that the former thing has made me a pretty dispassionate observer of the world. That worked to my advantage in the war. It also helped since I wound up a newspaper reporter and worked the cops and had to write about all kinds of gruesome things. I don't know what it is about Southern California that seems to draw a disproportionate number of people who live lives on the wrong side of crazy, but there were some pretty disgusting cases I had to cover. Like the nut job out in Compton who would take in homeless guys and, after he was done with them, use their body parts to fertilize the grape vines he had out back of his house. I always regretted I couldn't work a description of the stench into my story the day they dug everything up. The point I'm making is that I usually stay pretty cool in almost every situation. Even when it's hot as hell in Compton and the whole world stinks so bad you want to vomit.

The walk back to the office did me some good. It got my heart rate down to some sort of normal even though the stomach was still a little jumpy. I decided not to slip into Bertha's place for one last shot and that sort of steeled my resolve. Not that resolve would be needed. The die was cast. I just had to take it.

When I walked into the city room, I knew for sure what that was. Nobody's eyes rose to mine. The clacking of the typewriters and the underlying drone of phone conversations didn't change. Nobody called out, "Hey Cutter, where you been?" or "Jeez, Roy, nice of you to grace our presence." Nothing like usual. I was for sure dead.

Norm's back was to me as he sat behind his desk at the far end of the room. He was hunched over re-editing some unlucky copy editor's work, stabbing at it with that thick blue pencil of his as he imposed his version of American English on the dross in front of him. I walked up to his desk and waited for him to turn around. I didn't take off my hat.

Norm was a big guy a couple inches taller than me, maybe six two, but you never really got a sense of his height since he was always kind of bent over which made the growing bald spot in the back of his crew cut all the more noticeable. I just focused on the bald spot and kept quiet while he slashed and cut and marked up the story he was working on. It occurred to me he probably never had to work that hard on one of my stories. Finally, he crossed out the headline and scrawled a new one across the top, punched the paper with his pencil as he counted the characters and spun his chair around. The instant he saw me standing there he scowled. "You!" he said looking up over the top of his glasses.

"Yeah, me. What's up?"

"I told you. You're done."

"That's what I heard. So how come?" Somehow I didn't want to make this easy.

He blinked and I could see his ears turning red at the top. "You know damn well why."

"Humor me. There must be some protocol you have to follow when you can somebody. I think I deserve the whole nine yards."

"You deserve what you're getting. Here... here's your pay to date plus two weeks." He held out an envelope. "Clean off your desk and get outta here."

I took the envelope and stuck it in my jacket pocket. "You still owe me why."

"Look, Roy, we've been over and over this. I don't know what happened to you when your wife took off, but it's not working. You're not working. You're damaged goods. Like how come you're sitting in a gin mill this afternoon instead of the press conference at city hall like you were assigned? Like how come every story I get from you looks like a rewrite of a press release?"

"Hey, I never missed a deadline." Even as the words came out of my mouth they sounded lame. I couldn't tell him the plan had been to swing by city hall later, pick up the press release and pump my buddy Larry for the high points. Like usual.

Norm scrunched his face and shook his head. "You were good. That's why we let you hang on this long. But it's time. Everybody knows that. So do you."

He was right, of course. And in the twenty minutes it had been since I got the call at Johnny's I'd made peace with the possibility. I didn't like it, but I'd live.

"Okay. Fair enough," I conceded. "It was good working for you."

"Yeah, once upon a time maybe. Take care of yourself. Take some time and get right."

"Yeah, maybe I will. See ya then."

"Sure."

So that was it. I turned and made my way past the rows of desks and the reporters with jobs to my own desk in the middle of the back row. George was at his desk next to mine typing in that curiously fast hunt and peck method of his. He looked up at me and gave me the woeful look that's supposed to convey sympathy but only makes me feel worse. "Hey, pal," he said. "I heard. Sorry."

"Thanks," I said. "But it was coming."

"Still, hard luck."

"Yeah, well, time to move on."

"You'll get something quick. You're good."

"We'll see. May look for something else. This was getting old." I lied. Newspapers were all I really knew, all I really cared about doing. Once, anyway. What did Norm say? "Once upon a time?"

I dropped into my chair and pushed my hat back and loosened my tie. I lit up a smoke. Appearances no longer mattered. Next to my typewriter was a short stack of pink phone messages and on top a yellow Western Union envelope. I figured I'd start with the telegram. I tore open the envelope and unfolded the cable.

WXT584 CHICAGO ILL 25 APRIL 1958 09:58 CST=

CHARLES FOWLER ESQ=

MR ROY CUTTER

C / O LOS ANGELES STAR LOS ANGELES CALIF=

CONNIE DEAD = (STOP)= SO SORRY= (STOP)= NEED YOU HERE= (STOP)= CALL EARLIEST=

CHARLIE=

I'm not sure how long I held that piece of paper just staring at it. But it was long enough for the cigarette ash to fall into my lap and for George to finally ask, "Everything all right?"

"Yeah," I said. "Everything's fine. Just some news from an old friend." The dead spot was there just like usual. I put the telegram in the pocket with the envelope that held my last paycheck. I started shuffling through the phone messages. Half of them were from Charlie, my brother-in-law, who looked like he'd been calling every fifteen minutes before he gave up. There was one from her sister Cathy and another from her mother Arlene. The rest were work related. I tossed those along with the ones from Cathy and Arlene. I never wanted much to do with those two and now maybe less than ever.

I got up from my desk and went to the supply closet to scrounge a box. Back at my desk I filled it up with my things: _Chicago Manual of Style_ , _AP Style Book_ , my Rolodex, my little black book, the Mont Blanc my old man gave me when I graduated from UCLA and a bottle of Johnnie Walker with about two shots left in it. Then there was the autographed baseball I'd gotten from Roy Campanella last year. That stupid baseball got to me. I thought about that poor bugger lying in a hospital paralyzed from the neck down after his car accident. Greatest Dodger catcher ever and just like that, boom, done. Some things just aren't fair. I shook my head. I rooted around in the drawers for a few more things then stood up and surveyed the desk where I'd spent so many hours toiling, albeit not so many lately. "Well, I guess that's it," I said to nobody in particular.

"One more thing." It was Norm who'd come up behind me. I turned around. "Listen," he said. "If you need a reference I'll give you a good one. There's no hard feelings. You just hit a rough spot."

Like I said, sympathy always makes me feel worse. So do goodbyes. "Hey, thanks." I muttered with nothing much left to say. "No hard feelings. I may take you up on that. Well, so long, I guess."

Norm put his hand on my shoulder. "So long," he said.

I picked up the box and made my way down to the street. Before I called anybody I had to see Johnny.

***

It wasn't until three scotches in that I had the guts to call Charlie. Johnny let me use the phone in the back room. By now it was almost six o'clock in Chicago, and I hoped I could still catch him in his office. He lived out in the western suburbs but had his office in the Loop, and it was his office number he'd left on his messages. I got lucky. Even late Friday the switchboard girl was still there to put me through.

"Roy?"

"Hey, Charlie."

"You got my wire."

"Yeah. What happened?"

"We don't know for sure. Somebody found her this morning south of town in a car with the motor running and the doors open. No sign of anybody else."

"Rouen?" It was our hometown and where she went after we weren't we anymore.

"Yeah. Down by the river. We won't know anything until an autopsy. Jim Rittberger said it could be strangulation, but he couldn't say for sure." Jim was a high school classmate who'd politicked his way to chief of police too young.

"She was strangled? Somebody murdered her?" Death I could handle. Murder was something else.

"We don't really know anything yet. But could be. Could be a heart attack or stroke or something. Suicide even. We don't know. It's just terrible. I'm heading down there tonight. Mom and dad are beside themself and Cathy's useless."

"I'm sure. Where do they have her?"

"Hospital morgue there in town. They can't do an autopsy until Monday. Listen, we've got a bit of a problem here."

"More than Connie being dead?"

"Don't be funny, Roy. It's dad. He kind of went crazy when he got the news. He started blaming you and went a little nuts. Mom said she could hardly calm him down."

"Me? I'm all the way out here in California for Christ's sakes."

"He blames you for everything. You know that... the booze, the cheating, the whole bit."

I did know all of this, of course. I'd let it go along with Connie. Whatever made them feel better just tickled me to death. Sort of.

"Well, I can't help that now, can I Charlie?"

"Thing is he wants the car back, and he wants it back now."

The car. I should tell you about the car. It was a 1957 Buick Special, four door hardtop, big V8, whitewalls. A real beauty. We went for the two-tone. It was blue on top and white on the bottom. The blue was real pretty. I always told Connie it was the color of her eyes. We got it right after we were married in September of '56. Carl bought it for us as a wedding present. Carl's her father. He thought a Buick was the right car for an up and coming couple... solid, not as showy as a Cadillac. Of course, with his bucks he could have gotten us a Rolls if he wanted to. Carl and I never hit it off so he insisted the title be in Connie's name. That was never a problem for us. When she left Connie said she'd be getting a new car once she got back home and she'd sign it over to me then. So that's why I didn't understand.

"He wants the car back? How can he want the car? It's in Connie's name for crying out loud." I was really lost.

"Connie signed the title over to him a couple months ago. Seems she needed money and dad wasn't going to give her any morel considering how she's been living. It's his car, Roy. Sorry."

I sunk onto some cases of gin stacked along the wall. I grabbed my drink and took a pull. I looked around to see if there was any scotch in the room. I lit a cigarette. I had to think.

"Roy...you still there?"

"Yeah."

"Listen, I know it's tough, but you should get back here anyway. You know, for the funeral and all. Connie would've wanted it."

"I don't know."

"I don't think you have much choice. It's pretty expensive to ship a car this far. Getting off work shouldn't be a problem, especially for a spouse, right? And you really should be here. You know, for Connie."

When he mentioned work all the air left my lungs. I coughed into the phone.

"You all right?" he asked.

"Yeah, yeah," I croaked. I finished the scotch. "Give me some time to sort this out. I'll call you back."

"Do it as soon as you can. You know he's going to fixate on the car. If he doesn't hear something from you or me soon, I wouldn't put it past him to call the cops out there and report it stolen."

"Yeah, no, you're right. I'll call tomorrow."

"I'm sorry, Roy."

"I'm sorry for all of us," I said.

"All right... tomorrow. I'll be at the folk's house. Call me there."

"Okay. Tomorrow."

I hung up the phone and put it back on Johnny's desk. I slumped into his chair. It's one thing to lose a job, or a wife even. That's what the dead spot's for. But your car? Now that's low. I sat there quiet for a while and lit another cigarette. I tried to think of something. Maybe I could offer to buy it except with no job there was no chance of a loan. I always got along with Charlie, so maybe he could help me work something out except I never once saw him stand up to Carl. Maybe I could just stash it away in some garage someplace until her father could be reasonable, except the words reasonable and Carl can't exist in the same sentence. And if I were hiding a stolen car where would I hide?

The more I tried to think the more I knew the most recent scotch was kicking in and I could tell thinking was not a good idea. All I knew was that I had no job, Connie was dead and my car wasn't my car. And the last place in the world I wanted to go was Rouen.

(back to top)

# Chapter Two

**Connie was the** kind of woman who should not have been allowed to choose her men.

She and I first knew of each other in high school there in Rouen. We didn't date or anything. We just knew each other. She was a year behind me and we ran in different crowds. Which is kind of odd to say since the school only had about three hundred kids. Still, there were rich kids, there were farm kids and then the rest of us. Connie was rich and hard not to notice. A tall blonde with the right kind of figure, she had the attention of pretty much all the guys. There were always rumors going around about her being loose with boys but you never heard any guy bragging about it, or at least I didn't.

After I'd graduated, I heard she was going out with Lionel Barnes, an all-conference basketball star whose dad ran the paper cup factory in town and whom everyone considered the biggest jerk in school. Whether it was because they ended up senior prom king and queen or because she wanted to piss off her father, the got married a year out of high school just before he shipped off to France and got himself killed at Bastogne.

After that, she moved to Chicago with a girlfriend and worked for Marshall Fields in the cosmetics department and did her part for the war effort by dating every sailor at the Great Lakes Naval Training Station. Or so someone told me. The only thing she ever told me is that she'd "made some mistakes" that ultimately required a back alley abortion which ended up preventing her from having any children.

She moved back in with her parents in Rouen and eventually married a fellow named Frank Haskell who ran one of the two banks in town. He'd managed to avoid the war thanks to a heart murmur or something like that. At first they became part of the town's social elite holding court out at the nine hole country club just outside of town that represented Rouen's bastion of high class chic even with its neon Hamms Beer signs and all. It wasn't long though before they disappeared from society circles. Maybe it was because he didn't serve in the war and had no chance to get rid of any of his aggressions, but for whatever reason he took to beating her as regularly as he drank, which I guess was pretty much all the time. This is when Connie herself turned into an accomplished drinker, a pastime she went on to enjoy even after she divorced his sorry ass.

After that is when I'd run into her again. It was my mother's funeral, and she showed up at the wake. My mother had been a favorite hair dresser of hers and paying one's respects in such circumstances is what one does in a small town like Rouen. We spoke a little at the wake, but I was surprised when she showed up the next day at the cemetery. On the way back to the cars, she approached me and asked if she could come to the repast. She did, we sat together and we ended up having a bite to eat late that night at the Flying A truck stop north of town.

One thing led to another and I ended up calling the paper so I could stay the rest of the week. When it came time to leave, she asked to come back to California with me. I should have said no. I could tell she was trouble. You should never fall in love with a woman you can't match drink for drink. But I said yes.

We set up residence in a nice little apartment in Culver City. I worked the paper, and she wound up a hostess at Lawry's over in Beverly Hills. I suppose she could have found something better, but she said she liked dressing up and being with people and that it was a nice crowd. She worked mostly lunches in the beginning. It was after we were married she started working dinners almost all the time. She said the tips were better.

I have to stop here and say that what follows is going to make me seem pretty stupid, but it all goes back to that dead spot. See, if you don't feel things so much you're not so apt to let things bother you. You can look, but you don't necessarily have to see, if you know what I mean.

So it was that when she started coming home later and later from the restaurant, I didn't say anything. I should have, of course. At least it would have let her know I still cared about her. But that I didn't I suppose gave her some sort of license to go on with it. Eventually, she didn't come home at all.

What I didn't know and what I should have taken the trouble to find out is that the Don Juan she was seeing had introduced her to cocaine. For a gal like Connie, the combination of booze and blow was just too good to pass up. I came to find out later that she lost her job at the restaurant in a scene of public screaming and cursing the likes of which Beverly Hills rarely has a chance to witness.

Our marriage ended, ironically enough, when Don Juan dumped her. I came home one night to find her trashed and sobbing inconsolably on the couch, mascara streaming down her cheeks, shivering with what I can only assume were the D T's. I undressed her, showered her, wrapped her in blankets and put her in bed. She either passed out or went to sleep, I wasn't sure which. I sat there on the edge of the bed watching her for half the night. I thought about her, about me and about how insane this whole thing had gotten. I was no good for her, we'd both proven that. It was time to ship her home to mommy and daddy.

Two days later I put her on the Santa Fe Super Chief bound for Joliet. She was in no shape to fly. We kissed and hugged and said goodbyes and promised to stay in touch. Except we didn't.

That was six months ago. Now she was dead. And now I had to go pay my respects to the biggest mistake of my life.

***

I woke up late Saturday morning and decided I wasn't going anywhere. If the old man wanted the car, he could come and get it. I'd leave it in the driveway with the doors unlocked and the keys under the mat and whatever goons he chose to hire could come and get it whenever they wanted. There was no way I was going back to Rouen and putting up with her family much less serving as some sort of cross country chauffeur for Carl's Buick.

I was shuffling into the kitchen to make some eggs and toast when the phone started ringing. I guessed it was Charlie, but I wasn't ready to talk to him or anybody else for that matter. It was already after one in the afternoon back there, and I thought he must be getting antsy. The phone rang a long time before it stopped. Just as I was about to start eating, it started up again. I thought to myself, "What's the matter with him? I told him I'd call. There's no emergency. Nobody's dying. They're already dead."

It was when I got out of the shower and the phone rang again I decided to finally answer. I wanted to get it over with and have some peace, some time to think. I wrapped a towel around myself and picked up the phone. "Hello?" I said.

"Is this Roy Cutter?" It was a voice I didn't recognize.

"Yeah. Who's calling?"

"This is Detective Kenneth Larsen with the Rouen Police Department. We've been trying to reach you."

"Sorry," I said. "What can I do for you?"

"I think you're aware your wife Constance was found dead yesterday morning? We spoke to your brother-in-law last night and he said he informed you of her death."

"Yes, I heard."

"He also said that you were planning on being here next week for the funeral?"

That pissed me off. Charlie was being presumptuous and it was none of their business.

"We talked about it, that's all. Nothing definite."

"Oh, I see. Well, we do need to speak with you."

"We're talking now."

"No. We need to formally question you."

"Why? What for?"

"We're treating her death as a homicide and we've begun an investigation. We need your cooperation." His voice was taking on an edge.

"I don't understand. I thought there wasn't going to be an autopsy until Monday."

"Certain circumstances have come to light that require us to pursue an inquiry."

"Like what?"

He sounded like he was getting impatient. "The fifty thousand dollar life insurance policy with the double indemnity clause that names you the beneficiary. Don't you think that's a little excessive for so recently married a couple in your situation?"

I leaned against the wall to keep from buckling to the floor. "What are you talking about? What insurance policy?"

"That's just one of the things we need to talk to you about. When can you get back here?"

"I really wasn't planning on..."

"I don't think you understand. We can issue a warrant if we have to. And I understand from Mr. Fowler that you're in possession of an automobile of his he wants returned. Isn't that right?"

"Yes, but I was going to handle that."

"Well, Mr. Cutter, I suggest you make definite plans to come back and see us. Do you think you can make it by Tuesday?"

"I don't know."

"Let me put it to you another way. If you don't come back here, we'll come out there for you. Is that clear enough?"

"Yes," was all I could manage.

"Good. Tell you what. Let's give you some drive time. Let's say you'll pay us a visit here on Wednesday. You agree to that?"

I'd have to leave early Monday to make it. I also needed to cash my check. And it appeared I didn't have much choice anymore. "Okay. Wednesday."

"All right, then, Mr. Cutter. If anything delays you along the way, you be sure and call. You don't want us out there looking for you."

"Right. No."

"Good. See you Wednesday."

I hung up the phone, stumbled into the bedroom and sat on the bed. I wondered if I needed a lawyer. I wondered where the life insurance policy came from. I wondered what really happened to Connie. I began thinking about how I was going to make the trip. Then the phone rang. I got up and answered it. It was Charlie.

"Roy?"

"Yeah."

"Did the police get in touch with you?"

"Yeah. Few minutes ago."

"Good. They're now pretty sure it's a homicide. Anyway, that's what Rittberger tells me. He said they need to question you. You know what that's about?"

It was time to get smart. "Not really. Just general questions, I guess. Sounded routine. Cops always want to hear from the spouse."

"Yeah, true. Okay. So you're coming back?"

"Yeah. Going to meet with the cops Wednesday."

"We don't have plans yet because we don't know when they're going to release the body. But I can't imagine we could have the funeral before Wednesday, so you should be okay."

I didn't want to tell him the funeral was the last thing I cared about at the moment. "I can't leave until Monday morning so it's going to be a bit of a forced march to get back there by then. I'll call you from the road and let you know how I'm doing."

"That would be good. I should be back in the office Monday and Tuesday. So, I can tell dad you're bringing the Buick back?"

He didn't need to ask that and it kind of ticked me off. "Of course. You tell him whatever it is you need to. You're the good son."

There was a brief pause as the sarcasm landed. "All right, Roy. I guess we'll see you Wednesday then."

"Right."

"Okay. Take care then."

"You too."

For the second time I hung up the phone with too much to think about. Like maybe a hundred thousand things to think about.

(back to top)

# Chapter Three

**There was too** much I didn't know.

I could understand why the cops wanted to talk to me. But the insurance thing threw me for a loop. How did that happen? Who bought it? Who could even afford such a policy? And I didn't know why the detective had been so insistent, hard even. I obviously knew I was in the clear, but his manner made me a little anxious. He didn't have to be like that. And I didn't like that Carl had been talking to them.

The more I thought about the insurance the more uneasy I felt. It was too much money, and it came at too great a cost. I'd rather Connie be alive. I wondered if her old man would fight me over the proceeds, even if everything turned out to be legit.

After I hung up with Charlie, I got dressed and started going through the things Connie still had at the apartment. She hadn't taken much with her and I had promised to pack up what she left and send it out to her. I just never got around to it. And she never asked for it. I don't know, maybe I was hoping she'd come back for it.

I decided to be as methodical as I could. Clothes and such I'd box up and give to the Salvation Army. Anything I found sentimental or of value I'd take back with me to Rouen and give to her folks.

It turned out to be a harder job than I thought.

I started with her dresser. On top, underneath a little mirrored tray with legs, I found an envelope. It must have slipped underneath somehow. It was addressed to me in that beautiful swooping hand of hers. In it were her engagement ring and wedding band. There was also a note.

Roy my dearest,

To say I'm sorry for all that happened is not enough. When I look at what I've done to you, what I did to us, I feel more pain than I can bear. I know that we can't be together given all that I've done and how it is with me right now, but I want you to know how much I love you. And I always will. If there is ever a way to make it up to you I promise I will. You are a good man. The best I have ever known. Please take care of yourself. I love you.

C.

I put the rings and the note in my pocket. I thought I'd keep them with my Campanella baseball – a collection of greatness gone to hell.

When I opened her lingerie drawer her scent hit me hard. I choked a little. I did miss her. Or at least who she once had been. And it struck me that would now be forever. At the bottom, underneath everything, were two tickets. They were for a Dodgers game against the Cubs on my birthday. I put them in my pocket with the rings and the note.

When I was done emptying the drawers, I had an idea. I began pulling them out and checking the bottoms and backs. Behind the bottom drawer on the right I found an envelope taped to the back. In it were ten twenty dollar bills. Underneath the center top drawer was taped a large manila envelope. She'd been quite the squirrel. I opened the clasp and spilled the contents onto the top of the dresser. There were a dozen or so glassine bags of white powder. I guessed cocaine. It didn't matter. I cursed out loud and took them into the bathroom and flushed them down the toilet.

Ransacking the dresser had not gone particularly well. I needed a break. I knew I needed to dry out before the trip, but Sunday would be soon enough to start. I went into the kitchen, made myself a scotch and went into the living room and sat down. I'd only taken a couple sips trying to put her scent and her message and her addictions behind me when a thought popped into my head. I remembered a file box she kept in the bottom of her closet. I was pretty sure she hadn't taken it with her in her luggage when she left.

I crawled my way through two layers of shoes on the closet floor before I found it in the corner. Connie did like to dress. I backed out with the gray metal box and sat cross legged on the floor and opened it. Nothing was really organized, so I just started going through it piece by piece. I found a copy of her birth certificate. Born in the same hospital I was in Joliet. I hadn't known that. There was an expired passport, her high school diploma, some court papers relating to her divorce and some pictures of her with her first husband. Then I found what looked like a life insurance policy folded up in a paper sleeve with the Mutual of Omaha logo on it. I got excited. But when I opened it and read, it was not the one. It was indeed a life insurance policy, but for only two thousand dollars and payable to her parents. The rest was just a mix of old greeting cards, receipts, postcards and other ephemera.

I was about to toss the worthwhile items back into the box to take with me when I caught a glimpse of a small tan envelope stuck against the near side of the box. On the outside was printed "Granger County State Bank" with a logo of corn stalks framing an etching of the bank building that I knew sat at the northwest corner of Main and Price there in Rouen. That was Frank Haskell's bank. Inside was a safety deposit box key. Yet another thing I never knew about. I put that in my pocket too.

I went back into the living room and rejoined my scotch. It occurred to me that I'd known too little for too long. I couldn't understand why Connie hadn't taken some of the things with her – the money, the documents, even the drugs. She was in pretty bad shape when she left, and I know she expected me to send some of the things out to her. But why hadn't she asked me?

As I sat there, I realized I needed to know what really happened to Connie. I needed to know why I would benefit so greatly from her death. And I needed a plan to handle whatever waited for me in Rouen.

***

Sunday I got nervous. The first thing I did was drive down to a newsstand that I knew carried out of town papers. I picked up a copy of the _Chicago Trib_ and walked across the street to a cafe, got a booth, ordered coffee and started leafing through the "D" section with the Sunday recap of regional news. I didn't expect to find anything. It was too soon for an obit. But I was surprised. There was a story.

**Ex-State Senator's**

**Daughter Murdered**

ROUEN, Ill. (AP) – Constance Fowler Cutter, daughter of former State Senator Carl Sheffield Fowler, was found dead Friday morning, April 25, in what local police are calling an apparent homicide. She was 34.

Rouen Police Chief James Rittberger said Mrs. Cutter's body was discovered in a car parked along the banks of the Illinois River by a local fisherman.

Said Chief Rittberger, "It is too soon to report any details other than to say our investigation has begun and is proceeding rapidly."

Results of an autopsy are expected next week.

Senator Fowler, scion of the founder of the F&M Coal and Mining Company, represented District 38 in the State Senate from 1950 to 1956. He is reported to be considering a run for the governorship in the next election when current Governor William G. Stratton completes his second term.

Fowler family members were unavailable for comment.

It was interesting the AP had picked up the story. While there was nothing in the story I didn't already know – except maybe the bit about the fisherman – seeing the news in a paper made it real. Maybe that's what newspapers are for. I tore the article out of the page, something I never do. Once you read a newspaper it's for garbage or wrapping fish.

After the coffee I drove around until I found a garage open. I gassed up and checked the oil and water. My pretty blue Buick had some miles ahead of her. It crossed my mind to ask for an oil change but I decided not to. Carl could buy his own damn oil. I'd rather return it with an empty tank and a seized engine if I could.

On the drive back to the apartment, I tried to think of a way to find out more about what was going on in Rouen. I had no family in town who would know anything and the few close friends I'd made there had all escaped like me. By the time I got home I had an idea.

I started by calling the Rouen Police Department. I was going to track down Jim Rittberger – go right to the source and beard the lion as it were. Talking to him now might make the interrogation go easier.

Being a Sunday, it wasn't surprising he wasn't there. I left my name and number so he could see I wasn't hiding from anybody. His home number was obviously unlisted, so I tried the home away from home for the town's powers that be – The Rouen Country Club. I dialed the main number.

"Hello?" From the background noise, it sounded like a bartender had picked up.

"Hello. My name is Roy Cutter, and I'm looking for Chief Rittberger. It's police business. Is he there by any chance?"

It was three o'clock in Illinois so most of the golfers would be in the men's grill drinking beer and playing cards. "I dunno. Lemme check."

After a couple minutes, Rittberger picked up on an extension. I could hear the click as the bartender hung up his phone. "Hello? Who's this?" He sounded annoyed.

"Roy Cutter."

"Who?" Maybe it was a bad connection.

"Roy Cutter. Connie Fowler's husband." I said louder.

"Oh." There was a beat as that sunk in. Then, more annoyed, "Why are you calling?"

"I need to know what's going on back there."

"What do you mean?"

"Look, you found my wife dead the other day and your detective is calling me telling me I have to come in for interrogation and talking about a life insurance policy I know nothing about. I need to know what you know."

"I don't think I can talk about that with you at this time." He was getting all official on me. Always was a creep.

"She was my wife for Christ's sakes. You owe me an explanation. For starters why do you think it was murder? You told her brother she was strangled."

"I understood you were about to be divorced."

"Doesn't matter. We weren't divorced. She was my wife. So were there any marks on her neck?"

"No." I could tell he wished he could've swallowed back that word.

"Then why were you talking about strangulation?"

"I'm not going to talk about it. This conversation is over. If you want to find out more, you'll have to talk to the detective in charge when you get back here. And I strongly advise you to get back here as quickly as you can. Goodbye."

He hung up the phone harder than he had to. And I learned nothing. Except there seemed to be no apparent reason to suspect homicide anybody would talk about. But there had to be something. One more thing I still didn't know about.

I had to pack. But first I needed a drink. Then I had to iron. Then I had to scare up a suitcase. That would give me something to think about besides Connie.

(back to top)

# Chapter Four

**I always considered** Route 66 one of the best things about Illinois. Mainly because it was a fast way out of the state. More than that, though, it's just an epic road. Once you get past the corn fields heading west you traverse some of the most majestic, desolate, beautiful, big sky country in the land. I'd driven it back and forth a number of times since ending up in California. And that's because, see, I don't fly. Ever.

Coming back from the Pacific I caught a flight out of Hawaii for Salinas and Fort Ord thanks to a buddy in the Army Air Corps. Just over halfway back one of the right engines on the C54 conked out. Maybe two minutes later the other one went. The pilot shouted back to us that we were past the point of no return and had to try to make it to Hamilton, the Air Force Base north of Frisco. It was just like that John Wayne movie a few years ago. The pilot took the plane down, and we opened the door and started throwing things out. Anything to lighten the load. Anyway, we made it. Once we landed I could barely open my hands I was clenching the bulkhead so hard. That was my last airplane ride.

The only reason I bring that up is that I threw a lot of my war souvenirs out the door of that plane in one of my two duffel bags. But I did manage to save my .45 in the other. I'd pulled a few fast ones to hang onto it when I was sent home. It had saved my tail on more than one occasion and so I'd developed a particular fondness for it. I decided I should bring it along with me to Rouen. It was just a feeling.

I got a later start than I wanted. It being a Monday morning there was a long line at the bank. I needed to cash a pretty big check along with my last pay to cover the trip, so I had to wait for a manager to come over and okay everything. It wasn't until after ten o'clock that I actually got on the road.

The drive out of California isn't much fun until you get north of San Bernardino and over the mountains and into the Mojave Desert. Then once you get up to Barstow you curve due east and you begin to feel like you're getting somewhere. Plus from Barstow it's only maybe another two and a half hours and you're in another state.

I love to drive and that Buick loved to roll. We were making good time. You need to understand I actually like to drive alone. I don't even turn the radio on. I can think. And when I'm not thinking I can look at things that make me think. Like the white crosses alongside the road in Arizona. The State Highway Patrol there puts up these three foot high white crosses wherever there's been a fatality in an accident. I guess it's to scare you. Most of the time you only see one. Once in a while you come across a grouping of two or three. But there's one little hillside covered with them. Must have been a bus. On one trip back to California I decided to count all the crosses. But when I got to that hillside there were so many I had to give up. It made you think, though. Here you are, riding along in a bus, someplace to go, somebody to see, maybe with a bunch of friends all singing _Ninety Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall_ , then bang, you're all dead and you're all white crosses. Sort of like the war.

***

Lying on my belly with my chin in the mud, the rain falling so hard it hurt, the ants crawling across my hands and onto my pistol, I waited for a sound, any sound, beside the rain drumming the leaves all around me. I was so scared I could've puked. There were two of them somewhere in front of me. At least two. Maybe they'd seen me.

My squad was maybe a hundred yards behind me. I was out ahead on recon when I spotted their funny looking little brown caps jutting just above the undergrowth. I'd learned some of them didn't like to wear helmets in the rain to keep the noise down. I didn't either. Mine was back with the squad.

As soon as I saw them I crouch-ran about ten yards to the left. As I did a vine caught my arm and ripped the M1 from my hand. I kept going and hit the ground. I drew my pistol and listened.

Jungle fighting is different. When you storm a beach you can see them shooting at you, or at least spot their muzzle flashes. You know where they are, and you know where you are and you know where you want to go. You're terrified, but you can react and shoot back or take cover, and you have some grasp on what's going on. But in the jungle everything is hidden. You just don't know. You never know. And that's the most terrifying thing of all. That's real fear. Not knowing.

I have no idea how long I lay there straining to hear, afraid to even blink, my mouth so dry I had to lick my muddy wet wrist. When you're like that you can start to imagine sounds. That's why when I thought I heard the faint sound of metal scraping metal I wasn't sure. Then I heard it again. Then the barest murmur of a voice. They were close, maybe twenty yards ahead and to my right.

It must have taken me ten minutes to crawl toward the sound. Finally, I spotted them through the leaves. I was maybe fifteen feet away. There were three of them crouched together in a little clearing – one on a radio, one about to drop a round in a mortar, the third closing his eyes and covering his ears. My heart was pounding so hard I knew they had to hear it. There was no time. I took a quick breath. I sprang to my feet and got off a shot that hit the guy at the mortar in the chest. He let go of the round and it fell down the tube. The mortar went off. That gave me a second. I took a step forward and emptied the clip into the other two who were just looking at me wide-eyed, too shocked to move. I crouched and reloaded and waited still shaking from the moment. Nothing moved. I got up and walked toward them, the .45 ready. That's when I heard the screams in the distance.

The hear no evil monkey and the radio guy were very dead. The mortar guy was on the ground convulsing, clutching his chest and spitting up blood. I heard the screaming again. He got my squad. I emptied the pistol into the little bastard. Then I spit on him. Then I went looking for my rifle.

***

After two long days and too much night driving, I woke up Wednesday in a decrepit little motel outside St. Louis. It was the only one I could find with a vacancy so late at night. I'd overslept, exhausted as I was. I still had a good four and a half hours in front of me, and it was already nine o'clock. I cursed the daylight, rubbed my eyes and swung my legs out of bed. With every mile I'd come I'd dreaded this day more. I lit a cigarette, looked at the phone on the nightstand and thought about what I needed to do.

My first call was to the Rouen Police Department. I asked for Detective Larsen and was told he was out on a case but that Sergeant Thompson was waiting for my call. The sergeant was direct but cordial. He said the detective would be back in the afternoon and was looking forward to meeting with me. Sure he was. After he found out where I was we agreed to meet at four, giving me plenty of time to get there. He asked if I knew where the police station was and I assured him that I did. Polite goodbyes done, I hung up the phone. I sat there with a bad feeling. He'd been too nice.

Next, I tried to call Charlie at his office, but he wasn't in yet. "A lawyer keeping banker's hours," I thought to myself. I left a message with his secretary that I'd be at the motel another half hour and if I didn't hear from him I'd call him from the road later.

I took a shower and dressed and was just about to leave the room when the phone rang.

"Roy?"

Yeah, Charlie?"

"I'm glad I caught you." He sounded anxious.

"I was just about out the door."

"Listen, do you know about the life insurance policy?"

"The life insurance policy?" I stalled for time.

"Rittberger said there's a life insurance policy worth a hundred grand with you as the beneficiary. He said the detective told you about it."

"Yeah, he did." I shouldn't have tried to stall. "But I don't know anything about it. It was news to me. I don't even know if it's valid or who bought it."

"Oh, it's valid. But the insurance company won't turn over the owner's name without a court order. I guess they're trying to get one now. But Roy?"

"Yeah?"

"You know what this means?"

"No." Except I did.

"It means you had motive."

"That would have to mean it's a homicide."

"It is. For sure. The cops won't release the autopsy results because they say it would compromise their investigation. But Rittberger told me it was a professional job."

I went quiet and reached for a cigarette.

"Roy?"

"Right here." I lit up.

"That means you don't really have an alibi at this point. You could have ordered it done from California. And I think that's where Rittberger wants to go with this."

"That's bullshit."

"Maybe. But as your friend I have to tell you that you can't go into that interview without an attorney."

"I don't have an attorney. How could I possibly even get one today?" This was going south in a hurry.

"Do you know Marty Schein... Ben's son?" Ben Schein owned one of the two men's clothing stores in town.

"No."

"He's young, but I hear he's good. He set up an office this year above his dad's store. I'm guessing he'd be available. I could call him for you and see if he could meet you there." I considered the offer for a second. I guessed any lawyer was better than no lawyer.

"Okay. If he can make it, tell him I'll meet him out front of the police station at four."

"I will." Charlie sounded relieved. "But call me on the way so I can confirm. If we can't get you a lawyer you shouldn't do the interview today."

"Okay. I'll call." I fumbled in my pocket for another cigarette.

"So where are you staying?"

"I don't know. Maybe out at the HoJo." When I lit the smoke I could see my hand shaking.

"Look, why don't you come up to my house? Alice and the kids would love to see you. And that way the Buick's not around town to make dad crazy. Know what I mean?"

At the mention of the Buick and his father, I almost slammed the phone down. But I didn't. Staying at Charlie's might work out. At least I wouldn't have to hang out in Rouen tonight.

"All right, that sounds great. Appreciate it. I'll call after the interview and we can coordinate things."

"Good. And don't eat anything, Alice will have a fit if she can't make you some dinner. I need to fill you in on the arrangements for Connie, too."

That last bit I didn't want to hear. "All right. Look, I gotta get on the road. I'll call you later."

"Okay, talk to you then."

I sat down on the bed and hung up the phone. I took a drag on the cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray. I rubbed my temples with both hands. I still knew nothing. And that was scary as hell.

(back to top)

# Chapter Five

**Rouen is the** county seat for Granger County which sits a fair distance southwest of Chicago. Granger is one of those myriad perfectly rectangular Illinois counties save, perhaps, for a meandering river border, that holds fewer people than a Chicago ward. It was named for the birthplace of the French explorer Robert de La Salle who traversed the region in the late 1600's before apparently finding nothing of value except the river he used to leave. The French pronounce their city's name something like " _roo-'awhn_ " but descendants of the Scandinavian farmers and Italian coal miners who settled in the area say it more like " _ruin_." It's where I'm from and from where I escaped.

Now don't get me wrong. It's a pretty little place with some very fine people in it. It's such a typical Midwestern small town somebody took the trouble to write an academic sociological study about it complete with maps and charts and tables. Of course, anybody living there didn't need them to do that. We all knew that if you lived on the west side of town you probably had some money and wore a tie to work, if you lived on the east side of town you probably wore overalls and worked in the factories or the mill and that if you lived between the canal and the river the people you met in the grocery store probably hoped you'd visit the laundry detergent aisle. Of course, if you lived outside of town you were a farmer.

Most everyone has happy childhood memories and I'm no exception. I think I have two. But it was a nice place to learn and grow. And what I learned as I grew was that I didn't want to live there. There's a special mentality required to successfully hunker down and live out your existence in one place even if it's safe, familiar and filled with people you know well and still manage to like. I just didn't have that. And once the war took me out of town and I got a gander at the rest of the world there was no going back. Yet, here I was approaching the Illinois River bridge that would chute me right back into the middle of it to God knows what end.

Route 66 had been a three hundred mile long construction zone, so I was running tight for time. I'd stopped for gas and a sandwich and called Charlie to find out I did have an attorney waiting. It was five of four by the time I got to the bridge, so there wasn't even time for a quick drink to steady my nerves. And I did have nerves.

Once over the bridge I made a quick left onto Washington, drove across the south end of Main past the County Courthouse then made a right onto Elm. Two blocks later I parked across the street from the police station which looked like not much more than an annex to the fire station it was attached to. I got out of the car and spotted what had to be my attorney standing next to the front door. The first thing I thought was that it could not be possible his old man owned a clothing store.

He was short and heavy with brown trousers too tight and a black jacket too big and with a tie that ended high above his navel and even further above his belt buckle which, given the tight pants, had slid well beneath the underside of his belly. He clutched what looked like a brand new shiny brown leather briefcase. His black horn rimmed glasses were way too big for his face and did nothing to hide his youth. I had a baby for a lawyer. Great.

I crossed the street and approached him. "Marty Schein?" I asked.

He looked as though I'd startled him out of some thought then he smiled. "Mr. Cutter?" he said and offered his hand.

"Yeah, call me Roy." We shook.

"You just made it. I was worried."

"Traffic was bad the whole way. But here I am. Shall we go inside?" I wanted to get this over with.

"Let's talk a minute first. You should know my rate for this sort kind of thing is four dollars an hour or a per Diem of thirty, your choice. A retainer would be five fifty a month should it come to that. Is that acceptable to you?"

"Yes." I wasn't prepared to start with a negotiation that sounded like his father reciting the price of socks.

"Which is it?"

"Let's start with the hourly."

"Okay, fine. Now when I talked to Mr. Fowler – Charles, your brother-in-law – he briefed me on the basics. But I need to ask you if you know of anything at all that could contribute to the police investigation?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean do you know anything more than what Charles or the police have already told you?"

"No. I don't know anything. In fact, I don't even know what they're talking about when they do talk. The only reason I'm here is for them to tell me more than I can possibly tell them. Okay?"

As he screwed up his face, his glasses slid down his nose so he pushed them back up with his forefinger. "I'm not sure that's how they're going to approach this."

"How are they going to approach it?" I was getting impatient.

"Well, to be blunt, I think you're their primary suspect at this point."

"That's ridiculous."

"Maybe not. There's nobody else they have with motive and opportunity."

I knew he was right, of course. I'd done enough stories like this to know the husband was first in line as a suspect because, in most cases, the husband did it. It wasn't atomic science. I had just been choosing not to consider the possibility. I guessed it was time I did.

"So what do you recommend?"

"If you really know nothing, that's all we can tell them. But they're likely to get a little rough. So I suggest you let me respond first to their questions. Charles mentioned you can have a temper. That could work against us. And be prepared, they're not going to reveal anything to us they don't want to."

This ill-dressed little plumper with the baby face was making sense. And I liked the "we" and "us."

"Okay," I said. "Sounds like the way to go."

"Good," he said and he moved to open the door for us.

***

Marty and I were sitting at the table facing the door of the interrogation room when Detective Larsen appeared. You could see him kind of do a double take as he came through the door when he saw us both there. Larsen was one of those tall, rangy, raw-boned fellows who would've looked right at home in bib overalls sitting on a tractor chewing on a sprig of alfalfa. Not exactly the kind of guy from my world.

"You think it necessary to have a lawyer?" he said to me more as a statement than a question.

Before I could even open my mouth, Marty responded.

"Yes, I am Mr. Master's counsel, Martin B. Schein, fully licensed member of the Illinois bar."

I guessed Marty was aware of his own appearance and felt it necessary to throw in that last part.

"All right then," Larsen drawled, taking his seat across from us. "Let's get started." He paused and opened a file folder and seemed to study the contents for a few seconds. Then he looked up at me. "Can you tell me where you were last Thursday and Friday?"

Again Marty piped up. "He was two thousand miles away in Los Angeles, California and can provide corroborating documentation and witnesses. But you already know that."

Larsen scowled. "We needed to verify that."

"That can easily be done," Marty replied.

The detective returned his gaze to the file folder. Still looking down he asked, "Mr. Cutter, what can you tell me about your relationship with your ex-wife? What exactly were the circumstances of your breakup?"

I started to answer and sensed Marty going at it again.

"She was not his ex-wife. Mr. and Mrs. Cutter were still legally married at the time of her death. There was no official breakup. No divorce papers were ever filed. She returned to Illinois approximately six months ago because of health issues."

"So what were those health issues?"

"Since neither myself nor Mr. Cutter are qualified physicians who provided any form of treatment, it is not possible for us to even guess at a diagnosis."

"Oh come on, we already heard there was drinking and drugs."

"You didn't hear it from us."

I liked this kid.

"Let's not play games." Larsen clenched his fingers. "I've got a dead woman in the morgue who was obviously murdered. And across the table here I've got a guy with a fifty thousand dollar life insurance policy on her that pays double that if she's the victim of a homicide. I need some answers. So why don't you tell me about that insurance policy, Mr. Cutter?"

"Mr. Cutter categorically denies any prior knowledge of such an insurance policy including its terms, conditions, benefits or ownership. In fact, we have no evidence such a policy exists and would ask that you provide us the name of the insurance company and the policy number so that we may conduct our own discovery on the matter."

"I'd like to hear directly from you," he said looking at me.

"I'm sure Mr. Cutter would agree with my statement."

I nodded "yes."

"You're not helping your cause here with this lawyer." Larsen spit out.

Marty bristled like a little badger. "Are you questioning my client's right to legal representation or the competency of that representation? Because if you are doing either, detective, I can assure you there are remedies the consequences of which would not do you or your career any good."

"Whoa. Calm down. I'm just trying to get some answers."

Marty was getting to him. This was starting to be fun to watch.

"Look, detective, my client knows nothing. He does not know the circumstances of his wife's death, he does not know anything about her activities or health issues or acquaintances over the past six months. And he certainly doesn't know anything about this alleged life insurance policy. While we understand you have to explore every possible avenue in an investigation like this, you need to understand right now that your efforts would be better spent pursuing another line of inquiry. My client had no part in his wife's death and knows nothing that can help you find the guilty party."

That last little burst left Larsen with his mouth open. When he recovered he gave up. He knew this wasn't going anywhere. "Very well. This session is over. But I must advise you, Mr. Cutter, that you will remain a suspect until we can verify all that your attorney said today. In the meantime, we need you to remain in the vicinity so that you're available for further questioning."

"Unless you have a court order of some kind my client is free to go wherever he chooses whenever he chooses."

The kid wouldn't quit.

Larsen backed down again. "I understand. That was a request."

I finally spoke up. "I'll be in the area for the next few days, anyway."

"Okay," Larsen said. "How can we get in touch with you?"

Marty reached into his briefcase and pulled out a card and held it out. "You can contact his attorney. Me."

I had to break a smile.

***

We had just opened the door to leave the station when I heard a voice call out behind me.

"Roy Cutter. Hold on there." I turned and saw Jim Rittberger. He still looked like high school – short, stocky, sandy blonde. Only now he sported a scraggly pale mustache that wasn't worth the effort. He was one of those short kids who'd always felt compelled to play the bully. I hadn't liked him then and I didn't like him now.

"What is it?" I said.

"I need to talk to you. Come back to my office."

"He already made his statement." That was Marty.

"This is something else. Only take a minute."

We followed him down the hall to the back of the station and into an office that looked too big for the building it was in with its huge mahogany desk and tall leather chair. Not exactly government issue décor. He closed the door behind us.

"I need the keys to the car."

Marty must have seen the look on my face. "What are you talking about? My client is free to go."

Rittberger looked at me. "He knows what this is about."

He had me. "I was going to take care of this later."

"We're doing it now."

"What's going on here?" Marty demanded.

"Your client here is in possession of another man's car. The other man wants the car back. Simple"

Marty looked up at me. He saw my resignation. I tried one more time.

"I only need it a couple more days." I realized I'd made no plans for this moment and Rittberger couldn't care less what I needed.

"Look, right now this is a private matter. I'm doing a favor for Carl. If you like, we can make it a police matter. Now give me the keys."

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my key ring. I slid the ignition and door keys off and handed them to Rittberger. "I have to get my things out of the car."

"I'll have Officer Peterson walk out with you."

Marty and I waited in the tiny lobby for the cop to come out.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Long story. I'll tell you later."

"I need to hear it."

Officer Peterson came down the hall and we followed him out the door and across the street to the Buick.

"Where do you need to get?" Peterson asked, holding the keys.

"Trunk and front seat," I said.

He opened up the car, and I retrieved the suitcase and gym bag from the trunk and my address book and sunglasses from the front seat.

"Is that it?" he asked when I was done.

"Yeah."

"Okay." With some ceremony he locked up the car and slammed the trunk. "Have a nice day."

I stood there on the sidewalk kind of stunned, naked even. I realized I needed a cigarette.

"What are you going to do?" Marty asked.

I lit up my smoke. "I don't know. I was supposed to have dinner and stay with Charlie tonight up in Downers Grove."

"Why don't you come back with me to my office and you can call him from there? And we need to talk."

The offer seemed the only sensible thing to do. Even the only thing to do. I picked up my bags and started following Marty. When we got to the corner, I stopped for a second to look back at the Buick. Then I turned and kept going.

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# Chapter Six

**You reached Marty's** office from the alley by entering through the back door to Schein's Men and Boys and climbing a narrow staircase lined with mops, brooms and buckets. The second floor was a jumble of dusty store fixtures, cardboard boxes and sale banners for every season. We zigzagged our way through the detritus to a desk against the front wall beneath a window looking out on Main Street. Several naked mannequins huddled in the corner next to a file cabinet. Marty took his chair and motioned for me to take a seat in the side chair next to his desk.

"Before we call Charles, let's talk for a minute," he said as he loosened the knot on his tie which somehow had disappeared under his chin when he sat down. "So what's the deal with the car?"

I didn't want to talk about it, not this minute anyway, but he pressed and I gave up the whole sad story about Carl buying us the Buick and Connie signing the title over to him when she needed money.

"Why did she need the money?"

It was a question I'd never considered. "I don't know," I answered.

"Seems to me if she needed money for a legitimate reason her father would have given it to her with no strings attached."

"Good question, but I really have no idea. I don't even know how much he gave her. But I know he can be funny about money."

"There are some things we need to find out if we're going to make sure they don't end up trying to pin this on you."

"There are a lot of things I want to know," I said, happy to have an ally who seemed to know what he was doing.

"Like what?" he asked.

"Beyond who did it and why, you know, the big questions, I'd like to know how she died. They're saying it's a homicide, and they told Charlie it was a professional job, but we don't know what it was or why they think that. I mean, in the beginning Rittberger said she was strangled."

"And?"

"Well, obviously, what the story is with the insurance. I can't imagine who would have taken out a policy like that. For sure not Connie, she had no idea about such things and she had no reason to. And not her father or her family, especially if I was going to be the beneficiary. I mean fifty grand is a lot of money."

" One hundred thousand dollars," Marty corrected me. "Double indemnity don't forget."

"Right."

"I'm sure you could use that."

Believe it or not, until he asked me that I'd never seriously considered getting the money. Okay, I'd thought about it, but not seriously. The whole thing was too bizarre. Connie murdered? Me suddenly with more money than I could imagine? Things like that just don't happen. Plus I couldn't believe the policy was legitimate or, if it was legit, that it would actually hold up and pay off.

I tried to make a joke. "Who couldn't use that kind of dough? Especially somebody who needs a car."

The humor went unnoticed. Marty was serious. "We know the police aren't going to tell us anything. We're going to have to find some things out on our own. I think the key may be the insurance policy. Somebody bought it and had a reason for doing so. We need to find out who the owner is."

"What do you mean, 'the owner'?"

"Whoever took out the policy and paid for it... and maybe is still paying for it... is the owner of record. The insured and the beneficiary can be different parties."

"So how do we find out?"

"It's going to take some work. We don't even know the name of the company yet. Let me ask you another question. Did your wife have a will?"

"Not that I know of. I went through some of her papers before I left home and didn't find one. I know we never talked about it."

Marty pursed his lips and shook his head. "That's another problem, then. Dying intestate complicates things further. Could open up her estate to all kinds of claims and gives her family an opening. Still, the insurance should be safe. I take it though she didn't have money of her own?"

"No. Her father made sure of that."

"If we're to answer your other questions, I think we need to see the autopsy report. That will have a lot to do with whether the insurance company comes through with the double indemnity. They're going to want to see that before they do anything anyway."

"Can we get that?"

"I'll probably need a court order, but I think so."

This was beginning to sound complicated. "Can you handle all that?"

"Yes. But it's going to take some work." Marty paused for a second, then pushed his glasses back up his nose. "I have a proposition for you. I'd be willing to take the case on a contingency basis – say ten percent of the insurance money – payable provided we keep you out of jail and the insurance pays off."

Ten grand was a lot of money. I considered that for all of two heartbeats. "That's a deal." I needed help.

"Good. We'll count today part of that. I'll get started in the morning. Now, in the meantime, you need to do some work yourself."

"How so?"

"Charles told me you're a reporter, right?

"Yeah, well, I was anyway."

"You need to do some digging. We really need to know what Connie was up to since she got back here. Probably the same thing the police are doing, but they're obviously not going to help us. Where was she living? Whom was she seeing? What was she doing?"

"Her brother may know some of that."

"You should talk to him."

"Well, let's call him."

***

Rouen has an inordinate number of bars for such a small town. Probably more bars than schools, banks and food stores combined. Maybe it has something to do with that sociological study that segmented and categorized every facet of its population. Maybe every segment needed its own watering hole. I didn't care which one I picked. I needed the closest. That ended up being Husker's two doors down from Schein's there on Main.

Charlie had been almost apologetic when I told him about the Buick. He offered to come down and pick me up and take me back to his house and since I didn't seem to have many other options I'd agreed. Plus I really needed to talk to him. I told him I'd be waiting at the closest bar to Schein's. He told me that was Husker's.

I got some funny looks when I trooped into the place with my suitcase and gym bag. I took a seat at the bar as the clientele, mostly farmers and tradesmen, gave me the once over. The bartender came over and smiled. "Moving in?" he joked.

I smiled back. "Only if the service is good."

"What'll it be, then?"

"Johnnie Walker, rocks."

"We don't carry that. Just house scotch."

"Fine." After the day I'd had he could have served me rubbing alcohol and I'd of been happy. He sat the drink in front of me. I lifted it and downed it in one pull. "Make the next one a double," I said, handing him back the glass. His eyes widened in admiration or concern, I couldn't tell which.

As he put the new drink down, I could feel a presence slide next to me. I glanced to my left and saw a woman, a pretty dark brunette, studying me. "Is that you, Roy? Or just a tall, dark, handsome stranger?"

I tried to place her but couldn't. "No, it's just me, Roy."

"You don't remember me, do you?"

"Help me."

"Eighth grade, Spring Dance, you stood me up."

I remembered. "Judy?"

"Been a long time. How are you?"

Time does things to everybody. Sometimes for better, sometimes for worse. Judy showed a little of both. She'd been a mousy little thing back in school. She was still petite, but now a well and fully formed woman judging by the way she filled her sweater and skirt. And she still had those pretty green eyes, but now it looked as if some hard times had been carved around them.

"I'm okay. Good to see you."

"Are you in for the funeral?" Everybody in town knew.

"Yeah." I decided to keep it simple. "I don't know the arrangements though."

"Well, it's a terrible thing, a real shame. She was such a beauty."

"Yes she was."

"Mind if I join you?"

I didn't mind at all. She climbed up on the stool next to me and I ordered her a drink. We caught up. She'd married Steve Mancini and had a daughter who was now twelve. They'd divorced five years ago, and he ended up moving down to Peoria to work at the Caterpillar plant. She'd gone to Joliet Junior College and got her nursing license and now worked for Doctor Northrup, one of the two family docs in town. She wanted to hear all about California, and when I told her about some of the encounters I'd had with movie stars she was thrilled. I don't know, maybe it's the dead spot, but meeting people like Doris Day or Montgomery Clift never did anything for me. Other than being pretty, they're just people for Christ's sakes. Eventually I steered the conversation to current events.

"So what's the word around town about Connie?" I asked.

"Everyone is pretty upset. Things like that just don't happen around here."

"I don't know anything about what happened, how they found her."

"Well, I hear Tom Christiansen is still shook up over finding her body." Christiansen had been the athletic director and baseball coach at the high school and was now long retired.

I perked up. "How so? Where did he find her?"

"Other side of the river over by the power plant. Said he first thought it was an accident since the front end of the car was half in the river. But when he got up to it he saw the body."

"I can see how that could scare you."

"That's not the half of it. Seems she was sitting up in the passenger seat with her hands folded in her lap and her eyes open like she was just sitting there calmly staring out at the river. Tom thought she was fine until he said something to her and touched her shoulder and she fell over."

"Whose car was it?"

"That's the odd thing. It was her father's station wagon. Nobody thought she had anything to do with him anymore. Or even the other way around."

I made a mental note to look up Tom Christiansen. "So Tom couldn't tell what killed her?"

"No, like I said, he thought she looked like she was alive when he found her."

"I guess the autopsy will tell us what happened."

"Dr. Northrup said he'd never seen anything like it."

"Doc Northrup saw the autopsy?"

"Actually he performed it. They needed somebody to do it in a hurry and he offered to do it because Dr. Resnick was out of town. Dr. Northrup is part time backup for the coroner."

"Did he tell you what it was, what happened?"

"No, he said results needed to be confidential. But I could tell something surprised him."

I figured that was as much as I was going to get at the moment. And I was right because she soon finished her drink and said she had to be getting home to her daughter.

As she got off the stool she said, "If you're going to be in town for a while, maybe we can have dinner one night. I can catch you up on the classmates still around here."

"I'd like that," I said, meaning it. "I don't know what my plans are exactly, but I should be around for a few more days. So we should do that"

"Good. But you're not going to stand me up again, are you?" Her eyes twinkled as she chuckled. I'd forgotten how they did that.

I held up my hand. "No, I promise. Honest Injun."

She laughed again. "Okay, then. I'm in the book. Judy Mancini. Or call me at Dr. Northrup's."

"Will do."

I watched her walk out of the bar. Then I ordered another drink and waited for Charlie. I'd made a start.

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# Chapter Seven

**I'd seen the** signs and ignored them – my mother in the kitchen talking to no one in that peculiar voice with the empty wine glass on the counter, my father silent and morose in the living room with the beer bottles lined up on the floor next to his chair. The problem was I had to get my mitt. I'd weighed the option of staying out of the house and just using somebody else's, but I really wanted to play with my own. I knew it was under my bed and I figured if I was quick enough I could grab it and time a quick exit out the back door and get to the lot for the game without running into either one of them. I'd gotten pretty good at slipping in and out like that when I needed to. Perhaps that made me overconfident. Or maybe I was just careless. But no matter what, this one time the old man happened to spot me.

"Where the hell do you thin' you're goin'?"

I had to be careful. Getting confronted at all cut my odds to nearly nothing. "Just going to a game over at the lot. I'll be back soon. Chores are all done."

"The hell you are."

I'd given the wrong answer. But, then, there probably was no right answer. "I'll be back in an hour, honest." I was pushing my luck opening my mouth again.

"Don' you lip me. I told you, you ain't goin' nowhere!" He charged me and grabbed me by the hair with one hand and unbuckled his belt and pulled it from around his waist with the other. I proceeded to silently take maybe my third whipping of the week. Had it been my mother, it would have been with a hairbrush. They hurt, but they weren't that bad. It was just the fear of them you had to handle. Stuff like that teaches you to pay close attention to people.

***

I knew it had been an imposition to have Charlie come all the way down to Rouen. But fortunately he seemed fine with it, almost eager to do it. On the drive back up to Downers Grove we caught up with each other in general chit chat, avoiding the big issues of murder and funerals and reclaimed cars. He was sorry, concerned even, to hear about my job. In turn, I learned he had taken on preliminary fund raising efforts for his father's possible run for governor in a couple years.

Charlie was the oldest of the three kids. Connie had been the middle child. Cathy was the spoiled brat. Charlie had always been the apple of his father's eye. Tall, blonde, good looking, he'd excelled in sports and academics. He ended up stateside in the war somehow and then went on to be valedictorian or salutatorian of his undergraduate class at Northwestern, I can't remember which. Then he went east for law school at Columbia. When he came back, he immediately landed a position with one of the big Chicago law firms and made partner in just three years. Seemed like a pretty solid guy.

The neighborhood was one of those moneyed enough that people could afford to keep their porch lights on most of the night. Gave the place a nice warm feel. Charlie's was one of the bigger houses on the street, and when we turned into his driveway I could see the dining room lights on. It was a big white Dutch colonial, the kind you saw on TV in shows like _Father Knows Best_ or _Leave It to Beaver_. So I guess that made it the all-American dream house.

Alice had fed the kids and kept dinner warm for us. Before we sat down to have our meal, the children – two boys and a girl – came down to give me a perfunctory greeting and then they scampered back up the stairs to their rooms. Alice fussed a bit over me making sure I had a drink and that my bags went up to the guest room straight away. She was a nice gal, she just gave you the feeling of veneer, not solid wood.

The dining room was too bright and the china too fancy, but the roast beef and potatoes were fine. Conversation over dinner was light and mostly about the kid's latest exploits. Alice brought up Connie's name once, but Charlie gave her a look that caromed her off into a discussion of azaleas in the front yard. When we were finished, Charlie and I went to the living room while Alice cleaned up. He sat in a corner of the flower print couch, and I took a seat in the matching club chair. We lit up and started talking.

Charlie got right to it. He leaned toward me and put his arms on his knees earnest-like. "Listen, we've made funeral arrangements. They finally released her body today. We're having the wake tomorrow at Hargroves's there in town and the funeral Friday. Service at the church then interment in the family plot at Pine Lawn." The church being no doubt Saint Mark's, the Episcopalian the WASP money in Rouen attended.

On the one hand, I was a little miffed I hadn't been allowed to handle arrangements for my own wife. I mean, after all we had still been married and only separated six months. On the other hand, I was glad not to have to do it. Maybe more the latter.

"Quick is good," is all I said.

"Yeah, it is. So I've got a favor to ask."

"Sure."

Charlie shifted in his seat a little. "You know how Carl feels about you and getting the car back hasn't changed anything. I don't want to ask you not to come, but I'm hoping you can just kind of get in and out tomorrow. You know, avoid the family as much as you can. The funeral's another story. Should be a lot of people there."

"I don't have a problem with that." I really didn't. Hanging around a room with a dead body that hardly bore a resemblance to the live version always struck me as more than a little barbaric. Besides, I'd seen enough dead bodies. Then again, maybe it was just the dead spot.

Charlie looked relieved. "I hate to ask that, you know, but I'm sure it'll be best for everyone. We're all pretty upset over this."

It was my turn. "So what was Connie doing these past six months? We weren't in touch at all. Did she ever go for help?"

If Charlie had felt uncomfortable talking about the funeral, he fairly wound himself into a knot now as he tried to form an answer.

"Actually we don't know a lot. She stayed with the folks for about a month and then something happened, and she just took off. We think she was staying with a friend in Joliet, but we're not sure. Anyway, she showed up again a couple of months ago needing money. That's when she signed the car over. Disappeared again then came back a couple weeks ago wanting to move back in at the house."

"What happened to send her off?"

"We don't know for sure. She seemed pretty unstable all the way around."

I know when somebody ducks a question and Charlie had just ducked that one. But I decided to let it go.

"She was in rough shape when she left California," I allowed.

"Yeah. What the heck happened out there? She wouldn't talk about it to me." Charlie was trying to steer the conversation.

"I think California happened to her. The drinking first, then the cocaine. She wanted excitement. I don't know, maybe a hack reporter wasn't enough husband for her."

"Don't say that. Everybody knows Connie was a handful."

"No, that's probably part of it." I'd given this whole thing a lot of thought, but that was as far as I was going with Charlie. "So did she move back into the house this last time?"

"Yeah, but Mom said it was strange. Spent most of the time in her room on the phone but would disappear for hours without telling anybody where she was going. I was worried about her, but she just wouldn't talk to me."

"Was she drinking, getting high?"

"Drinking, no. No evidence of that at the house, nobody saw her drinking there. But drugs we don't know. Maybe. Who knows?"

I expected a better answer. The family wasn't dumb. So I went for a tougher question. "They say they found her in your dad's station wagon. How did she end up in that?"

Charlie went paler than a blonde can. "How did you know about that?"

Bingo. I hit a nerve. "Heard talk in town."

Charlie paused for a second and wiped his forehead with his hand. "That has us all stumped. Nobody even remembers the car leaving the house. Police say they're working on it. It's impounded somewhere."

"Didn't she have a car of her own?"

Just then Alice appeared in her flounce skirt and lace apron with a tray of brandy and coffee. Charlie looked relieved at the interruption.

"I thought you men could use a little something after dinner," she said with her best hostess smile before retreating to the kitchen.

"Thanks, honey," he called after her. Then, to me, "Want some coffee?"

"No thanks," I said. "Need to get some sleep tonight. But I will have a splash of brandy."

Charlie poured a small snifter for me and coffee for himself.

"Connie's car?" he asked, getting back to my question. "Dad got her a used Chevy when she came back. But somewhere along the line that disappeared too. She was using the family cars last time she came back."

"How did she seem to you, though? Really? How did she look? Was she seeing anybody?" I don't know why I asked that last question. I really didn't want an answer.

He made a face that said he'd had enough of the Connie talk. "I really don't know. If I had to use one word to describe her though, it would be 'distant'." After a pause, and not unexpectedly, he changed the subject. "How did the interview with the police go?"

"It went okay. I think the cops are clueless about the whole thing. The insurance policy is the only real thing pointing the finger at me. Do you know how they even found out about it?"

He took about three beats longer than he should have before he replied, "I'm not sure, but I think it was when they searched her room. They showed up Friday afternoon wanting to get in there. I think that was once they suspected a homicide. Did you meet up with that attorney?" He changed the subject again.

"Yeah, and he's terrific. Young and kind of goofy looking but sharp as a tack. So thanks for putting me in touch." That's about as much as I wanted to get into my deal with Marty.

"No problem. Listen, I have to tell you how sorry I am about the car. I tried to talk him out of it, but you know him. There was nothing any of us could do."

"That's all right. I understand. Sure wasn't your fault."

"Are you going to take the train back to LA?" He knew I didn't fly.

"Probably. Haven't really thought about it yet."

"So when are you planning on heading back? After the funeral? You must be anxious to find some work." He sounded like it wanted that to happen soon.

"I want to spend a few days here, maybe. We'll see."

If that was a lame response Charlie let it slide. "You know, I was thinking you could rent you a car for a few days. You know, something to get around in while you're here. The garage I use here in town has some they rent out fairly cheap. I could take you by there in the morning on my way to work."

I thought about the potential dinner with Judy and decided some sort of car would be in order. That and I definitely needed to spend some time in Rouen. "Good idea. I appreciate the help. And I really appreciate the dinner and the place to stay tonight. It's been a pretty long day."

Charlie smiled. "I'm sure it has. Where did you start out? St. Louis?"

"Yeah. Seems like ten years ago. What time is the wake tomorrow?"

"Two to four and six to eight. Obviously the family will be there for both."

I formed a little plan. "I'll probably come to the early one and then stay down there at least tomorrow night. That way I'm there for the funeral. By the way, what time is that?"

"Eleven at the church."

"Okay." I finished the snifter. "Listen, I'm beat. Would you hold it against me if I turned in?"

Charlie smiled. "Not at all. We should leave around eight."

I got up. "I'll be ready. Let me go say goodnight to Alice."

***

Something bothered me about the conversation with Charlie. I wasn't sure exactly what, but I was pretty certain he wasn't telling me everything. And I suspected some of what he was telling me might not be true. When I got to my room I rummaged around in the gym bag for my steno pad and pen. I sat on the edge of the bed and started making some notes. I started with the time line he'd given me.

***

I woke up at dawn to the sound of the kids getting ready for school. I lay in bed thinking about things until it sounded like they'd cleared the bathroom and then went in and showered and shaved. Once dressed, I headed downstairs. Alice was as bright and cheery as she could be. Kind of got under my skin this early. She poured me some coffee and offered me some orange juice and cereal. She said Charlie was upstairs on a phone call and would be down shortly. I sat at the kitchen table with her and chatted. Or I should say she chatted and I ate.

She eventually went off on some chore and I picked up the copy of the _Trib_ that lay on the table waiting for Charlie. I pulled out the regional section figuring I should keep up on the local news. Inside there was a little article that got my full attention.

Body Found in

Illinois River

DESTON, Ill. – Illinois State Police report recovering the body of an unidentified male from the Illinois River Wednesday, April 30, just east of this small rural community.

State Police Captain William Hartzell said the crew of a passing barge spotted the body entangled in a snag on the south bank and alerted authorities.

According to Captain Hartzell it appeared the body had been in the river for several days. An attempt to identify the victim has been launched.

Deston is a gas station, a feed store, a roadhouse and a grain elevator about seven miles downriver from Rouen. That made it two bodies this week at the river. It could've been a coincidence. But somehow I had a hunch it might not be. I folded up the section and slipped it back into the rest of the paper. I drank the coffee and waited for Charlie. I had some things to do.

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# Chapter Eight

**I hate brown** cars. There's just no good reason to paint a car brown. Blue, black, red, white, silver even – those are colors for a car. Not brown. Which explains why I wasn't completely happy driving down Route 53 toward Rouen. I'd wound up renting a '55 Dodge that looked like it should belong to some Norwegian farmer's spinster aunt. I tried hard not to think about the ugly brown car because that only made me think of the pretty blue Buick I'd been driving yesterday. And I didn't want to think about that.

I turned on the radio and fiddled with the dial looking for a station with news. I wanted to hear if any local stations were talking about the body that had been found in the river. But all I got were farm reports on the price of pork bellies and soybean and corn futures. That and a preacher from somewhere in Texas telling me I needed to find Jesus to be rich and that the best way to find Jesus was to send in as much money as I could. Or something like that. I turned the radio off.

I needed a base of operation with a phone. I stopped at the Howard Johnson's just off the interstate north of town. Even though it was way before check-in time, I managed to talk my way into a room.

It was too early to call Marty, he hadn't had time to accomplish anything yet this morning. But I did need to talk to him. I'd forgotten to mention the safe deposit box key. I'd been pretty frazzled after the cops. Maybe there was a will or who knows what in it. Whatever, we should probably check it out. I just knew I'd need his help since banks tend to get funny when the box renter is dead.

My first call was to the Illinois State Police District Headquarters in Lockport. I gave them a fake name and told them I was a reporter for the Associated Press and wished to speak to Captain Hartzell about the body found in the river yesterday. It wasn't a complete lie. I used George's name from back at the LA Star and I'd once been a stringer for the AP. I thought I still might have one of their press cards in my wallet. As I guessed, I got nothing much more out of him than what had been in the Trib that morning. All he told me new was that the body was that of a Caucasian male in his forties or fifties.

My next call was to Dr. Northrup's office. Judy must have been busy because I had to sit on hold for a little while. I think she was surprised to hear from me, but excited too. No, she couldn't make dinner tonight, but tomorrow night would be fine. We made it a date. Now it would be fair of you to wonder how a guy could go out on a date the same day he's burying his wife. Well, that's that dead spot again. But it wasn't just a date. I thought maybe I might need her.

***

It was probably going to be a complete wild goose chase, but I had the time and I needed to feel like I was doing something. Plus, I could use a drink with the afternoon I had coming up. When I got into Deston, I was a little surprised to see the roadhouse had a new sign on it. Actually it was the old sign with the name covered by a tarp with the new name painted across it. Used to be the Deston Inn. Now it was "Traveler's." I thought that kind of strange since there were never very many people traveling through Deston and those who did were generally lost.

It was still a little before noon, so the place was pretty empty. Which I thought didn't really suit my purpose. I went in anyway and took a seat at the bar and ordered a drink. They didn't have any Johnnie Walker either which seemed to really hurt the feelings of the bartender because he apologized profusely and offered to stock it if I planned to be in "regular like." He was way too eager. He had to be the new owner. I didn't think he'd have any kielbasa being this far from Chicago, but I asked anyway. He apologized again, and I settled for some bratwurst. We struck up a conversation that started with the weather, then covered his job history and the saga of his taking over the roadhouse and eventually revealed his last name was Traveler. I finally broached my subject.

"I hear they fished a body out of the river yesterday. Must have been some excitement around here."

"Not so much excitement, but there was some talk of it last night."

"How so?"

"A couple of the boys went down to watch them haul it out. They say he was hanging off the branches of that snag like Jesus Christ himself. Except he was all bloated up like road kill and the back of his head was blowed off."

"Anybody know who it was?"

"No. Except he wasn't from around here."

"How do you know that?"

"He was wearing a suit."

It had been worth the trip. With nothing left to learn, I let the conversation go back to his stories while I finished my sandwich and ordered another drink. When it was finally time to leave, I asked if there was a pay phone in the place. There was, back by the restrooms.

I dropped a dime into the phone and dialed Marty's number from the card he'd given me. He said he didn't have a lot to report. I told him I had some things I wanted to share with him, and we agreed to get together later in the afternoon after I was done with the wake. He said he might have more to talk about then.

I hung up and waved a goodbye and called out a thanks to the owner as I walked out. He shouted after me to come back again anytime. When I got outside I shook my head. There sat that damn brown car.

***

I'd given the timing a lot of thought. If I got there right at the beginning there wouldn't be very many people, and I'd be more or less alone with the family. That wouldn't be good. So instead of parking in the funeral home lot, I parked across the street and waited. It didn't take long. By two thirty, I could see enough people had showed up that I could venture in.

My first thought when I got in was that I was glad I hadn't bought flowers. The place was wall to wall with bouquets and sprays and wreaths. Anything I could have afforded would've been lost in what looked like an indoor version of the Rose Parade. The second thing I thought was that people don't realize when they're sending flowers to a wake like that they're only helping make the place smell even more like a mortuary. My final thought was all the flowers had more to do with paying tribute to her father than memorializing poor Connie. And that pissed me off.

At this point I should make it clear that the dead spot thing had nothing to do with the fact I didn't send flowers. Connie couldn't see them, touch them or smell them. And Connie was the only reason I was there. I wasn't going to pay for flowers for her family and friends to look at. All I wanted to do was say goodbye to Connie. Or rather pretend to. After all, she was dead.

Charlie and Alice had assumed the role of greeters welcoming the mourning into the room where the family and the casket were. After a short wait in the reception line, it was my turn.

"Glad you came early on," Charlie half whispered through a forced smile. "The folks are up front there in the first row. They're talking to some friends now, so it's a good time."

I looked into the room and saw the casket vaulted and open on the back wall almost obscured by the flowers. I could see the back of Carl's head with that magnificent white mane of his. He was seated next to Arlene talking to two other couples standing between them and the casket. It was a good time.

"I won't be long," I promised.

Charlie nodded. Alice stayed behind her perfect little plastic smile.

As I walked into the room I recognized a number of people from our past together, but whenever I met someone's glance they turned away. So I was to be the occasion's pariah. So be it. They could all go to hell. I made straight for the casket. I had to wait a moment for a Catholic couple in front of me to go through their whole kneeling and crossing ritual. Then it was my turn.

She looked better than she did the day I put her on the train but not as good as when we were both alive and in love. I forced myself to look hard for something that would tell me what had happened to her, but there was nothing. I reached out and touched her hand. That's when I saw she was wearing a wedding band. It obviously wasn't the one she'd left behind. I didn't know what to make of it. But it started to choke me up a little when I thought what it could mean. It was time to get out of there.

As I turned and walked back out the far aisle, there was something about the scene that struck me as odd. The people in the chairs or those standing around talking with one another – none of them were looking at me. Which wasn't odd. What was odd were the two guys standing together against the far wall. They were wearing suits like everybody else. But they were the wrong suits. And they were both looking right at me. As I walked up the aisle, I felt their eyes follow me all the way out the room.

I just waved and smiled at Charlie and Alice and mouthed "I'll call" as I beat an exit. Once outside I stopped and lit a cigarette and took a healthy drag. I looked at my watch. Plenty of time for a drink before catching up with Marty.

***

"There's something funny going on around here. I tell you there's something really wrong about all this." I was pacing back and forth. I'd managed to work myself up into a quite a state by the time I got to Marty's office.

Marty just gave me a blank look through his horn rims.

"I mean it," I said. "There's more going on than Connie getting killed and this business with the insurance. There's something not right about my brother-in-law, and there's something not right about that body they pulled out of the river yesterday. Something's going on I tell you." I didn't want to mention the two guys at the wake. That could just be me getting spooked, and I didn't want to sound like I was paranoid or anything.

"It's too soon to say all that. We still don't know anything. " Marty was taking the pragmatic road. "And you've been drinking."

I waved off the last comment and kept going. "I'm telling you we do know something. We know that insurance policy made me the prime suspect. What we know about that guy in the river says it could be more than coincidental with Connie's murder. And we know Charlie's holding back on us."

"Not for sure."

"Sure enough."

"Not really. There are a thousand explanations for what you're saying. You're just guessing. And it's not really important anyway. The police are handling it."

I was running out of energy and the floor was moving a little too much. I sat down. "I don't like any of this."

"Just be patient. We'll know more soon. We need the autopsy and we need the insurance policy. And like I told you a minute ago, we need the death certificate before we can get into the safe deposit box or make a claim on the insurance. I filed papers today. Should only be a day or two before we have something."

I put my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands. "This is too much."

"You've had a rough day. You need to get something to eat."

I just sat there trying to think how not to think anymore.

Marty got up and took hold of my arm. "Come on, let's go down to Dora's."

Dora's was a cafe down the street. They didn't serve liquor. I gave in.

***

Even though they were about to close, Dora let us in and order. After some hash and eggs and coffee I felt a little better. At least well enough to drive. Marty suggested I call it a day and go get some rest. That sounded like a good idea.

It was now about seven o'clock and Main Street had emptied out. The day people and the after work drinkers had gone home, and the night drinkers hadn't come into town yet. After I parted with Marty, I walked around the block to a package store and picked up a bottle of scotch to take back to the room.

I'd left the Dodge parked in front of Schein's, and as I walked toward it I happened to notice there was only one other car parked on the street. A dark colored Ford. I didn't pay it that much attention, but I did see its lights come on as I backed out of the space. I didn't think of it again until I turned left and got onto 53 heading north back to the motel. As I passed the grade school, I thought I saw it at the intersection and so I watched in the rear view mirror. It pulled out behind me. Now I was paying attention. With its headlights on I couldn't really tell who might be in it. I considered making a turn to see if it followed me, but decided I'd become entirely too paranoid. I just needed to get on with it. Still, it bothered me.

I don't know why, a minute later I changed my mind. Just after I went over the railroad tracks I hung a quick left, slowed down and watched in the mirror. The Ford just kept going. I went around the block and got back on 53. I was being crazy I thought to myself.

The HoJo sits next to Heartland Propane there on the west side of 53. As I turned left into the lot, I saw what I thought looked like the front end of a dark Ford in the shadows behind one of the tanks. When I got to the room I bolted the door and closed the drapes even before I made a drink. I wasn't crazy. Just scared.

(back to top)

# Chapter Nine

**My mind was** much more capable of dealing with reality when I woke up. The night caps had dulled the fear enough for sleep. I opened the drapes and turned on the TV and put the Today Show on just to bring some reality into the room. I lay on the bed and considered everything. I didn't exactly mind being followed. I had nothing to hide. I just didn't like that I didn't know who was doing it. That was where the fear came from. Not knowing. It could be the cops. A dark Ford could definitely be an unmarked car. And that would be fine. I still had to be a suspect and, like I said, I had nothing to hide. But if it wasn't the cops, that could be a problem because I had no idea why anyone else would want to follow me.

I stayed on the bed thinking things like that until it was time to get ready to go to the funeral.

***

We buried my father in a little cemetery out on the prairie next to where a church once stood. The church burned down many years before so now there was nothing around but the frigid gray sky and the flat frozen black dirt stretching for miles in every direction before the two met each other in an unbroken hazy horizon.

There was only the immediate family present, and the pastor had mercy on us considering the temperature. His brief reading and prayers came in bursts of steam from his mouth as the Bible quaked in his shivering hands.

I didn't listen to him. Instead, I thought about my father. Years ago I'd made peace with the fact I'd never liked either one of my parents. People are born who they are, and sometimes they're born to people they don't really like. There is no familial love gene. Still, I had known the man my entire life and felt capable of assessing his. Trite truisms first came to mind. Like, no one is all good or all bad. Or, we reap what we sow. But then this bleak and barren place made me consider something else. He was going into his grave unforgiven. He may have been loved by some, respected by others, even admired by those he had worked with. But he had never atoned nor asked for atonement from those he had ever wronged. He had lived in an arrogance that in the end made the sum of his life as empty and cold as the wretched landscape that would swallow him today.

Which is why when we filed from the cemetery I threw a flower down onto his coffin and said the words, "I forgive you."

***

Saint Mark's Episcopal Church was not the biggest in town. That distinction went to Our Lady of Sorrows, the Catholic one, followed closely by Good Shepherd Lutheran. But it was easily the most beautiful as it was made of field stone, adorned in stained glass and surrounded by tall elms. It just wasn't going to be big enough today.

As I drove up to the church, I could see this was going to be a circus. A hearse and four limos took up nearly the entire block in front of the church. The rest was filled by police cars hired to escort the cortege, their red lights already flashing. Cars were parked everywhere I could see. People walking toward the entrance were all decked out in subdued or black versions of Easter outfits, chatting excitedly, pointing out friends and the town's well-known. The scene felt like opening night at the Hollywood Bowl. Disgusting.

I couldn't find a place to park until I'd driven around four different blocks. I ended up that many away from the church. Which was fine in a way because I really didn't want to be seen getting out of a brown Dodge. As I joined the procession funneling its way to the church, I kept thinking that this was somehow not right. Connie and I had never had anything to do with these people. Most attending didn't even know her. They were all from a past we'd not shared with one another. Our life together had begun when we landed in California, and it was in California that it ended. This was all about other people. I suppose any funeral is. It was just that I wanted nothing to do with these other people.

I finally stopped at the corner two blocks away and took my time lighting a cigarette. I waited until most of the stragglers had passed me by then I turned and walked back to the car. I had better things to do for Connie than sit in a church.

***

It probably sounds odd, but I do keep a special place in my heart for Andrew Carnegie. One of the hundreds of public libraries he funded across the country sits at the corner of Main and Jefferson in Rouen. When I was a kid it was my haven, my redoubt, my place to be when it was not a good idea to be home. If I felt like being a kid, I could go down into the basement and read kid books. If I wanted to feel like a grownup I could peruse the shelves upstairs. It was quiet, it was safe and it held everything I wanted to know. Which is precisely why I went there.

I brought in my steno pad with the notes I'd made after talking with Charlie the other night. I decided to start with back issues of the _Rouen Daily Register_ , the name of which, if nothing else, was a colossal misnomer as it hardly registered anything and was only printed five days a week. But it was the local paper, and I was looking for anything I could find.

Connie had returned to her parents' home in early October. Charlie said she left after "something happened" a month later. I went to the stacks and collected all the dead issues from the first two weeks in November, brought them back to a table and started reading through them.

The police blotter column yielded nothing of interest thanks in part to the paper's editorial policy of keeping most of the blurbs vague and anonymous: "A car dealership on Route 53 reported hubcaps stolen from six of its vehicles Saturday night." There were four car dealers on Route 53 so I guess it was up to you to figure out which one it was.

The only story I found right away with any relevance to the Fowlers was an obvious press release, I'm sure run without so much as a comma changed, announcing that Carl was forming an exploratory committee to assess the viability of running for governor in two years.

As much out of curiosity as sleuthing, I read through the obits. That's when I came across one that got me.

Marie Knarvik Dumont, 71

Marie Knarvik Dumont, 71, passed away unexpectedly Sunday, November 3, in her residence at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Carl Sheffield Fowler with whom she had long been employed. Born in Norway, she was the daughter of the late Lars and Inga Knarvik of Coal City and widow of Joseph Dumont who also had been employed by the Fowler family. She was predeceased by her brothers Erik and Jacob, both of Gardner. She is survived by her nephews, John D. of Matoon, Ill. and James F. of Pierre, S.D., and a niece, Anna Knarvik Barr of Streator, Ill.

Visitation will be held from 4 p.m. to 8 p.m. Wednesday, November 6, at the Hargrove Funeral Home. Funeral Services will be held at 10 a.m. Thursday, November 7, at St. Mark's Episcopal Church in Rouen. Rev. Arthur White will officiate. Burial will be at Pine Lawn Cemetery in Rouen.

I sat back in the chair and tried to take this in. It could be something. Marie had raised all three children as the Fowlers' housekeeper and nanny. Her husband had worked for the family as chauffeur, gardener and handyman until he died maybe six years ago. They'd lived in an apartment above the carriage house. Marie's death would seem to coincide with Connie leaving the house. Why hadn't Charlie mentioned that? There had to be a connection. The children had loved Marie, and Connie would have been terribly upset at her passing. But why would that cause her to take off as she did? Ever since I'd landed in town, the more I found out the less I knew.

I gathered up the papers and returned them to the stacks. I decided to go through back issues of the _Chicago Trib_ from around that same time. There was obviously no story or obituary on Marie's passing, but the paper had written its own story on Fowler's announcement about a possible run at the governorship. A real paper doesn't use the press release. In the story they mentioned that a Melvin A. Loomis, a state representative from Evanston, would be heading preliminary fund raising efforts. But that's what Charlie had said he was doing.

Other than churches and schools, the library is maybe the only place in town you can't smoke. I left the papers and my notes on the table and wandered outside. I stood on the steps, lit up and looked around for a dark Ford. I admit I was relieved when I didn't see one. Thinking of nothing in particular, I suddenly had a hunch. I tossed the butt across the sidewalk and into the street. I went back inside.

It took some time, but I finally found something.

Fiery Route 80 Accident Claims

State Assemblyman Melvin Loomis

MINOOKA, Ill. – State Representative Melvin A. Loomis was killed early Saturday morning, January 11, in a one-car accident here on Route 80 just west of Highway 59.

State Police Sergeant Gerald Kelly said Loomis' car was eastbound when it swerved off the roadway and into a ditch where it immediately burst into flames according to eyewitnesses who said they were unable to extricate the victim. Loomis was alone in the car.

The assemblyman was in his fourth term representing Evanston's 97th District and served on the Banking and Appropriations Committees. He was a senior partner in the Chicago law firm Higgins, Krum & Loomis. He leaves a wife, Martha, and three children.

Sergeant Kelly said an investigation of the accident is underway.

I spent another half hour combing through papers looking for a follow up story, but there was only the obituary which gave no further details on the accident.

The bodies were piling up and with them too many questions. Rouen doesn't have a murder maybe but once every ten years. Now there were two in a week. Marie dies "unexpectedly." And now this Loomis guy. Cars don't just explode when they hit a ditch. And with the possible exception of the floater in the river, Carl Fowler knew them all. That's a lot of dead people to know.

Before I returned the papers to the stacks, I sat at the table and made more notes. I had people I needed to talk to.

***

Pine Lawn isn't a very big cemetery by LA standards. Forest Lawn is probably as big as all of Rouen. So after I parked the car it was just a short walk to where a row of enormous headstones stood along the western edge of the site. The mourners and the gravediggers were all gone. They'd left behind a lawn littered with tissues and wrappers and cigarette butts and a mound of black dirt poorly covered by a green tarp piled high with wilting broken flowers. What I am sure had been so movingly eulogized a few hours ago now lay alone under a pile of waste waiting for the dirt to settle. Dust to dust, I guessed.

I stood and looked at the grave for some time. There were moments when I was able to put the image of her in the coffin away and remember her smiling eyes and the trill of her laughter and the special times we had made love. Then my eyes would focus again, and I would see dead flowers. I didn't speak. I had no need to hear myself talk. But I did have thoughts. One was that I would see whoever did this pay. The other was that I forgave her everything.

(back to top)

# Chapter Ten

**Judy was a** nice girl. If she was interested in me, it was for the wrong reasons.

She'd gotten herself all dolled up and looked better than I'd remembered her from the other night. With her hair done up and the makeup and all she looked pretty good. She smelled nice too. The dress she chose hinted at some expectations for the evening, but I chose not to let my mind get ahead of itself, although she caught me looking longer than I should have at the décolleté. It made her smile.

We went out to a place called The Four Columns. It was a converted old roadhouse on the edge of town that didn't really have any columns, just four wrought iron pillars that held up the awning over the front door. It had made itself into the best restaurant in town by serving diner food in smaller portions with parsley on the plate.

It being a Friday night the place was crowded. We got lucky and were seated at a table for two in a far corner where we could see the rest of the room. This suited Judy perfectly as she was able to point out all the old classmates and update their biographies. There was Gary Gustafson, now a pharmacist, who'd come back from the war with one leg. There was Jim Birdseye and his wife who used to be Marilyn Costello and who last year had their sixth child. There was Betty Newman with her husband Bob who had just gotten back from a trip to Florida. And on she went. I feigned interest until she pointed out Frank Haskell on the far side of the room.

With his slicked back hair and pencil mustache he looked like something out of an old movie, but I think it was more just him trying to hide his baby face. I could tell he was drinking too much and talking too loud. I wondered if the blonde he was with would get a beating tonight. I thought about getting up and walking over there and punching his face in. But it was just a thought. I let it go.

With her briefing complete, Judy turned her attention to me. I got the feeling she somehow considered me some sort of foreigner who had wandered into town full of stories of exotic places. I obliged as much as I could trying to make LA sound like the place she'd read about in the _National Enquirer_ and rags like that. Eventually, though, she got personal. I expected it.

"It must have been hard for you today," she said with genuine sympathy.

I didn't want to talk about it. "It wasn't easy."

"What happened between you two? You made such a beautiful couple."

"Booze," I said.

Judy put down her martini. "Oh," she said. "I thought I heard something like that. I'm really sorry for you."

I know she meant it, but like I said before, sympathy only makes me feel worse. I took a drink and looked around for a waitress to order another. "Well," I said, "these things happen." Which I guess was a pretty stupid thing to say considering murder doesn't happen all that much. But at least it got the conversation off the subject.

"So how long do you plan on being in town?"

I figured it was time to level with her. A little bit, anyway. I told her about the situation with the cops. "But more than that," I said, "I really want to stay until I find out what happened to her. It wasn't right for her to go like that."

"I had heard the police wanted to talk to you." Everybody in Rouen heard everything. I was counting on that.

"So you don't mind being seen in public having dinner with a murder suspect?"

She laughed. "It just makes you more the mysterious dark stranger."

I thought that's what she thought. "Listen," I said. "Did you ever hear anything about Marie Dumont, the housekeeper over at the Fowlers'? I understand she passed away last fall, and I know Connie thought the world of her."

"Not really. She was one of Dr. Northrup's patients. But they didn't call him or anything when they found her. Which was a little strange I guess. It was sudden, I know that. You'd always see her running around town shopping and doing errands. Didn't look a day over sixty. I guess you just never know."

"So you don't know what she died of?"

"No. I guess we all assumed it was just a heart attack or stroke or something like that."

Nothing much there. I decided to press on. "I didn't hear a lot from Connie once she got back home here. What was the word in town? Was she taking care of herself?"

"When she first came back you'd see her around town. But she wasn't hanging out in bars or anything, if that's what you mean."

"No, it's just I heard she left town not that long after she got back here."

"Well, there was some gossip going around that her father threw her out of the house. But I think that was just gossip. You know how cruel they can be here when somebody's having a hard time."

I did. I wanted to try one last thing. "Did you hear about the guy they found in the river over toward Deston?"

"Yeah. Kinda spooky, two people in a week dead down by the river."

"Dr. Northrup's not doing the autopsy on him, is he?"

"He was going to, but the State Police decided they wanted to take the body up to Chicago and do it there."

Strike three. "So what do you do for Dr. Northrup?" It was time to pay attention to her.

"I still help with patients some, but now we have Nancy doing most of that. I mainly handle the records and do the billing. Things like that."

I'd hoped to hear some such thing. But that was something for later if need be. "Sounds interesting," I commented and let the rest of the dinner talk wind its way through her life and times.

It actually ended up being a nice evening with her. By the time we were ready to leave, there were only two other couples left in the place. On the way back to her house I joked about the brown Dodge, half apologizing for the dumpy ride she was getting. She laughed and said she thought it was just the mysterious stranger traveling incognito. When I pulled up in front of her place she allowed as how her daughter was sleeping over at a friend's that night and would I like to come in for coffee or a nightcap? Part of me wanted to in the worst way, but most of me had enough of the day and the weight I'd carried through it. I begged off.

"Well then," she said," I had fun. I hope we can do this again before you head back to Los Angeles."

"We will."

"Promise?"

I held up my hand. "Honest Injun."

She laughed and leaned over and gave me the sweetest, softest kiss I could remember in a long time. "I'm holding you to it," she smiled.

I got out of the car and walked around to let her out and see her to the door. She took my hand as we went up the walk. When we got to the door she let go, turned to me and reached up and pulled my face to hers. She kissed me like she meant it. I kissed her back the same way.

"Come in," she whispered.

So I did.

***

The last thing you do to a lady in a town like Rouen is leave your car parked in front of her house all night so the neighbors can see it in the morning. Probably bad enough it was there as long as it was.

I took my clothes into the bathroom so as not to make any noise getting dressed. When I tucked her in she barely stirred. I tiptoed through the house and out the front door. It was morning air that met me, chilly and sharp without the fuzzy edge of night air. I felt in my pocket to make sure I still had my car keys and the room key. I did.

I was more awake than I wanted to be. Judy lived only four blocks from Route 53. The street lights were still on so I decided not to turn the headlights on until I got to the highway, mysterious incognito stranger that I was. There was nobody out at this hour. It was maybe two thirty which meant there had been nobody out for almost four hours. That's Rouen, anyway. I turned right on 53and started north toward the HoJo. I turned on the headlights.

I don't know how long it had been there or where it came from, and I'm not really sure how I noticed it at all. Maybe a street light had reflected off its chrome or windshield or something. But halfway back to the motel I could make out a dark colored car some distance behind me. The headlights were off. I couldn't tell the make.

My heart took off. The only cars out at this hour should be cop cars. But cop cars didn't drive around without lights. I tried to calm myself down and drove a few more blocks like I hadn't seen them. I needed to do something, and I needed to do it now. I made a quick right onto Wilson, the street leading out to the factories, the mill and the strip mines beyond. I made another quick right and turned out the lights. I pulled in front of a parked car, backed up against it and kept the motor running while I watched the side view mirror. There was nothing. I waited longer. Still nothing.

It had been maybe five minutes, but it felt like an hour. I decided to chance it. I pulled to the corner and looked both ways. I waited for a few seconds and tried to think. The highway was no good. They were probably waiting for me to get back on it. I turned left, went a couple of blocks and turned left again. I zigzagged like that making my way north, trying not to hit the brakes any more than necessary to keep the brake lights from flashing in the back. I finally reached a point where I couldn't get any further north without getting on the highway.

It suddenly occurred to me then that I shouldn't go back to the motel anyway. They knew that's where I was headed, and all they had to do was wait for me like they probably had the other night. But if I didn't go there, where would I go? I decided there was only one place I could.

I made my way back south using the same block by block turning strategy I had before, always watching in the rear view mirror, always waiting and looking at every intersection. I never saw a sign of the dark car, so I kept going. I finally reached my destination – the parking lot behind Our Lady of Sorrows. I left the car parked in a space along a chain link fence and under some trees that cast a shadow from the street lights over it. It was as unobtrusive as I could make it.

Judy's house was three blocks away. I hoped I could make it there before waking every dog in the neighborhood. I kept to the shadows and walked on the grass as much as I could to make less noise. The adrenalin was draining from my system and I felt exhausted.

Mercifully, the front door was still unlocked. I'm not sure it was ever locked. I went inside to the bathroom and took off my clothes and folded them for the morning.

I slipped back into the bed as quietly as I could. She stirred and moved next to me. "Where'd ya go?" she mumbled.

"Errand," I said.

She smiled and snuggled into my chest. We fell back asleep like that.

(back to top)

# Chapter Eleven

**I must have** been more tired than I thought. I could tell by the light through the blinds it was late. I rolled over and saw she'd already gotten up. Then I saw her peek in the room.

"Quite the sleepy head you are. So glad you could join the world today." She smiled and cocked her head. She really was cute. Even without the makeup from the night before.

I just kind of shook my head and tried to come to. "Sorry," I said. "What time is it?"

"Almost ten. I bet you could use some coffee."

I could only nod a "yes" and rub my eyes. When I opened them she was gone. Before I could form another coherent thought, she was back with coffee cups. She sat on the edge of the bed and handed me one. Then she leaned over and gave me another one of those soft kisses on the cheek.

"I see you moved the car. Thank you. Where did you take it?"

"Just put it in the lot over at Our Lady. Should be fine. Looks like a Catholic car."

She laughed and just about spilled her coffee. "Why do I feel like such a teenager with you?"

I smiled. "I don't know. Must be the overpowering immaturity of the mysterious dark stranger."

She laughed again. We sat and drank the coffee and looked at each other. Then she asked, "You have plans today?"

"I do," I said. I just hadn't quite figured out what they were yet.

"Too bad," she said. "I'm off today."

"Maybe we can get together later," I offered.

She made a face. "Maybe. I don't want you to think I'm easy or anything."

"Don't you worry about that. But I guess I really should get going."

"There's time. Margie won't be home 'til after lunch." Margie was her daughter.

"No, I should get going," I said. "Lots to do."

"Like what?"

For a moment I almost started telling her about everything; the dark cars, the two guys at the wake, what I thought of all the dead people turning up. But then I didn't. "I need to talk to some people." Which was true.

"Like who?"

"Well, for starters, I'd like to find Tom Christiansen. I want to hear from him everything he saw."

She gave me a look that told me she understood. "All right. But while you get dressed I'm going to make us some breakfast. How's bacon and eggs?"

"Perfect," I said. Then I watched as she got up and took the coffee cups back out to the kitchen. When she passed through the door I saw her silhouette as the light shone through her silk robe and I remembered all of the night before.

***

I went straight to the motel. There had been many dark cars on the way to the HoJo. Saturday mornings in Rouen are busy with all the rurals coming into town. But it didn't look like I had anything following me. I took a quick little spin through the Heartland Propane lot and saw no dark cars behind the tanks.

The first thing I did was take a shower. I had vowed in the jungle, caked with days of filth, that if I ever got out of there alive I would take a shower every single day.

Once dressed, I sat on the edge of the bed and took the phone book out of the nightstand. I found Tom Christiansen and dialed the number. His wife Martha answered and said he was still out fishing and that she didn't expect him back until later in the afternoon. I asked if she knew where he was and she told me he was probably at his favorite spot just down river from the power plant. I asked what kind of car he had and she said a Chevy pickup, red.

Before I left the room, I lifted up the back of my jacket and slid the .45 into my waistband.

I drove south through town on 53 then went over the river bridge and made the first left onto the county road paralleling the river. South of the river was nothing but open farmland, the corn crop now just peeking out of the black dirt. There was a gravel road just before the entrance to the power plant that high school kids used to go necking down by the river. And I guess fishermen used it too because when I got to the river bank there was Tom sitting in a folding aluminum chair with two poles and lines in the water. He looked around at the sound of my car and eyed me as I got out and approached him.

He was a much older version of the man I'd known, white hair now poking out beneath his baseball cap. I called out to him, "Hello! Coach Christy?" That's what we used to call him.

I could see him squint trying to make me out. When I got up to him I said, "I don't know if you remember me, Roy Cutter from back at Rouen High? Class of 41?"

"What's that," he said, cupping his hand to his ear."

I shouted the same thing.

He looked at me a little quizzically, then smiled. "Oh sure, good field, no hit."

I laughed. "It's good to see you," I shouted.

I think it was at this point he made the connection to Connie. His face darkened. "Sorry for your loss," he said. "What can I do for you?"

"I was hoping you could tell me what you saw when you found my wife."

"Heh?"

"You know, what you saw when you discovered the body." Louder this time.

"Police told me not to talk to anybody about it."

I was afraid of that. "Well, maybe you could just show me where you found her."

"Heh?"

"Can you show me where you found her?"

He considered that for a second. "I suppose that's not talking," he sort of said to himself. "Wasn't far, follow me."

He got up from his chair and started walking east along the bank toward the power plant. I followed. A couple hundred yards later we came to a little clearing similar to the one where he'd been fishing. There were two sets of tire tracks, one set leading into the water, another stopping at the water's edge, then many more a distance from the bank where a gravel lane ended. The mud around the bank had been trampled smooth.

I walked up close to Tom and pointed. "Were there two sets of tire tracks like that when you found the car?"

Looking at the tracks he said, "No. Just the one from the car. But footprints all over."

"Both sides of the car?"

"Yup."

"What was she wearing?"

"Huh?"

"What did she have on?"

"Looked like a nightgown and robe."

That was a surprise.

"Was there a lot of blood?"

"Nope. No blood."

"Was the motor running?"

"Yeah. Car was in park."

"Was it in the water?"

"Maybe half way up the front wheels. That's all."

"The doors were open?"

"Yeah. Driver and passenger. Tailgate too.

Another surprise. Why would that be open?

"And you didn't see anybody around?" I wasn't going to bother to ask if he'd heard anything.

"No."

We both stood there looking out at the river flowing past. I thought to myself this was the last thing she saw. But in the dark. With somebody about to kill her.

I turned around and looked at the scene again and the tire tracks, half of them made when they'd towed the car away. I knew more than when I started. I guessed that was good enough. I touched Tom on the shoulder. "Thanks," I said. He nodded. We walked back down the bank to his little camp and my car.

***

Back at the motel I called information looking for the phone number of Anna Knarvik Barr in Streator, Marie Dumont's niece. There was no listing under that name, but the operator told me there were six Barr's listed. I asked for all their numbers. I found her on the fourth call.

"Hello?"

"Mrs. Barr?" I asked. "Is this Marie Dumont's niece?"

"Yes. Who is this?"

"My name is Roy Cutter. Friend of the Fowler family."

"Oh." I could hear ice form. "What do you want?"

I changed tack. "Actually, I'm not really with the Fowlers. It's just your aunt raised my late wife."

"Connie, you mean?" She knew Connie.

"Yes."

"We heard what happened. Why are you calling?"

"Well, this is a little awkward I guess. But when I came back for the funeral I found out Marie had passed away and I know how much Connie loved her." I was having trouble getting to the point.

"Marie thought the world of those kids."

"I know, and that's partly why I'm calling. I've been told that when Marie passed on Connie left the house and wasn't seen for a couple of months. I wondered if you knew anything about that?"

"No. We have nothing to do with the Fowlers. Nor do we want to." She said that like she meant it.

"I hope you don't mind me asking, but how did Marie die? Was it a heart attack?"

"We don't know. They wouldn't tell us."

"They wouldn't tell you?"

"No. All they did was give us a copy of the death certificate, and all that said was 'natural causes'."

"Do you know if there was an autopsy?"

"We asked, but they just gave us the run around. I don't think so though."

"What about a will? Did she have a will?" This was sounding stranger and stranger.

"Yes. But it was just a few dollars and some family keepsakes we split between the three of us."

"What about insurance?"

"Well, it's funny you mention that. When we went to the funeral, a man there told us we should check into that. So we hired us a lawyer and he found out there had been life insurance but that it had been payable to the Fowlers. So nothing for us."

"Do you know which Fowler was the beneficiary? The father and mother? The children?"

"Not really."

Nothing about this was sounding right. Nothing was straight forward and logical. The Fowlers were controlling everything.

"What about the funeral? I heard it was at St. Mark's."

"Don't even get me started on that. Poor Marie went to her Lutheran church her whole life long and those damn Fowlers go and have some priest bury her. I don't care if he was some Episcopalian. Just a damn shame. The whole thing."

I thanked her and said again how sorry I was about Marie.

"That's all right," she said. "I'm sorry for yours. Connie was a lovely girl."

We said our goodbyes and hung up. I had a lot of questions for Marty, but they'd have to wait for Monday. I went to the window and drew back the drapes. I cracked open the window as far as Howard Johnson wanted to let you and lit a cigarette. I was convinced there was a bigger story here than just the simple murder of a troubled woman and the natural death of an older one. There were too many strange little facts emerging. One by one they didn't seem to mean much. But together they were a troubling puzzle. And I still had to find out more about the guy in the river and the assemblyman who managed to burn himself up.

I let my mind wander a bit looking out the back of the motel and out over the plowed field with the tiny green sprouts of corn poking up. Life was going on. But I had to finish this business before mine could.

Finally, my mind turned to Judy. I thought maybe it would be a good idea to invite her and her daughter out for a movie and a bite to eat. I called her. She thought so too.

(back to top)

# Chapter Twelve

**There is nothing** deader than a little Midwestern town early on a Sunday morning. I mean, I've been in places like LA and Chicago and once even New York City on early Sunday mornings and they can be really quiet. But they aren't dead. They don't look like the apocalypse has come along and snatched every living thing from the earth. But that was Rouen. Even the diner out by the interstate was closed so the only place I could get a cup of coffee was the 76 truck stop the other side of the interstate.

I'd intended just to get a couple cups to go, but when I walked in I saw two state troopers sitting over at the counter so I changed my mind. I don't know, sometimes you get lucky. I took a seat around the corner from them so they could see me. The waitress came over and I ordered and watched the troopers. They were just chatting and joking and taking a break from riding up and down Route 80 looking to punish some poor chump for doing eighty-five on a brand new four lane when there wasn't another car within ten miles of them. Except for the trooper.

I waited for a pause in their conversation, then I said, "Good morning, officers." I didn't know if I was supposed to call them "troopers."

They both looked up and gave me the stare a dog gives a cat. Then they nodded.

I decided to go right for it. "Got a question. There was an accident a few months ago up on 80 the other side of Minooka. Driver was killed when the car went into the ditch and caught fire. Did they ever figure out why it exploded like that?"

The one on the left answered. "Trunk was full of gas cans."

"Really?" I was surprised. "That sounds crazy. Why would anybody do that?"

"Just stupid, I'd say."

"But that's all they think happened?"

"Don't know. They still may be looking into it."

Then the one on the right spoke up. "Why do you ask?"

"Just curious. Went by where it happened that morning then read about it."

They both gave me that dog look again, so I looked down at my coffee. They went back to their conversation. They finished up before I did and got off the stools, grabbed their trooper hats from off the counter and gave me that look one more time. I smiled a little and nodded. Then they walked out to resume keeping any four legged animals happening to be crossing the interstate safe this fine Sunday morning.

***

I had time to kill and wasn't sure how to kill it. The dinner and movie with Judy and her kid had been fun. Saw a comedy called _Teacher's Pet_ with Clark Gable and Doris Day. It was about a newspaper guy so there was stuff to talk about afterward. Margie was smart and kind of funny. She seemed at ease going out with her mom and some strange guy. Probably happened often enough. I liked her. But that was enough of that for a while. I decided to go for a drive.

I headed east on 80 more or less intending to see if there was anybody alive in Joliet or whether the apocalypse had happened there too. I did the speed limit so as not to meet up again with my counter mates. Then I had another idea. I'd go see Charlie and Alice. And I wouldn't call. I'd just drop in.

When I pulled up in front of their house, I could see both cars in the driveway. So they were home. That was good. I rang the bell and Alice answered still in curlers and a bathrobe. She kind of gave a little gasp and clutched the top of her robe together and then had me come in.

"Why didn't you call?" she half admonished me.

"Sorry, was just in the neighborhood and thought I'd drop by." I gave her my best charm smile trying to get away with it.

"Well, Charlie's out in the back on the patio having coffee and reading the paper. Why don't you go back there and I'll bring you out some coffee?" Obviously I was to get out of the house and not see the mess three kids can make on a real life Sunday morning even in Donna Reed's house.

As I came out the back door, Charlie looked up from his paper and gave a little start. "Roy? What brings you up here?"

"Well, I felt bad about not making it to the funeral, and I wanted to tell you I was sorry." That was a lie, but it sounded good.

"Yeah, we missed you. What happened?"

"I have to be honest. When I saw the size of the crowd I just kind of ... I don't know, I just couldn't do it."

"That's too bad. It was a beautiful ceremony. I gave the eulogy and Linda Jessup – I don't know if you know Linda – did the singing. Just beautiful. Reverend White did a real nice job too. Here – sit down."

I took a seat just as Alice brought me out coffee in one of those little china cup and saucers you save for company. She asked Charlie if he needed a refill, he shook a "no" and she went back into the house.

I lit up a cigarette and said, "I understand Marie Dumont passed away a few months ago." I wanted to surprise him with that one.

His eyes went narrow and he paused before he said, "Yes. Very sad."

"What happened?"

"Natural causes is what they said."

"Really? Connie must have been pretty upset."

"Of course." Then, after a pause, "We all were."

"Did that have anything to do with her taking off from the house?"

Charlie put the paper down and shifted in his chair. But I could tell it wasn't the chair that was making him uncomfortable. "It all happened around the same time. But I don't think so."

"What was it then?"

"What do you mean?" He was buying time.

"What sent her out of the house?"

"I really don't know. I think it might have had something to do with our dad. But I don't know what that could've been. You know how flighty Connie could be."

I knew she wasn't flighty enough to leave a free ride in a big comfortable house without a reason.

"So I hear the family collected on Marie's life insurance policy." Time to throw a real grenade.

It landed. Charlie stood straight up, took a quick drag on his cigarette then stubbed it out. "Why on earth would you ask me a question like that?"

"Just curious. Wondered if Connie might have been one of the beneficiaries."

"Listen, Roy. I know you're as upset about Connie's death as the rest of us, and I know you're in kind of a tough spot right now. But you're getting into things that are none of your business. That's family business and while I hate to say it, you're not family anymore. But just for your information Connie was not a beneficiary. So don't be looking for any money there."

"Sorry, Charlie. Didn't mean to upset you. I'm not looking for anything." Another lie.

"That's all right. But maybe you'd better go now. I'm sure Alice is embarrassed about the house, and we've got to get to ready to take the kids to church."

"I understand," I said getting up from the chair.

"Stay in touch. Let us know how you're making out with the police."

"I will." And with that I left, walking around the house and down the driveway back to the car. There were things to think about.

***

I got back to Rouen about one o'clock and stopped at the Redwood Cafe for a bite. I picked up a copy of the _Sunday Trib_ at the counter and was able to get a booth in the back where I could spread out. I poured through the paper, except for the comics and sports pages, but couldn't find anything more about the guy in the river. Or anything else of interest for that matter.

I took a break and ate my BLT and thought. When I was done, I left my wallet on the table so they'd know I hadn't run out on the check and went out to the car and brought back my steno pad. I took my pen from my pocket and went to work.

I made a rough little diagram of what old Tom told me he'd seen at the river. I drew a line for the river bank and then a rectangle for the car with its nose in the water. Then I drew lines out from the rectangle showing the doors and the tailgate open. Then I put dots all around the rectangle for the footprints. Finally I made a curvy little line coming off the front of the rectangle to show the car was running.

I looked at my drawing for some time. Then I cried, "Damn!" out loud. I got looks from the people in the next booth. I mouthed "sorry" back at them. I'd forgotten to ask Tom if the headlights had still been on.

I went back to looking and thinking. After a while, I drew a little circle on the passenger side where Connie had been sitting. Sitting in a nightgown and robe. In her father's car. With her hands folded in her lap. Looking at the river. In the passenger seat. Somebody else drove her there. Somebody she would get into the car with wearing a nightgown. Unless, of course, she'd been forced.

Just then the waitress came over to refill my coffee cup. As I leaned back to give her room to pour she kind of flinched at my movement and spilled some coffee on the table. She was quick to apologize and mop it up with a rag she carried. But that got me thinking. You don't get killed without flinching. Unless you expect it and accept it. Or if you never see it coming. And Connie hadn't flinched. Tom found her sitting there with her eyes open.

The cops were sure this was a professional job. But a professional hit is supposed to be clean. This scene wasn't clean. Had they intended to send the car with the body into the river? That seemed stupid since it wouldn't take long for the current to wash it up against the bank or onto a bar. Why all the footprints? That many footprints could mean confusion, panic even. A professional would just do it and get out. Boom, gone. That hadn't happened here.

Most people turn the motor off from force of habit when they get out of a car. But the motor was still running. No, something happened in the midst of all this that wasn't planned. That much I was sure of.

I started to make a list. Connie knew who drove her, or she was forced into the car. She knew she was getting killed and acquiesced, or it was a complete surprise. There was confusion at the scene. Something stopped the killer before he could finish cleaning up, getting rid of the body and maybe even the car.

I stopped the list to consider another possibility. What if the dead guy in the river had been involved? He didn't shoot himself in the back of the head. What if there were two people involved? One to drive, one to lay hidden in the back of the wagon and do the deed and then get out through the tailgate? Then one killed the other and put him in the river. The dead guy wouldn't have expected that. There could have been a fight or an attempt to get away. And that would make for footprints. That all sounded plausible even as confused as I was getting.

Then there were the questions I had no guesses for. Why was it her father's car? How did they kill her? Why did they want Connie dead? Yes, why that at all? That was the big question.

To get answers you first have to have questions. Looking at my notes I knew I had a good start on the right ones.

I reached into my pocket for some change for the tip and threw it on the table. I folded the paper up to leave for another customer. Then I grabbed my pad, my pen and the check and made for the register. Maybe I could catch a ball game on TV back at the room and let my brain cool down. It was Sunday. You're supposed to rest on Sunday.

(back to top)

# Chapter Thirteen

**I woke up** later than I wanted to. It's funny how when you don't have a job to go to your clock gets all messed up. Or maybe I was just beat. I shuffled down to the lobby for some of the swill they called coffee. That's how desperate I was. Just for kicks I stopped at the desk and asked if there were any messages. There was one. It had come Friday, and it was from Norm of all people. It said to call. I brought it back to the room with the coffee. It was too early to phone LA, so I showered and dressed. Then I gave Marty a call.

He had nothing new to report and he said it was unlikely anything was going to happen with his motions on a Monday. I thought it nice the judicial system couldn't seem to operate five days a week like everybody else. Anyway, I told him I had some things I wanted to talk to him about but that they could wait. We agreed to catch up Tuesday.

I decided to grab some breakfast over at the Redwood and make a plan for the day. I picked up a copy of the _Trib_ and settled into a booth. I hadn't even finished my first cup of coffee when I came across it, right there at the bottom of page two.

Mob Hit Suspected In

Body Found in River

CHICAGO, Ill. – State Police here have tentatively identified the body of a man found last week in the Illinois River as that of Arthur "Whitey" Quinn of Cicero.

According to a statement issued by State Police Colonel Thomas Carlisle, Quinn, 42, had a long criminal record dating back to the early 1940's.

Quinn's body was found April 30 along the Illinois River 60 miles southwest of Chicago outside the village of Deston.

"At this time we suspect organized crime involvement," Carlisle reported. "The deceased's injuries were consistent with an execution-style murder and we are aware of his long standing ties to criminal organizations in the Chicago area."

Unnamed sources said Quinn sustained a gunshot wound to the back of the head. His arrest record includes indictments on first and second degree murder charges that were never fully prosecuted when pleas to manslaughter charges resulted in probation and suspended sentences.

State Police officials say their investigation is ongoing.

I leaned back and left the paper open to the story. I lit a cigarette. I was aware of a growing discomfort in the pit of my stomach. The mob. What in the world had Connie gotten herself into? Then I thought of those two guys at the wake and the dark cars in the night. My stomach got even tighter. This was getting serious.

I tried to make this jibe with what I'd worked out the day before. The late Mr. Quinn could well have been the killer. Or maybe just an accomplice who drove the car and could possibly rat out the killer. But based on his history, I suspected the former. And if he was the killer, why did they kill him? Didn't they have some sort of code or something? Once again I tore the article out of the paper and put it in my pocket. I was building quite a little file.

The waitress came by with more coffee, and I tried to change my order from eggs and bacon to just toast. I'd kind of lost my appetite. But it was too late, and the food came out a few minutes later. I managed to eat it anyway.

As I walked out of the restaurant I looked at my watch. Ten thirty. That made it eight thirty in LA. Norm would be in. I almost went back into the restaurant to use their pay phone, but then I realized I didn't have a pocketful of change to make a long distance call. So I headed back to my room.

I had no idea why Norm would want to talk to me unless it was about some back pay or some defamation suit that had showed up because I'd written too much of the truth about somebody. Either way I didn't care much.

I had to wait a few minutes outside the door for the maid to finish making up the room. When she was done, I went inside and made the call. I'd only been gone a week and already it felt strange to dial Norm's number again.

"Yeah?"

I had to smile to myself at how he could convey so much frustration, impatience and downright nastiness in a single word.

"Norm... this is Roy."

"Roy. Oh, good. I hoped you'd call back." He actually sounded happy to hear from me.

"What's up?"

"Listen, all last week after you'd gone this guy kept calling looking for you. I told him you weren't here anymore, but he kept at it. He wouldn't say what he wanted. Knowing you, I thought he was just some bill collector or an angry husband or something. I just kept putting him off. Then finally Friday he said he needed to speak with you about your wife. So that's when I thought it might be important, and I tried to track you down."

"Did he say what it was?"

"No. Just that it was urgent he get in touch."

"How'd you know where I was?"

"George read the telegram over your shoulder. And I remembered the town. There's not a lot of places to stay there."

"Norm, thanks. I know you didn't have to do that."

"Listen, we're all sorry for your loss. Did you see the flowers we sent?"

I felt awful because of course I hadn't. So I lied. "They were beautiful, Norm. Just beautiful. Thanks. You didn't have to."

"Well, we all feel bad for you. It must be rough."

There was that sympathy thing again. "It's okay."

He got back to business. "You got a pencil?"

I did.

"The guy's name is Herb Kucharik. It looks like a Chicago number, 312 area code."

Norm spelled the name for me, and I wrote it down with the number on the pad on the nightstand. It was indeed a Chicago number. I recognized the exchange.

"I got it," I said. "Hey, thanks. I appreciate what you did. And the flowers too."

"That's all right. Hope everything works out for you."

"Yeah, well, I bet ya miss me."

He chuckled in spite of himself. But then he said, "Not the way you were."

We said goodbyes and I hung up. I couldn't imagine what this Kucharik guy could want with me. But it was apparently about Connie, so I wanted to hear what he had to say. I dialed.

"Randolph Investigations. How may I help you?"

I was taken aback. "I'm calling for Herb Kucharik."

"One moment please."

I heard the extension ring, then, "Billing. Kucharik."

"Herb Kucharik?"

"Yeah, who's this?

"My name is Roy Cutter. I understand you've been trying to reach me.

"Cutter? Hold on a minute."

I could hear papers rustling. Then he apparently found what he was looking for.

"Okay," he said. "I need to speak with you about an outstanding balance your wife left with our firm. Two hundred and fifty-five dollars and fifty-six cents. It's now thirty days past due and we need you to make immediate arrangements to take care of it."

I had too many questions to attempt the first. "Wait a minute. Who are you people?" That was the best I could do.

"We're an investigative agency your wife retained."

"What was she investigating?"

"I have no idea. This is billing."

"I think her family is handling her estate." I have no idea why I said that. I was just lost.

"File here says we're not to contact any Fowler family member under any circumstances. You were her legal husband at the time of her death were you not?"

"Yes."

"Then you're next of kin. You're responsible."

"Hold on now." I was desperately trying to grasp this whole thing. "I'm not going to pay anything for something I know nothing about."

"You understand we have legal recourse in a matter like this."

"You can sue me all you want. But I'm not paying anything until I know what this was all about."

"I can't help you with that."

"Well who can? Who was working on this?"

"I'm not at liberty to say. That's confidential."

"Listen, pal, two hundred and fifty bucks makes it my business. I have no proof you people were even working for my wife. And if you were working for her I have no evidence you ever did anything for her. Now you tell me who was handling her case and then maybe we can talk about money." I was starting to get pissed.

"I can give you to our Director of Investigations, but he's not going to tell you anything either."

"You just do that. We'll see. "

"Very well. Before I transfer you, do you have a phone number where we can reach you?"

"No."

"Hold on."

I waited longer than I needed to. Kucharik must have been filling whoever in.

"This is Harris." I guessed that was whoever.

"I understand my wife retained your firm and left a balance due when she died. Before I pay it, I need to know who was working on her case and what the investigation was about."

"I'm afraid that's impossible."

"Are you going to make me tell you everything I just told the other guy? I have no proof my wife ever retained you. I want to talk to the guy who was working for her."

"You don't understand. That investigator is no longer with us."

"Where did he go?"

"He didn't go anywhere. He died."

That stopped me for a second. "What was his name?"

"Donald LeMay."

"What happened to him?"

"Stroke."

"When?"

"About a month ago."

I had something but I needed more. "Look," I said. "I need to talk to somebody there. Two hundred and fifty bucks is a lot of money, and I'm not going to pay it until I know what my wife was investigating."

"We can furnish you a copy of the contract your wife signed when she retained our firm. In it you'll see that we are not obligated to reveal results to anyone other than the signing party. That's our standard procedure. Confidentiality is part of our service."

"That's baloney." I was really getting worked up by now. "A contract like that is no proof of work. She could've signed it, and you guys could have sat on your asses. I need to see what you were doing."

"I told you, the investigator is dead."

"And so is my wife. There's no confidentiality needed anymore. There must be a file, records, something your man left behind. I want to see it." Then I had another thought. "And I want to see a statement showing all that she paid you so far."

"I can furnish you a statement. But I don't know how we can help you with the rest."

"Then I don't know how I can help you with the two fifty."

"We can sue."

"So can I."

"That would be your right. We're still due our fee."

I wasn't getting anywhere. "Let me make it simple for you, pal, no proof, no payment. I'll be in touch." I slammed the phone down.

I lit a cigarette and paced the room. Everything was crazy. Nothing made sense. Another dead one. What was Connie investigating for Christ's sakes? She was just a spoiled rich kid turned boozing broad in the end. Or maybe not. But what the hell did she need to investigate?

I grabbed my jacket and hat and made for the door. Then I stopped and went back to the gym bag and got the .45. I wasn't going anywhere without it anymore.

***

One thing Andrew Carnegie had not funded for the library in Rouen was central air conditioning. The two small window units at either end of the main room made a lot of noise but little cold. The ceiling fans spinning lazily overhead seemed just for show. It was an unusually warm day for early May but I dared not take off my jacket with the pistol stuck in my waist. I pawed through the stacks as quickly as I could so I could haul the papers back out to the table where there was a little more air. Thankfully it didn't take long to find what I was looking for.

Donald J. LeMay 1920-1958

Donald J. LeMay, 38, of Elmwood Park died suddenly April 3. He was found unresponsive in his automobile in a parking lot on North State St. and was transported to Northwestern Memorial Hospital where he was pronounced dead.

He was employed by Randolph Investigations in Chicago. He previously had been a member of the Elmwood Park Police Department where he achieved the rank of detective sergeant.

Mr. LeMay served with the U.S. Marine Corps in the Pacific Theater and was a member of VFW Post 2378 in Berwyn.

He is survived by his wife, Ellen Thomas LeMay, two children, Paul, 11, and Pamela, 8, his mother, Roberta Schmidt LeMay of Oak Park, a brother, Dennis of Evanston, and a sister, Harriet LeMay Nelson of Ottawa.

Visitation will be Monday, April 7, from 4 to 8 p.m. at the Braviak Funeral Home in Elmwood Park. Funeral Services will be held Tuesday, April 8, at 10 a.m. at St. Rose of Lima Church in Elmwood Park with interment following at St. Joseph's Cemetery in River Grove.

It didn't give me all I wanted, but at least there was something. I made notes on my steno pad and then returned the papers. With nowhere else to go at the moment, I took a break and went outside for a smoke. This whole thing stunk. A thirty-eight year old guy doesn't die of a stroke. A detective agency losing an operative on a case doesn't just roll over and accept something like that without looking into it. I needed to know more about this LeMay guy and what he was doing for Connie.

(back to top)

# Chapter Fourteen

**I needed to** cool off, calm down and think. And I needed more than soda pop to help that along. I tried what looked like a new place across from the Court House called County Seats figuring a nice crowd might hang out there but more hoping they carried my brand of scotch. They did. I had to get my mind off the questions for a while. Maybe some answers would float up from the bottom of the glass. Or so I told myself. The first scotch helped. The second helped more.

I stayed there most of the afternoon pacing myself and thinking. It was warm outside, and I liked the cool dim feel of the place. Plus they had Sinatra on the jukebox. The bartender was all right, too. Chatted just enough but didn't feel a need to pump you for your whole life story. I liked that. It felt a little like being in LA.

Eventually, two guys in suits came in and took stools just down from me. It was hard not to eavesdrop on the conversation as the one guy was kind of loud. I could tell the loud one was trying to sell something to the other one. Turns out it was insurance. Anyway, I was sitting there when I heard the loud one say, "It's really simple. All we have to do is move your wife's car over to your insurance and I can save you quite a bit on the combined policy."

I nearly choked on an ice cube. That was it. I called the bartender over and tossed a couple singles on the bar and asked for quarters. I took them to the pay phone in the back, pulled the note from my jacket pocket, dialed the number and fed the phone some coins.

"Randolph Investigations, how may I help you?"

***

I was sitting shirtless on some empty ammo boxes stacked on an Okinawa beach where I was waiting with a gazillion other guys to get off the godforsaken place. We'd just had our first mail call in about three weeks, and I cradled in my hands the three envelopes that had been thrown down to me one at a time from the back of the truck. One was from my mother probably asking again if I could increase the percentage of pay I had signed up to send them. One was from my buddy Danny who had moved to Anaheim to work in an aircraft plant and whose letters about the life there got me thinking about California. And one was from Jeannette. I opened hers first.

I hadn't gotten a letter from her in some time although I figured she was just busy working on her dad's farm and with gas rationing it was probably tough to get into Rouen for stationery. Or some reason like that.

I'd seen other guys get Dear John letters and saw what it did to them. Some of them cried, some screamed and threw tantrums and some just sat there staring at the letter until somebody made them move. I didn't exactly do any of that. I read what she had to say, and as I did I went from surprise to despair to anger to well, that's that. So by the time I'd finished reading I was over it. Just like that. The only thing I felt bad about was not feeling bad about it.

I folded her letter and put it back in the envelope and slid it to the bottom of my little stack. Then I opened the letter from Danny. I wanted to hear more about California.

***

Doc Northrup's office was only about eight blocks from Judy's house so on nice days like this she walked to work. I'd called to see if she was free for a quick drink after work and she was, so she walked over to meet me at County Seats.

She wanted to know how I'd spent my Sunday. I didn't tell her about the troopers, but I mentioned my drive up to Charlie's and told her I'd watched the ball game back at the motel.

"You should have stopped over," she said. "We weren't doing anything. You could've watched the game at my place and I'd have made some supper. Margie likes you, by the way."

"I didn't want to impose on you like that." Which was true. "And I'm not really good company right now. My head's too full." That was also true.

"Connie still bothering you?"

"Well, maybe not Connie so much. I've kind of made peace with that. It's just that the way she died isn't right. Somebody killed her and so far they're getting away with it. And I don't trust the Keystone Kops in this town to solve anything. They're taking the easy way out trying to pin it on me."

"So you're going to stay around longer?"

"Yeah. I need to figure some things out."

"Like what?"

"Like how they killed her. I need to know how she died. I've got a general idea of how the murder took place, but there's still too many pieces missing. I need to start putting it together."

She gave me a long look like she was thinking of something. Then she said, "Look, it's just mac and cheese tonight, but I want you to come back to the house for dinner. I can tell you've been sitting in here too long. You need something to eat."

I hadn't thought of food, but that was probably a very good thought. And I wanted the company. "You've got a deal," I declared. "Let's go if you're ready. Your chariot awaits."

She smiled with those twinkly eyes.

***

Late that night I was back in my room lying on the bed with my shoes off thinking about the dinner and just how normal it had seemed, the three of us sitting at the kitchen table eating mac and cheese, drinking milk and talking about Margie's day at school and Judy's day at the office. I mean, Norman Rockwell could've walked into the kitchen and set up his easel. It felt good, but it felt strange, too. That was not any life I had ever led. I began to wonder why.

Eventually, I got up to change the channel on the TV. Before I sat back on the bed I picked up the pack of cigarettes to have a smoke and saw I had only two left. I gave a little curse. I'd need some for the drive up to Chicago in the morning. I got some change and the room key off the dresser and padded my way down to the lobby in my stocking feet. I gave another little curse when I saw the machine was out of Lucky's.

Sometimes smoking can be a real pain in the ass. I really didn't want to drive after dark, but cigarettes are an emergency. I went back up to the room, put my shoes on and then went back down to the car. I got in and rolled down the window, turned the motor on and flicked on the lights. I thought I smelled something funny as I started to back out of the space. Then it hit me. I was smelling gasoline.

I pulled back into the space and turned off the ignition and the lights. I sat there for a few seconds feeling sick to my stomach. I wanted the smell to go away, but it didn't. I hoped it was just that I'd flooded the engine a little. But I didn't think so.

My legs were shaky when I got out of the car. I walked around to the trunk and opened it. There were a dozen two and a half gallon red metal gas cans sitting there all bound together with black friction tape so they wouldn't rattle around. Half of them had no caps. I looked back and forth across the lot for anybody. Then I turned around and looked out into the pitch black cornfield. I couldn't see anything. They probably weren't around anyway. They'd be waiting in the morning for me to leave.

I didn't know what to do. It was hard to think clearly this late. It crossed my mind to call the cops but then paranoia and the idea they'd think I did it to throw them off kept me from doing any such thing. I didn't trust the cops any more than I trusted the guys in the dark cars.

Finally, I reached in and started tearing the tape off the cans. I should have thought of fingerprints. I guess I should have thought of a lot of things. But all I wanted to do was get that gas out of the trunk. When I got the cans down onto the pavement, I decided I shouldn't let it go to waste. If the sons of bitches wanted to kill me, they could damn well buy me gas. I used a couple of the open cans to top off the tank in the Dodge. Then two at a time I carried the cans to the back of the lot and hid them behind the weeds that had grown up against the barbed wire fence protecting the motel from the corn field. Or maybe it was the other way around. I hoped the farmer would spot them and could put them to use.

When I was finished, I went back to the car, closed the trunk and got in. I still needed cigarettes. Now even more than before. I was halfway out of the parking space when my brain decided to work again. I pulled back in and shut off the engine. I got out and went back around to the trunk and got the tire iron out. I popped the hubcap off the right rear wheel. It was fine. I popped the hubcap off the right front wheel and choked. There were only two lug nuts left on the wheel and both of them were loose. There wasn't anybody watching or going to be waiting. I'd been all set to take care of everything myself. I tightened the lug nuts and then checked the other two wheels. They were okay.

I put the tire iron away and locked up the car. I wasn't going anywhere. I went back into the lobby and got two packs of Camels out of the machine. They would have to do.

***

It had gotten to be three in the morning and I still wasn't ready for sleep. I'd burned through most of one pack of the Camels just thinking and trying to calm down. I realized I knew a lot more than I did the night before.

First and foremost was that somebody wanted me dead. I wasn't being followed for the fun of it. The second thing I realized was that for the first time among all the dead people that had turned up there was a common modus Operandi. I was supposed to go the same way that state assemblyman had gone out there on Route 80. Which meant that there was some sort of conspiracy going on.

I'm not the most popular guy in the world, but I was pretty sure I hadn't done anything that would warrant my demise. But there must be a motive, and that motive had to be tied at the very least to the same motive for taking care of the assemblyman. And that same connection could very well extend to Marie Dumont, Whitey Quinn, Don LeMay and even Connie herself.

I wasn't going to make it to my appointment in Chicago. I'd have to reschedule. I needed to ditch the Dodge. It had a bullseye on it. And it was time to get out of the HoJo and out of Rouen. I was a sitting duck here, about as inconspicuous as white socks in brown shoes. But first I needed to talk to Marty.

I got up and pushed the bed and one of the nightstands toward the bathroom wall so I wasn't in the line of sight of the door. I lay down on the bed and reached over and picked up the .45. I made sure the safety was off. I put it back on the nightstand. I folded my arms across my chest and forced myself into sleep.

(back to top)

# Chapter Fifteen

**They say you** get what you pay for. Considering I'd paid Marty nothing yet that's exactly what I was getting – nothing yet. I'd started calling around eight thirty and then called back every fifteen minutes. It was now almost eleven. I was getting jumpy. I had to get out of there.

I'd made some decisions as soon as I got up. I was going to leave the Dodge right where it was. That might buy me some time. I thought of paying off the desk clerk to say I hadn't checked out. But when I went down to the lobby to buy some more of those awful Camels I could see the clerk was just a pimply-faced kid who wouldn't know a bribe from a broom. And I couldn't bribe every shift. I let that idea go. I just wouldn't check out. I'd eventually have to pay the bill but, call me crazy, I considered my life worth it.

I needed a ride to the train station, and I couldn't trust a local taxi. In a town like Rouen cab drivers are like the official town criers. The Rock Island Line ran two trains a day through Rouen that could get me to the LaSalle Street Station in Chicago. I'd already missed the first. The second would depart at two o'clock. I had to be on that train. It'd be a lot easier to disappear in the city, and I had business there anyway. I'd called and rescheduled my appointment for tomorrow. Plus I didn't think my new friends knew how to blow up a train.

As the morning wore on without talking to Marty, it had crossed my mind to try Judy. But I just couldn't put her in any more jeopardy. It was bad enough I'd been over at her house the last few nights. And she couldn't know where I was going. That bothered me, even though I wasn't sure why.

I was wearing out the carpet and filling up the ashtray. I went to the window and peeked through the drapes. I could just see the right rear taillight of the Dodge. Nothing else was there. Just like the hundred other times I'd checked. I looked at my watch again. Ten fifty. I couldn't wait another ten minutes. I called.

"Hello?" Finally, an answer.

"Marty?"

"Yes?"

"It's Roy. I gotta talk to you."

He must have heard it in my voice. "What's wrong?"

"I'm in trouble and I need your help." I didn't want to tell him what kind of trouble yet. I didn't want to scare him off.

"Is it the police?"

"No, nothing like that." I tried to slow down and calm my pace. No alarms. "I've had some car trouble and I need a ride to the train station."

"So you can't call a cab?"

"It's more complicated than that. And I really need to talk to you. It's important. I wouldn't ask otherwise."

He paused to consider. "When do you need me?"

"Sooner the better. I can explain when you get here."

"Where are you?"

"The Howard Johnson."

"Okay. Give me ten minutes, though."

"Okay, that's fine. But when you get here pull around to the back entrance. I'll come out when I see you." I shouldn't have said it that way.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah, yeah. What kind of car do you have?"

"Yellow Studebaker."

"Okay, see you then." I hung up and lit a cigarette.

I shook my head. A yellow Studebaker. Not exactly the perfect getaway car. I looked around the room to make sure I had everything together. I went back over to the window and peeked through the drapes again. I quickly dropped the drape and flattened my back against the wall. I flicked the cigarette to the carpet and pulled my pistol. There was a car there. Navy blue Ford. Shit.

I took a second to breathe again. I sidled to the window and slowly, carefully opened a sliver in the drape. It was parked next to the Dodge. I could only see the back end. I didn't want any movement in the window, so I kept it open and watched. Maybe I could catch sight of my friends.

I don't know how long it was. A minute? An hour? I heard voices. Loud. Then I saw them. An old couple carrying suitcases. She nagging, he whining. They tottered to the back of the Ford and he opened the trunk. I let go of the drape. I put the pistol back in my waist. I retrieved the cigarette from the floor and took a deep drag. I kicked at the smoldering little spot on the carpet. It would be fine. It matched two dozen others. I had to get the hell out of there.

***

I really didn't want to be seen in public, but I couldn't stand being in Marty's car. I felt like I was sitting in one of those little yellow ducks in a shooting gallery. We ended up in a back booth at the truck stop. I brought a brown manila envelope in with me.

I told him about the guy in the river, the assemblyman on 80, the Fowler housekeeper, the dark cars and finally I got to the gas cans in the trunk. His eyes got wider and wider. His plump lower lip dropped lower and lower. He pushed back from the table and slumped against the backrest.

"What the hell?" he said. "What the hell's going on?"

"That's what I've wanted to know ever since I hit town."

"This is not good."

"No kidding."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to get outta here. Chicago. You know, get lost."

He sat back up to the table. "Chicago?"

"Yeah. There's a connection up there I need to check out."

"What connection?"

I had debated whether to get into that. I really didn't trust anybody. And Charlie had referred him. But I needed his help. It was a chance I had to take.

"Connie hired a detective agency up there. I have no idea why but I know they were working on something. And the guy they had on the case ended up dead. They say it was a stroke, but I have my doubts. They don't want to tell me anything, but I think I have a way around that."

Marty leaned forward and clasped his hands on the table. "I think you need to go to the police with this. This is getting too serious."

"No. Not yet. I don't have enough they'd believe. And I don't trust them. Especially Rittberger."

"They'd believe the gas cans."

"Maybe not. I get the feeling they only believe what they want to believe."

"Still, you need some help, some protection at least."

"Help, yes. Protection, no. I can take care of myself."

"Wait, you don't expect me to help you?" Marty sat back in his chair.

"Yes. Right now I need some cash. Five hundred at least. I can't get an out of state check cashed fast enough."

I'd hit a nerve and not a good one. His eyes narrowed and he pursed those chubby lips. "Our deal is a simple contingency. It's just about the life insurance."

"What's your contingency if I'm dead?"

He thought for a moment. "It would have to be a loan apart from our agreement. Ten percent interest payable in thirty days."

I had a regular little Shylock on my hands. "Okay, that's fine. Can we get it on the way to the station?"

"I have it on me."

That stopped me for a second. "Okay, good. So how are you making out with the insurance and the death certificate?"

"Nothing yet. I was over at the court house this morning checking on the motions. Probably another day or two. They're slow here."

"So we still don't know anything."

"I called some local insurance agents I know trying to see if any of them knew about the policy but no luck. We have to get it from the police."

The insurance talk reminded me of the envelope. I picked it up from the seat and pushed it across the table to Marty. "I want you to hang on to this," I said. "There's a life insurance policy in there Connie had that's payable to her parents. There's some other stuff of hers they should have. The safe deposit box key is in there too."

"An insurance policy? Why didn't you tell me about that before?"

"I don't know. I forgot. Why?"

"Maybe it's the same insurance company that issued the policy paying you. It's at least a lead I can check out."

"Well, you have it now. Listen, I've got some time to kill. Let's order something to eat."

"I should get back to the office. I do have other clients you know."

"Oh yeah?" I said. "How many?"

"Two."

"Nobody's trying to kill them. Look at the menu."

***

I didn't want to get to the station until the last minute and Marty was determined to get back to his office. We compromised on one thirty. In the car I told him if anything happened to me he should go to the police and tell them everything he knew. And he should tell it to the State Police as well. But only if something happened to me. He agreed. He didn't want to say it, but I think he thought my digging around was going to do more to clear my name than whatever the cops were doing. And clearing my name was all a part of his contingency.

I got out of his car and hustled into the station my hat pulled low. Once inside I bought a ticket and took a seat with my back to the wall. I reached into my pocket and took out my wallet and then the wad of bills Marty had given me. I put the bills in the wallet and then checked the press cards I had in there. I found the AP card. The date was still good. I'd need that later.

I was too antsy waiting for the train to think much. So I let my mind kind of wander off to thoughts of Judy. Something had happened over the past few days and I couldn't decide what that was. It wasn't just the sex. That had been just two people needing each other right that minute, needing the closeness that makes everything else all right. I'd had that happen before. It was the afterward that was different. It felt like she was watching out for me or something. And I wanted to watch out for her too. Except I couldn't right now. I decided I needed to call her and tell her as much as I could. I didn't know for sure, but I guessed she'd worry if she didn't hear from me.

Just then two guys in suits walked into the station carrying attaché cases. I grabbed a paper somebody had left on the bench and held it up making like I was reading it. They both scanned the waiting room as if they were looking for somebody. I stopped breathing again. Then they went over to the ticket counter and started talking to the agent. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but it was taking longer than buying a ticket. I wanted to reach for the pistol but I held off. Then another guy came into the station. Same suit, same attaché case. The two at the counter turned and saw him. They smiled, and one of them called out a greeting. The third one joined them at the counter.

I exhaled and put down the paper. I had to get out of this town before I gave myself a heart attack.

(back to top)

# Chapter Sixteen

**If you took** LA and lined up an army of bulldozers shoulder to shoulder on one side and pushed the whole shebang up against Lake Michigan you'd have Chicago. Taller, denser, dirtier. As cities go I don't mind Chicago all that much except it gets too damn cold. But this was May, so I was fine with it.

When I came out of the train station, I walked down the line at the cab stand trying to find a driver who looked like he knew the score. When I spotted one I caught his eye and pointed in the direction I was walking and then made a little circular motion. He got it. I kept walking while he pulled out of the line and met me around the corner.

When I got in, he said, "Where to?"

I said, "You tell me. Need a decent hotel in the Loop that's not gonna ask for ID."

"With or without company?"

"Without."

"Got it."

He dropped me off at a place called the Alhambra over on South Wabash under the El. I'd handed him a fiver. I was feeling flush with Marty's money in my pocket.

The hotel didn't look like much from the sidewalk, sandwiched between storefronts like it was. Inside it looked clean but old, as if it hadn't been painted since before the war. But that was all right. I checked in using the name Richard Smith. I know that was pretty lame but it was all that came out at the spur of the moment. I paid cash in advance for three nights. I asked for a room in the back away from the El. After I slid another five across the desk, I got one.

When I got into the room I went over to the window and opened the blinds. There was just a brick wall outside. Not even another window in it. Which was fine by me. Nobody would be looking in, and there's not much to look at in Chicago unless you're looking at the lake.

I took off my coat and loosened my tie. I flopped on the bed and kicked off my shoes. I was beat. The stress since finding the lovely parting gifts in the trunk caught up to me. I was comatose in less than a minute.

***

I woke up with no idea what time it was. I looked at my watch. Eight fifteen. But morning or night? There was some light in the window, but I couldn't tell if it was shadowed sun or just city lights. I got up and turned on the TV. _The Phil Silvers Show_. It was night. I turned the volume down.

I lit a cigarette and sat back down on the bed and picked up the phone and dialed for an outside line.

"Hello?" she said.

"Judy, this is Roy."

"Oh, it's you." She sounded surprised.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"I think the question is whether you're okay."

"What do you mean?"

"Not half an hour ago a man came to the door looking for you. Asked if I knew where you were."

"Damn," I said to myself. "What did you say?" I asked out loud.

"The truth. I have no idea where you are."

"Who was he?"

"He said he was a friend of yours trying to get in touch."

"No name?"

"No. I asked, but he just said that wasn't important."

"What did he look like?"

"Italian. Dark. A little like my ex. What's going on?"

"Did he look like a cop?"

"Not really. What's happening?"

I didn't want to scare her. But maybe she should be scared. "Things have gotten a little out of hand. I've got people after me. I have no idea who they are or why they want me. But I had to get out of town."

"Where are you then?" I could hear worry in her voice.

"Better you don't know. I'm okay. I'm safe."

"Roy, you're scaring me."

"I can't help it."

"What are you going to do?"

"I have to find out what's going on. I have people to talk to that might help. I'm going to be busy the next day or two."

"Can I do anything?"

"Just sit tight. Try not to answer the door. But if anybody like that shows up again I want you to call Marty Schein. He's my attorney. He's got an office over his father's store."

"All right. But you've got me really worried now."

"I know, and I'm sorry. I didn't want you in this but now you are. Just do like I say and it should be all right."

"Okay, but I'm still worried."

"I'll call again tomorrow or next day. I'll let you know what's going on."

"All right. But promise me you'll take care of yourself."

"I will. And you too."

We said good nights and hung up. I slammed my fist into the bed. "Damn!" I shouted into the room.

I stubbed out my cigarette, stood up and lit another. I almost called Marty. But then I stopped. There was nothing to say to him. I wanted the cops watching out for Judy, but there was no way he or I could make that happen without telling them more than I wanted to. And Marty didn't need to know any more than just I was somewhere in Chicago.

I slipped into my jacket then sat down and put on my shoes. I picked the room key off the nightstand. It was time to work toward some nightcaps down at the hotel bar.

***

I'd behaved myself the night before so I didn't feel too bad. I emptied out my suitcase into the bag left in the closet and then called to have the laundry done. I decided to wait and call Marty later. My appointment with Randolph Investigations wasn't until two o'clock so, for now, I had time to spare. And I was hungry. I found a cafe down the block and across the street and had some breakfast before I began my day.

It started with a cab ride down to the police station on South State. I wasn't crazy about walking into the place with a pistol stuck in my belt, but I figured as long as I didn't sit down nobody would see a bulge. I walked up to the window signed "Records" and waited for the guy already at the counter to retrieve his copy of an accident report.

When it was my turn, I flashed my AP press card and said to the uniform behind the counter, "Roy Cutter, Associated Press."

"So?" Typical cop.

"We're researching a story on the high incidence of stroke among war veterans. I'd like to see the police report on a Donald LeMay who was found up on North State last month."

"You got a date?"

"April 3. Don't know the time."

"Hold on."

He was gone longer than I thought he should have been. My paranoia started kicking in. I wished I hadn't had to give him my real name.

He finally reappeared in the window with a paper in his hand. "I can let you read this here. Or I can make you a copy. Will cost you a dime."

I had some change left over from breakfast. I nodded and put a dime on the counter.

"I'll be right back," he said and disappeared again. When he came back, he wordlessly handed me the copy then looked past me and called out "Next." A pretty good line had built up behind me.

I took the report outside and leaned against the side of the stoop and tried to read it. Between the chicken scratch handwriting and the lousy copy it was a tough job. Without taking the time to decipher it letter by letter, I tried to get the gist of it. It looked like somebody had spotted LeMay when they went to get in their car next to his in the parking lot. They called the cops who then called for an ambulance. It looked like LeMay was dead in the car, but they waited to pronounce him until they got him to the hospital. He'd been driving a gray and white '55 Merc. I could just make out the address of the parking lot. I folded the report and put it in my pocket. Another piece of paper for the file.

Hailing a cab in front of a cop station isn't always easy. I walked north for a couple blocks for a little exercise then stepped to the curb and waved one down. I had him take me the few blocks up to the parking lot on North State.

There was nothing unusual about the lot. It took up a small portion of the southeast corner at the intersection with a gate and a little hut for the attendant. Just to be thorough I approached the attendant to ask if he knew anything of the guy they'd found dead in his car. He had to be Haitian or something because he didn't seem to understand me and I couldn't make anything out of his patois. We ended up just smiling and waving at each other.

The lot was far enough from the detective agency to know LeMay must have driven here for a reason. The lot was surrounded by a bunch of tall office buildings, many with retail stores at street level. I set off on a little expedition just to see what I could see.

I started on the block where the lot was. I walked into every building lobby and looked at the tenant directory to see if anything sparked a notion. I circumnavigated the first block with nothing clicking, then the second with the same result. By now it was nearly noon, and the lobbies were starting to disgorge people heading to lunch.

I was walking on the sidewalk starting on my third block when I ran into him. If I had seen him first I would have turned around or ducked into a store.

"Hey Roy!" he called out. "What are you doing here?"

It was Charlie. A couple million or so people in the neighborhood and I had to run into him. I forced a smile. "Fancy meeting you here." Pretty weak but it would have to do.

We shook hands a little awkwardly. "So what brings you to the big city?" he asked as we stood in the middle of the sidewalk and the midday crowd streamed past us on either side.

"I was just in the neighborhood and thought I'd drop by," I said trying to make a joke.

He took me seriously. "Were you coming up to see me?"

"No, no, just joking," I said. "I have some business in town." I couldn't think of anything more specific.

"Well, I wondered because my office is just back there," he said throwing his thumb back toward where he'd just come from.

"No, just a happy coincidence I guess," I said chiding myself for sounding so vague.

"Listen, I'd invite you to join me for lunch, but I have to take care of some business over at my dad's campaign office."

"Where's that?"

"Just another block down. We opened it a few weeks ago."

I hadn't reconnoitered that block yet. "No problem," I said. "I've got to be somewhere too."

"Well, good running into you. We'll have to catch up before you head back home."

"Yeah, we'll do that."

"See you then." And he was away. I thought I saw the smile drop from his face even before he got past me.

One more person knew I was in Chicago. That was now two too many for me. I was just happy I hadn't run into him near my hotel. I started walking. I did have somewhere to go. I wanted to see just how close Charlie's office was to that parking lot.

(back to top)

# Chapter Seventeen

**I was eleven**. I'd been months skimming wages from the two days a week I helped unload the truck at the butcher and turning in empty bottles for the deposit. My folks thought I was giving them all my money, but I was holding back a tiny bit every week saving up for a fishing pole I'd seen over at Svenson's Hardware. It was a beauty with a real nice reel already spooled with line.

Times were tough for everybody in town, but it seemed doubly true for my family. My father hardly ever worked in those days. But I didn't feel like the pennies and nickels and occasional dimes I was holding back would matter much at the time. Plus I'd earned it. Beef quarters and crates of chickens are heavy. And I figured I could catch some fish to feed us for supper sometimes.

I'd taken to hiding it in a coffee can I had stashed in the garage. I thought it blended right in with all the others full of nails and screws and hardware. It was all in coins so when I scattered nails over the top it looked right and felt right, too. I picked the garage because my mother regularly scoured my room looking for anything she could confiscate and sell.

I kept a careful accounting of my stake in the back of my composition book, so I knew exactly when I could go buy the rod. The day finally came. But when I got to the garage the can was gone. The old man got it. He never said a word about it, not even to my mother. I knew that because later I found the stash of hooch he'd bought with it. That was the day I learned you can't trust anybody. Sometimes not even yourself.

***

That Randolph Investigations was on West Randolph made me wonder whether they never intended to move, whether they confined their investigations to that street or whether the owners were simply devoid of any imagination whatsoever. But then maybe I was just being a smartass because I was so edgy.

Their offices were in a third floor walk-up. Since they seemed to have a guy who just handled their billing, I expected something bigger than the kind of office you see in the movies where somebody like Sam Spade just has a desk in a room. I was right. I walked into a waiting room with a receptionist sitting behind a little window with a small counter sort of like a doctor's office. I gave her my name and took a seat.

I didn't even have time to reach for a magazine before this big florid guy came through the door smiling and introduced himself as Bill Harris and asked me to come back with him to his office. As we settled in he asked if I'd like some coffee. I declined.

He was still smiling when he said, "So, I understand you've come by to settle up the balance on your wife's account."

"That depends," I said.

The smile got smaller. "What do you mean?"

"Whether we can work something out."

"I don't understand."

"Is that my wife's case file you've got there?" I said nodding toward the folder sitting on his desk blotter.

"This is just the billing file. But..."

"Here's the deal. I want to pay the balance on the account and then I want to hire you to continue the investigation."

The smile was gone. "What are you talking about?"

"If as her husband I'm responsible for the balance on the case, then I'm responsible for the case. And I want you to continue with it."

The little red capillaries that webbed his checks got brighter. "We can't do that. We don't have a contract with you."

"We can take care of that today. Make it an addendum to my wife's. One account, one case."

"We can't."

"What's the reason? It better be good enough my lawyer won't laugh at it."

"The case is closed."

"No, it's not. I just told you to go on with it."

The flush now covered his face. "We choose not to pursue it any further."

I could sense where this was going, but I kept pressing. "I don't think the choice is yours. That's the choice of the client that's been paying you. I'm that client now."

"You don't..."

"Show me the statement."

He blinked and took a breath then opened the folder and took out the top sheet and handed it across the desk.

The itemization filled the page. At least they were thorough. They'd started off with a five hundred dollar retainer in November that was eaten up with fees and expenses by mid-December. They'd carried a negative balance as the per Diem fees built faster until a twenty five hundred dollar payment in February. The Buick money. The entries stopped April 3. Their man LeMay was dead. The last line showed the balance – two hundred fifty-five dollars and fifty-six cents.

I looked up at him. "You didn't have another investigator to put on the case?"

He'd leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "The case was closed."

"By you or my wife?"

"We closed it."

"Why? And this time I want an answer."

"I can't give you one"

"LeMay didn't die of a stroke, did he?" He didn't respond. I kept going. "And because you chose not to continue you got my wife killed, didn't you?"

"We had nothing to do with that."

"No? Look, pal, I want answers and I want them now. You can hand me her case file or I'm going to the cops and telling them you've been withholding information on a murder case."

At this point his ears fairly glowed. He put his hands flat on the desk. "You don't want to do that."

"Oh yeah? Watch me."

His eyes narrowed, his voice dropped and he leaned to me. "There were things in there that could get you killed."

"Somebody's already tried."

The eyes got real wide. He sat straight up. "And you came here?" Now he was scared.

"Where's the file?"

"It was destroyed."

"Why?"

"We were told to."

"By whom?"

He didn't say anything. I'd had it with the cat and mouse bullshit. I leaned forward, reached back and pulled the .45 out my belt. I sat back and held it in my lap. I got real calm.

"Now look, Mr. Harris. I can make you just as dead as the people you're afraid of. I'm sure neither one of us would like that to happen. But I've got nothing to lose. I'm dead unless I find out what's going on. So you tell me what you know."

He started to move his hand. I snapped the pistol up toward his head. "Talking will be less painful and permanent."

I watched him cave. He put his hands back on the desk. "It's the family."

"Go on." I lowered the .45.

"We never really found out much. It started when the housekeeper died. Your wife thought it suspicious. The housekeeper had told her she'd seen something and needed to tell your wife about it. She was real upset. Next day she was dead. Never got to tell her."

"So what did you do?"

"We put Don on the case. Good man. He started digging into the family. The father and son in particular. Both the business and the politics. The business looked clean although there was something about permits for strip mines. The politics was tougher. There was a lot of money involved in his previous campaigns that didn't look right. And he was set to start up another campaign. Then his campaign finance guy bought it in an accident."

"Murdered."

"That's what Don thought. But apparently not the police."

"Then what?"

"Don got skittish. Said something to me about the sister and the brother. But I don't remember exactly what. But he wasn't anxious to pursue the case. Said he had a bad feeling."

"About what?"

"I don't know."

"Then what?"

"We started getting threats. Anonymous. But that happens all the time. We ignored them."

"So LeMay kept digging."

"Yes."

"And?"

"Nothing. He spent a week in Springfield trying to track campaign contributions from the father's last run. Then he started looking into the son's finances. But he was coming up empty."

"Not empty enough."

"Apparently not."

"And nothing pointing back to the housekeeper's death?"

"No."

"What next?"

"The threats picked up and then Don was dead. We got a message the next day. We closed the case."

"You didn't call the cops?"

"That was covered in the message. We couldn't be sure they didn't have an in there."

"What did you tell my wife?"

"That we couldn't continue. That it was too dangerous."

"What did she say?"

"She was upset and angry. She said she would take care of it herself."

"You'd been keeping her up to date on the case?"

"Yes."

I sat back and thought a few seconds while I kept my eye on Harris.

"So you quit the case, set my wife up to get killed and then had the balls to dun me for the balance?"

"That was a mistake. Kucharik didn't get the memo."

"And today?"

"We had to bluff our way out of it."

"So you've got nothing to show me."

"No."

"That file have LeMay's receipts in it?

"Yes."

"Give it to me."

He hesitated then handed it over. I slipped the statement into it.

"All right, Mr. Harris. Here's how it's going to be. I'm leaving with this file. There is no balance due. And you're not telling anybody about our conversation. Got that?"

He nodded.

I stood up and put the folder under my arm and the pistol in my belt.

"You better hope I live. Cause I'm gonna make sure you're done if I don't."

I left him very pale.

***

I found a little bar two blocks away. It was too dark to read anything in the file so I just sat there and thought. Something about the family wasn't right. But I wasn't sure LeMay had been going the right way. Campaign financing is always a cesspool, and so is the coal business. I had no doubt there were improprieties in both areas. No, the problem began in the house with the housekeeper. That's where he should have been looking. It may well have involved the other things, but that was the key. What had Marie found? How had they killed her so neatly? I wondered if that's why Connie had moved back into the house there at the end.

I looked at my watch. Almost three. I had to call Marty. They had a phone booth in the back.

"Hello?"

"It's Roy. How'd you make out?"

"You okay?

"Yeah. What'd you find out today?"

"I may have a line on the insurance. Mutual of Omaha has another policy on your wife with you as the beneficiary. But that's all I know. They're air mailing a copy to me today."

"Great. Hope I live to collect."

"That's the other thing. I was going to go to the police. This is just too dangerous. But before I did I thought I should check on the gas cans. They were gone."

"Gone?"

"Yes. I looked all over where you said."

"Do me a favor. I want you to check the lug nuts on the right front wheel of the Dodge there at the motel."

"Why?"

"They screwed with those too. If those are all right, we know it's them covering their tracks. You didn't go to the cops, right?"

"No."

"Good. Don't."

"You find out anything?"

"Not much. But I think the answer is back there in Rouen. What about your motions?"

"Nothing yet. When are you coming back?"

"I'll let you know. I'll call tomorrow."

"All right."

I hung up. I needed another drink.

(back to top)

# Chapter Eighteen

**I knew I'd** sat there too long and had too many scotches. But I was angry, I was frustrated and I was scared. The safest place in Chicago was Richard Smith's room at the Alhambra, and I was a good cab ride away from there. Yet there I sat. The place had started to fill up with people getting off work and the bar was getting crowded and louder. Then I heard sirens.

I've noticed sirens sound different depending on where you are. When you're out in the country they always sound like they're far away and worried. "Oh no, oh no, oh no," they seem to moan. In the city they echo off buildings and land right on top of you and sound urgent and angry like you stepped on a cat's tail. "Yaoow, yaoow, yaoow." I guess I noticed that because for a reporter a siren is a beckoning, not a warning.

So it was that my reporter's ear registered the sound above the bar noise. Multiple "yaoow's" getting louder and louder. They were close. I let curiosity finally move me out of there. I settled the tab, grabbed the file folder and shouldered my way through the incoming bodies out onto the sidewalk. The sirens were stopping one by one, but I could see the reflection of flashing red lights in the intersection a couple blocks north at West Randolph. I started to feel queasy, and it wasn't the scotch.

I walked toward the lights. When I got to Randolph, I turned the corner and saw three cop cars splayed out in the street in front of the building that housed Randolph Investigations. One last siren brought an ambulance. Then another siren sounded in the distance. I could see a couple cops running into the building while two others stood on the sidewalk their backs to the building and their guns drawn. The ambulance crew piled out of their rig and ran to the back to get the gurney out.

Newspaper instincts told me to find out what the hell was going on. Survival instincts told me to get the hell out of there. I listened to survival. I turned around and walked four blocks south to Monroe and flagged down a cab. I took three more before I let one take me to the Alhambra.

***

The laundry was sitting on the bed bundled in brown paper wrapped with twine like some kind of USO care package. I moved it to the floor and sat on the edge of the bed and called room service for a bottle of scotch and a hamburger. I'd get ice later. I flicked on the TV. It was only six o'clock, but it felt a lot later. Maybe that was the scotch.

I was no longer safe in Chicago. That much I knew. I suspected they got Bill Harris. I must have been seen going in there or they had a rat in the office. It was just that the artillery couldn't arrive in time to get me too. But how could they know I'd be there? How did they know to watch?

Marty knew I was going there. Charlie knew I was in town but didn't know anything about the detective agency as far as I knew. How was it bad guys were turning up everywhere I went? I decided I had to be careful with both of them. I wished I hadn't told Marty about the gas cans and the lug nuts.

I looked at the phone. There was nobody to call. Not Judy. She was in deep enough as it was. I'd already talked to Marty. But it was only four in LA. I made the call.

"Yeah?"

"Norm?"

"What is it?"

"It's Roy."

"Roy? What do you want?"

"Listen, got a big favor. I need you to check the wires for me."

"What's going on?"

"Too long a story. But it's important. I need you to see if anything's come over on a shooting in Chicago. Happened maybe an hour ago"

"You on assignment or something?"

"No. It's personal. Really need your help."

"Hold on."

I could picture him lumbering over to the teletype machines in the middle of the newsroom, two each for AP, UP and Reuters. He didn't take long to come back on.

"Got it," he said. "Was coming in just as I got there. AP had it."

"What's it say?"

"Not much. Two dead at a detective agency. Shooter gone. Then the usual bullshit about nothing."

"Any names?"

"No. What's going on?"

"I'll tell you over a drink sometime. Just not now."

"I don't need a drink. You stayin' off the sauce?"

"Yeah."

"Good."

"Thanks Norm. Be in touch."

"Right."

I hung up and lit a cigarette. That bottle couldn't get to the room fast enough.

***

I forced myself to stay up until the ten o'clock news. I didn't have a lot of hope. Most TV newsmen read things straight off the same wire that Norm had. They just had better voices and included the usual nothing bullshit. My pessimism was warranted. The only thing they confirmed was that the two dead were employees of the detective agency. No names yet.

I lay on the bed while the rest of the news droned on. Things were escalating. Now it was guns blazing. Up to now the deaths had masqueraded as accidents or illness or natural causes. Except for the guy in the river. And Connie. I wondered if she had been intended to be another accident or illness. Or maybe an overdose. And that made me wonder how they got away with calling the murders of the housekeeper and the detective something other than murder. The last thing I did before I fell asleep was count the bodies. Seven.

***

I woke up thinking I had no place to go and no way to get there. It was late if the light hitting the wall outside the window was sunshine. I needed a plan. But first I needed coffee. I rolled over to grab the phone on the nightstand and saw the scotch bottle three quarters gone. I told myself to take it easy. I called room service and ordered coffee and Danish and a newspaper. Then I went to get cleaned up.

It was in the shower that it came to me. I shouldn't go anywhere. Richard Smith was safe in this room. There was a phone, there was food and there was drink. There wasn't anything at the moment I could do somewhere else I couldn't do here. Since I hadn't paid Randolph Investigations anything, I had enough money to hold me for a while. No, this was good. I felt better.

I felt even better after some coffee and something on my stomach. Then I sat on the edge of the bed and opened up the _Trib_. It was front page below the fold and it reminded me not to feel so good.

Two Dead, One Wounded in

Detective Agency Shooting

CHICAGO, Ill. – Two employees of a detective agency here were shot dead and another wounded Wednesday afternoon in what police are calling a brutal attack by two heavily armed gunmen.

Chicago Police Lieutenant Anthony Murphy said William L. Harris, 51, and Benjamin J. Brantley, 42, were killed by two men who stormed the offices armed with shotguns and began firing without apparent provocation. He said it was not clear how the shooters escaped the scene.

Martha A. Hamel, 36, a receptionist at the agency, was wounded and taken to Cook County Hospital where she is reported to be in critical condition.

The shooting occurred at approximately 4:30 p.m. in the 1400 block of West Randolph Street at Randolph Investigations, a private detective agency that has been located there for the past nine years.

Lieutenant Murphy said a fourth employee present in the offices at the time escaped the attack by hiding under a desk. He would not release that person's identity.

"We have no motive at this time," Murphy stated. "However, we believe the attack may more likely be gang related than the work of a disgruntled client or subject of an investigation."

The crime brings the total number of homicides in the city this year to 14.

They probably intended to kill them all. Nice. I'm sure they hoped I'd be among them. At least the bookkeeper Kucharik escaped. I got up and lit a cigarette and walked around the room. I wished I'd never come back. I wished Connie was alive. I wished I we were still together in LA before the drinking and the drugs and the Don Juan.

I sat back down on the bed and took the file folder from the nightstand. It was the last thing I'd get out of Randolph Investigations, that was for sure. I started leafing through the copies of LeMay's expenses. Most of them were from his trip to Springfield. He wasn't much of a fancy eater, most of the restaurants looked like burger joints or diners. He'd only spent a day in Rouen. There was one gas receipt from the truck stop but no restaurant or motel bill. Most of the rest were gas and parking lot receipts in Chicago. I decided I needed to get a city map and plot the lot locations. After all, one parking lot had led me to Charlie's office.

I was shuffling through the receipts a last time when I saw one I'd missed. Two nights at the Empress Hotel on the Magnificent Mile. Why was he staying in a luxury hotel when he lived just over in Elmwood Park? I checked the dates. February 7 and 8. I looked for any other receipts for those dates. None. I looked at the hotel chit again. No food or drink on it. Strange. I pulled my checkbook out of the gym bag. There was a calendar in the back. February 7 and 8 were a Friday and Saturday. Odd nights to be working. I went back to the folder and started to take the Empress receipt out but then stopped. Instead, I emptied my wallet of the clippings and notes and stuck them in the folder. At least this whole mess could be neatly filed.

I went to the gym bag again and pulled out my steno pad. I sat at the desk and started listing names and dates. Marie Dumont, November 3. Melvin Loomis, January 11. Don LeMay, April 3. Connie, April 25. Quinn, the guy in the river, April 25 or so. Me, they hoped, May 5. Bill Harris and his co-worker, May 8. The pace was picking up. Why? I opened up the file and started listing LeMay's dates and locations in the next column. November, Chicago. December, Chicago and Joliet. January 8, Rouen. February 7 and 8, Empress Hotel. March 10 to 14, Springfield. April 3, near Charlie's office.

I sat back in the chair and stared at my notes, trying to make connections, trying to imagine a chain of events, trying to conjure cause and effect. I got nothing.

I leaned forward and added cause of death to the names and dates. Marie, "natural." Loomis, "accident." LeMay, "stroke." Connie, unknown. Quinn, gunshot. Me, "accident." Harris and friend, gunshot.

Again I looked for a relationship. I noticed the mysterious deaths like Marie and LeMay and possibly Connie stopped after Quinn was killed. But that still wasn't a solid assumption to make. But violence was escalating, and that could mean desperation. The bad guys may think they're running out of time. But time for what?

My head hurt. I got up and wandered over to the nightstand and picked up the bottle of scotch. Maybe a nip would help. Just then I heard the maid softly knock on the door and say "housekeeping" as a question. I put the bottle down. Saved by the bell, kinda.

(back to top)

# Chapter Nineteen

**It got to** be well into the afternoon, almost three o'clock, and I was going a little stir crazy. A man can only take so many soap operas in one sitting. I mean, I don't think I ever bought a box of Tide. I was tired of thinking in circles. I had a couple calls to make, but I'd come to think better of calling from the room. I was getting hungry anyway, so I thought I'd chance a little foray outside the hotel for something to eat and a phone booth.

I stopped at the front desk and traded some singles for a pocketful of change. I spotted some phone booths off the lobby where you could sit down. They looked as good as any.

The first call was to the Howard Johnson's in Rouen. I wanted to see if anybody had been trying to contact me there. Turned out Judy had left a message yesterday asking me to call. The desk clerk asked if I wanted to keep the room and I told him yes.

The second call was to Marty. I needed to be careful with this one. Thankfully he answered right away.

"Martin Schein, attorney at law," he said. He was trying to be professional even if he was sitting in an attic with naked mannequins.

Good for him, I thought to myself. "It's Roy. Got a minute?" Back came such a swift gush of words I couldn't understand any of them. "Slow down. Say that again."

I could hear him catch his breath. "Gotta talk to you. A lot going on."

"Like what?"

"Chicago police want to question you. You were involved in a shooting at that detective agency?"

That one took me back. "Not involved. Just around. How'd you know?"

"They got your name out of the appointment book. You were the last one in there. They saw a Rouen contact number and called the police here looking for you. Then the police called me."

"What do they want?"

"Police here just said for questioning."

That made sense. I was surprised I hadn't thought that might happen. I wondered for an instant if the lapse was the scotch.

"What else?"

"I've got a name and number for you to call."

He gave me a sergeant's name and the number. I wrote it down on a match book.

"Thanks," I said, still thinking about the Chicago cops.

"Hold on, there's more."

"Okay."

"Rittberger here says he wants to talk to you after you talk to the police up there."

"Why?"

"Don't know. But he wants you back here for that."

"What's the matter? The Buick won't start?"

"What?"

"Never mind."

"Okay. A woman called for you. Judy Mancini. She said it was important. Wants you to call her. So who is she?"

"A friend. Did she say anything happened?" Now I was worried.

"No. Just said to call."

"You're sure."

"Yes."

"What else?"

"The insurance policy didn't come today. Should be here tomorrow."

"What about your motions?"

"I wanted to talk to you about that. Nothing yet. It's taking way too long. Something's going on. I was over there today and couldn't get an answer. Nobody's going to be around tomorrow. It's Friday."

"Great." I wondered if they'd ever heard of justice being swift.

"Where are you?"

"Chicago."

"But I mean where? I may need to get hold of you."

I ignored that for the moment. "Did you check out the Dodge?"

"Yes. The wheel had all the lugs. Tight too."

That was expected. These guys weren't dumb.

"Got a question and I need a straight answer."

He heard my tone change. "What?"

"Have you been talking to Charlie Fowler?"

"What do you mean?" He sounded defensive. At least that's what I thought I heard.

"I mean have you had any conversations with Charlie about what's been going on?" I could hear him hesitate. "Because if I don't hear the truth we're done."

"He's called a couple times."

"Why?"

"He said he's worried about you."

"What did you tell him?"

"Just that you were in trouble. You were in Chicago looking for answers. You were fine."

I cursed to myself. "Be specific. What did you say?"

"Just that. I didn't tell him about the gas cans or the life insurance policy. Nothing like that."

"Did you mention the detective agency?"

"No. I don't think so."

"Be positive."

"No."

"You must have talked about something else."

"He asked about the motions we filed."

"How did he know about that?"

"I don't know."

"What did you say?"

"We were waiting on them."

I stopped and tried to think. He sounded like he was being straight. But who knew? "Why the hell did you even talk to him?" I could feel my anxiety turning to anger.

"He referred me. He's your brother-in-law." He was starting to whine.

"Look, he calls you again you tell him your client asked you not to discuss anything. And I mean anything. Got that?" By this time I sounded pissed. Probably because I was.

"Yes."

"All right. I gotta go."

"How do I get you?"

"I'll call you."

I hung up and sat in the phone booth stewing. I lit a cigarette. I looked at my watch. Three thirty. Judy was still at work. I thought I should try to get the Chicago cop thing over with. I looked at the matchbook and dialed the number.

"Homicide. Donatelli."

"Sergeant, my name is Roy Cutter. I understand you want to talk to me."

"Detective," he corrected me.

"Sorry."

"Where are you? When can you come in?"

"Chicago. Where are you?"

"South State Street Station."

"I can be there in an hour." I don't know why I gave myself so much time. Maybe I was avoiding. Maybe I just needed a drink first.

"Good. Come up to the second floor and ask for me."

"Will do."

We hung up. I'd lost my appetite.

***

I hated chemistry, and I wasn't crazy about the old lady who taught it. I'd managed to skip the class as a junior but now as a senior I was stuck with it. Because of all that hatred and because I was intent on goofing off my senior year I came to first semester exams carrying a solid D minus. That didn't bother me at all except I could find myself ineligible for baseball in the spring if I couldn't keep a passing grade.

As a senior in a junior class you were allowed to pick your lab partner and your seat. I chose the seat closest to the door. Which happened to be right in front of the teacher's desk. For my lab partner I chose John Paulson, the smartest kid in the class. He was also the son of the guy who owned the factory I'd worked in that summer. We'd gotten to be pals of a sort.

I hatched the plot. I think John went along with it because it was so ingenious and more of a challenge than the test was going to be for him.

Test day came and John and I were sitting at our lab desks separated by a sink right smack in front of the teacher. There were only four chemical equations or something like that to work out. I had not even a hint of how to do them. John was fast and worked. I pretended to work. About halfway through the test I raised my hand and asked the teacher if I could borrow John's slide rule. She smiled and nodded. Bingo.

John had a slide rule with a blank back. But now it had the answers thanks to John. I worked diligently on my test paper figuring out all kinds of things with that slide rule. I tried one of the equations on my own once I got the hang of it just so we wouldn't turn in identical papers.

I'll never forget the look on her face when she gave me back the test with a big red "A-" on top. It was a little smile that said she knew. I gave her smile back that said I knew she knew. But she never said anything. And I played baseball in the spring. And that taught me that sometimes you can get away with it.

***

After the phone calls, I went back up to my room. I had to ditch the pistol if I was going to be hanging around a police station. I stuck it in the gym bag under some papers and stray underwear and then put it on the top shelf in the closet.

I'd brought ice back with me and made myself a drink. I lit up and thought about how I was going to handle this.

I wasn't comfortable blabbing the whole story to any cop. Hadn't Harris said they couldn't be sure somebody in there wasn't watching? No, I would stick to the basics. My late wife had hired them and left a balance due. I was there to settle the account. But after discussing the situation with Harris we had agreed the balance would be forgiven. I had to say that because they weren't going to find any receipt or evidence of payment. End of story. Simple.

I decided to hang out in the room until four. Maybe I could catch Judy just getting home from work and find out what was going on. I waited until five after. It wasn't like I had to punch a clock at the cop station. She picked up on the fourth ring.

"Hello?"

"It's Roy."

"Roy! Thank God. Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Fine. Are you all right? What's going on?"

"Nobody's been back looking for you. But I needed to know you were all right."

"It's okay. I'm working on it. I'll be back in Rouen soon." As I said that I remembered Rittberger wanted me.

"When you come I have something for you."

"What?"

"I was talking to Dr. Northrup about your wife and how you were having trouble finding out what the cause of death was and how the police were keeping everything to themselves."

"And?"

"And, well, he said some things about the police and how they were treating the case. I could tell he was upset. Then he took me back to his office and he unlocked his file cabinet and let me make a copy of his report."

"What report?"

"Your wife's autopsy."

"You have the autopsy?"

"Yes."

"What does it say?"

"Dr. Northrup said I couldn't look at it. That would be unethical. But I was to give it to you. He said you'd get it eventually anyway."

I didn't know what to say. "That was good of you, of Dr. Northrup."

"Roy, there's something funny going on. The questions you were asking me, they're things Dr. Northrup talked about. I'm worried sick. Where are you?"

"I'm all right. Trust me. This will all work out. I've got to go now and talk to some people. I'll try to call you back later. But don't worry. Okay?"

"When are you coming back?"

"Day or two. I'll let you know."

"Okay. What should I do?"

"Stay calm. It's all right. I'll try to call you later, okay?"

"Okay."

We hung up. I didn't like that she was so worried. It wasn't her problem. It shouldn't be her problem. It had crossed my mind to have her take the autopsy report to Marty. But I still didn't trust him.

I looked at my watch. Quarter after. I needed to get moving. I gathered my cigarettes and lighter and took a look around the room. Once down on the sidewalk I walked to the curb and started hailing a cab. The Alhambra had no doorman.

Soon enough one came along. On the ride to the station I rehearsed my story and considered questions I maybe hadn't thought of. I decided if the questions tried to lead me away from my story I would just play dumb. That should be easy.

The cab was southbound on South State, so the driver let me off at the curb across the street from the station. I paid him and got out and then waited for traffic to cross. It was the middle of the block so it would take a second. There was a break in the traffic, and I started across thinking about what I wanted to do after I was done with the cops.

That's the last thing I remember.

(back to top)

# Chapter Twenty

**There were clowns** at the wedding. I don't like clowns. I don't find them particularly amusing. I really couldn't understand what they were doing there. But they were all over the place.

One of them looked like he was molesting Connie's sister with one arm around her shoulder and a gigantic red gloved hand pawing at the bodice of her low cut dress that barely covered her nipples. But she was giggling with her head thrown back as she sat on a white folding chair with her knees spread apart and one hand drooped down below the seat pinching a champagne glass by the stem. Then Charlie came over laughing and pulled the hem of her dress up to show the clown she wasn't wearing anything underneath. I wanted to go over and say something but I felt like it was a family matter, so I left it alone.

Which I guessed was the right thing to do because I saw Carl and Arlene sitting at the next table watching what was going on and smiling and pointing. Carl started shouting encouragement to the clown telling him to get his other hand busy.

Then one of the clowns came up to me and in a creepy falsetto whispered that the bride wanted to see me privately in another room because she was having trouble getting into her dress. I thought that pretty stupid because Connie was only going to wear a little black sheath dress she'd worn a hundred times before. But I went to the room because I wanted to help and I was getting impatient waiting for the ceremony. I saw her as soon as I opened the door. She was lying naked on a table with her legs spread wide in the air and her breasts quivering back and forth as some clown with his pants dropped around his ankles pumped her ferociously.

She seemed to be enjoying it a lot, moaning and crying out the way she liked to do, so I closed the door. But I worried that if they were going to keep at it or if she wanted to entertain other clowns the guests were going to start leaving before the ceremony started. I decided I needed a drink while I waited. I circled the tent over and over again, but I couldn't find the bar. Then I noticed two clowns following me around tiptoeing in their big shoes in that dopey exaggerated way that clowns have of doing everything. So I turned around and pulled the .45 from my belt and blasted them until the blood ran all over their makeup.

***

You don't come to all at once. The awareness kind of seeps into your brain in little flecks that flutter in and out so by the time you forget you were thinking about one thing another thing floats in for you to think about. So it was I thought about, in no particular order, the white ceiling, the bright light, the pain in my side, the beeping noise, the pain in my arm, the smell of bleach, the pain in my head and the itch on my nose I couldn't reach.

It was when all those thoughts began to string together I realized there were faces looking down at me. I could see their mouths moving, but there was no sound. Then there was no thought.

***

The scariest thing about finally waking up wasn't that I couldn't be sure I could feel my legs. It was the handcuffs that attached my wrists to the railings on either side of the bed. I could hear the beeping in the background get faster as I started to panic a little. I tried to call out, but all that came out was just some weak croaking noise. But that was enough because it brought a concerned looking nurse over who looked at me and then went away and came back with a cold wet washcloth she put on my forehead.

Then a young guy in a white coat with a name tag that said Dr. something appeared and looked down at me and then reached at my face and pulled my eyelids up one at a time and peered down like he was looking for something. I tried to shake my head, but it hurt too much to do that so I just kind of gave him the raspberries blubbering through my lips. He took a stethoscope from around his neck and stuck the ends in his ears and listened to my chest. Then he turned and said something to the nurse. They both went away. She came back with a needle and stuck it into the tube that was attached to my arm. And that was the last I remembered for a while.

When I woke up again I remembered about the handcuffs so I told myself to just stay calm. I had to talk to somebody. It was time to find out what the hell was going on. I lay there a while taking inventory. I could bend my knees a little and wiggle my toes. That was good. I could see my right arm looked as normal as it could with the needle and the tube stuck in it. The left arm had a bandage around the wrist that had forced them to put the handcuff halfway up my forearm. That was all I could see and feel.

It seemed like a long time, but eventually a nurse came over and looked at me.

I tried to say "What happened?" But it just came out as a whispered grunt. It made my side hurt. She looked at me quizzically, so I tried again. This time it sounded more or less like what I wanted to say.

"You were in an accident," she said. "You were hit by a car."

I was going to try to make a joke and ask her if the car was all right, but instead I just croaked the word, "Water."

"Just a minute," she said and then she disappeared. She came back with a little paper cup with one of those bendy straws sticking out of it. She reached down and cranked the bed up, so I was sort of half sitting. Then she held the straw up to my lips so I could take a sip. It tasted like plastic, but my mouth was so dry it was still pretty good.

When I was done I kind of shook my arms and rattled the cuffs and asked, "Why?"

"You're under arrest."

"What for?"

She made a stern face. "Killing people."

I was still woozy enough I wasn't sure I heard what she said. I must have given her some kind of look or something because then she said, "Now that you're awake somebody will be coming in to talk to you."

I suddenly had a thought. "What day is it?" I asked.

"Sunday." Then, maybe because she was angry about working it, she added, "Mother's Day."

I thought it was Thursday the last I knew. I started to hope this was all a bad dream. The nurse went away and left me propped up a little. I could see I was surrounded by white curtained screens. They apparently didn't want me seeing anybody or maybe anybody seeing me. With all that visual stimulation it wasn't long before I dozed off.

I don't know how long it was, but a hand on my shoulder woke me up. It was the nurse. "Detective Donatelli is here to see you," she said.

I looked over to the other side of the bed and there he was – a stocky, swarthy guy with one of those hairlines that comes down to a point right between the eyebrows.

"You able to talk?" he asked.

I really didn't feel like talking, but I had to find out what was going on. I nodded a "yes."

"Where were you between three and five o'clock on the eighth?"

That was too complicated a question. "What was the eighth?"

"Wednesday."

I thought for a long time. "In a bar."

"Where?"

"A couple blocks off West Randolph."

"Which one?"

"I dunno."

He held up a little leather notebook and wrote something in it. "Why were you at the Randolph Detective Agency?"

He didn't have the name right, but I wasn't going to correct him. "My late wife had a past due balance. I was going to settle up." That took a lot of effort to say.

More writing. "Why did you pull a gun on the owner?"

I hadn't known Harris was the owner. And now this was complicated. I tried to buy time. "What do you mean?"

"The owner told someone you pulled a gun on him."

"I don't remember that." Time to play dumb.

More notes. "Maybe you were angry with him?"

"No."

"Did you settle the account?"

"No. He waived the balance."

"Because you pulled the gun?"

"No."

"What time did you leave the agency?"

"I don't know, maybe two thirty."

"Where did you go?"

"A bar."

"Why?"

"I dunno. Thirsty."

"Remember the name of the bar?"

"No."

"What time did you leave the bar?"

"Dunno. Maybe four thirty."

"Where did you go?"

"Another bar." I don't know why I lied. I was scared. For some reason I didn't want them to know about the hotel.

More notes. Then, "Why did your wife hire the detective agency?"

"I dunno."

"Were they investigating you?"

"No."

"How do you know that?"

"I dunno. She wouldn't."

He started writing again. I was getting tired. It looked like he could see that because he closed the notebook.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Hit by a car crossing the street. You're lucky to be alive. Somebody pushed you out of the way just in time."

"It doesn't feel like out of the way."

He gave a little smirk. "Here's the situation, Mr. Cutter. You're under arrest on suspicion of murder in the deaths of the owner of the Randolph Detective Agency and one of his employees. We also have you on assault with a deadly weapon for the wounding of his receptionist."

"I didn't kill anybody."

"That's still to be determined."

"I need my lawyer."

"We can arrange for you to make a call. He's not available on a Sunday, is he?"

"Maybe not."

"Okay, you can do that tomorrow."

"The cuffs? I'm not going anywhere." Couldn't hurt to ask.

He stopped and thought for a second. He looked over at the nurse who gave a nod. Then he reached in his pocket for a key and leaned over the bed and took the cuff off my left arm. "Now that you're awake they'll transfer you to another ward where we have a guard posted."

"That's it?" I asked.

"That's it for now," he said. "I'll be back tomorrow." He turned to leave.

"Wait," I said. Where am I?"

The nurse answered, "Cook County Hospital."

Then he said, "A world of trouble." And he left.

I reached up and scratched my nose.

***

I don't know what it is about hospitals. They're always waiting until you fall asleep before they try and do anything to you. So they're always waking you up. They woke me up to take some pills. They woke me up to eat some cherry Jello cut up in little cubes and drink some water. They woke me up to wash me off which hurt my side so bad when they rolled me over I had to cry out in pain. Finally, they woke me up to take me to the special ward.

An orderly pushed the bed through the corridors while some kind of cop or security guard walked along one side and a nurse walked on the other side carrying my chart and a bag full of my clothes and stuff. That kind of procession earns you a lot of stares from all the people you pass. I hoped I looked decent even though I knew I had a few days stubble on my face. But then I thought that just maybe made me look more sinister so I fit the role of a dangerous killer better.

They pushed me through double doors they'd had to stop and unlock and then into the ward. When they got me where they wanted me, I looked around. There weren't any screens. There were a couple dozen beds half of them with guys in them in various states of disrepair. I thought I looked in better shape than half of them.

I didn't want to think of anything anymore. I decided to fall asleep so they could wake me up sooner and give me more of those pills for the pain.

(back to top)

# Chapter Twenty One

**Between the lights** being on all the time and dozing on and off a lot I had no idea what time it was whenever I woke up. So when somebody touched my shoulder and I opened my eyes and saw Marty I was completely confused.

"You," I managed to say.

He gave a little smile. "Surprised?"

"What time is it?"

"Eight."

"What day?"

"Sunday."

"What are you doing here?" I was still trying to come to.

"Making sure my richest client is alive."

"How'd you get in here?"

"I'm your attorney, remember?"

"Yeah, but how'd you know I was here?"

"I read the papers. You are almost famous. I was here last night too, but you didn't wake up." He gave a look around the room. "I see they have you slumming it now."

I made a face. "I'm glad to see you."

"I bet."

"You know what's going on?" I moved my right arm to show him the cuff.

"Yes. And I'm not sure your little interview this afternoon did you a lot of good in that regard."

"What do you mean?"

"I told you once before not to talk to the police unless I'm there. You didn't give them enough to remove suspicion."

"Hey," I protested. "I did the best I could."

He shook his head and then sat down in a chair and scooted over to the side of the bed. He pushed his glasses back up his nose and lowered his volume. "They're not giving me a lot of time. We've got a lot to cover. Listen carefully. We need to establish your alibi so we can at least get you out on bail if they won't drop the charges. Where did you go after you left the agency?"

"A bar. I don't know the name."

"How did you get there?"

"I walked."

"I mean in what direction did you walk?"

"I came out, turned right, went to the corner, turned right again and then found it a couple blocks down on a corner."

"Anybody there going to remember you?"

I thought for a second. "Maybe not the bartender. But there was a barmaid. Big chest she liked to show. I talked to her. Redhead. She might."

"Okay. Where did you go next?"

"I took a bunch of cabs back to the hotel."

"Why?"

"I saw the cops come after the shooting and I got scared."

He screwed up his face in dismay. "You were there?"

"No, no. I just heard the sirens and went to look. Nobody saw me."

"Okay. What hotel?"

"Alhambra. On Wabash."

"Anybody see you there?"

"I dunno."

"Did you go to the bar? Talk to anybody? Order anything from the room?"

I closed my eyes and tried to think. This was getting hard and I was running out of steam. "Bar, no. Um... I got some scotch and a burger from room service. I think that was the night."

He smiled. "Good. I'll try to track that all down tomorrow. Why'd you pull the gun on the guy?"

"Pissed me off. Wouldn't tell me anything."

"I don't know how we're going to get around that one yet. Only good thing is the man can't press charges."

"Who told?"

"The bookkeeper. He hid out. The owner must have said something before the attack."

A thought flashed through my mind, but I couldn't catch hold of it. Something about the bookkeeper. Then another thought came to mind. "How do you know all this?"

"I'm your attorney. The cops have to share some things." He smiled a little smile again.

"Anything else?"

The smile went bigger. "Yes. I got the life insurance policy. It looks legit, so it appears like we can collect once we have a death certificate and the insurance company investigates. And as long as you stay alive."

"That seems to be difficult lately. Anybody think the accident was deliberate?"

"The police don't. But they are treating it like a hit and run. The guy never stopped."

"What kind of car?"

"Black Ford. '55 or '56."

"That's too much of a coincidence."

"But right now it's only a coincidence. Let the police handle it. There's a couple things, though, on the life insurance."

"What?"

"There's a secondary beneficiary. Charles Fowler."

"What's that mean?"

"Normally it means if you died before Connie he would get the proceeds when she died. But in this case there was a rider that said if you die after Connie and before the proceeds are awarded, Charles would be the beneficiary. Pretty unusual."

I didn't like the sound of that. "And?"

"And the policy is owned by a corporation. Reage International. Ever hear of it?"

"No."

"Nobody else has either. I'm still looking into it. All I have is a post office box in New York."

"So it wasn't Connie?"

"Not unless she was connected to the corporation."

I was fading and Marty could see it. "Can you come back tomorrow?" I asked.

"Yes I will. I want to be here when the detective comes back. I'm staying in town tonight."

"Good."

He stood up and moved the chair back. "That brings up expenses. We didn't cover that. I'll just add them on to the contingency if that's all right by you?"

He made me smile in spite of myself. He never forgot money. "Fine," I said.

He waved a goodbye and walked toward the doors. I watched him go, thankful there was at least one person who really wanted to see me alive and out of jail. Or at least I hoped so.

***

I was feeling better the next day Not great, maybe not even good, but better. I could feel my mind clearing because I now was able to think about what was going on. But that wasn't really good because it let me start to get nervous and anxious to get out of this mess.

Another doctor who looked like a high school sophomore with his too big white coat and glasses came by late in the morning with a nurse in tow. He took my pulse and listened to my heart and looked into my ears. I could actually feel his disdain and disgust at having to deal with such an obvious rabid dog of a killer. But that didn't bother me.

"So, doctor, what's wrong with me?" I asked as nice as I could.

He kind of sneered, "I wouldn't know."

"But aren't you supposed to know?" Again kind of stupid nice.

He gave me one of those looks then he looked down at my chart. "Grade three concussion, sprained wrist, two cracked ribs, contusions," he read from the notes. Then he felt compelled to add an editorial comment so he looked up at me and said, "Unfortunately, you'll live."

So I said in my best faggy voice, "Well thank you, doctor. I appreciate the report. I hope you have a truly lovely day."

That confused him for a moment, and in that moment I sprang up in the bed as far as my ribs would let me, bared my teeth and hissed into his face, "Now get the hell away from me before I eat your eyes!"

He must have jumped three feet back his mouth wide open. The nurse clamped her hand to her mouth stifling a laugh. I couldn't help but laugh myself even though I tried not to because it hurt like hell with those ribs.

***

One of the nurses came by and unhooked the IV from my arm and said I didn't need it anymore because I was eating and drinking. She also told me Detective Donatelli would be by at three o'clock to talk to me again. There was no way I could call Marty, so I hoped he knew the schedule. He did because he showed up at five before three with a big smile on his face.

"Got you off the hook," he beamed, excited like.

"Really? How'd...?"

"I just came from the police station. I talked to the detective and showed him you've got an airtight alibi. Gave him the name and number of the barmaid and showed him a statement from the hotel with your room service order with the time. Cops love it when you do their work for them. By the way, I checked you out of the hotel."

"But I used a different name. How'd..."

"Just asked for somebody who'd left their things without checking out. And you signed for room service with your real name. So dumb you were smart."

"Where's my stuff?"

"In my car."

''What about showing the pistol to Harris?"

"I reminded him that was hearsay. Second hand at that. Bookkeeper said the receptionist told him. And that it was no longer germane to his case."

"What now?"

"Once they talk to the barmaid they're going to move you back to a regular ward."

"And the cuff?" I asked jiggling it.

"It'll come off when they move you. You know you really made an impression on that barmaid. You should call her. Name's Wanda."

I couldn't tell if he was kidding or serious. I just made a face.

"Well, you should at least go back there and thank her."

"Yeah, right," I said. "Can't do that 'til I get out of here. You hear anything about that?"

"I talked to a doctor on the way in. The one who saw you earlier. You made a real fan there. He said a couple of days, but I could tell he'd like to see it sooner."

"I'm ready anytime."

"Another day or two won't hurt."

I sat there for a second kind of taking in the good news. Then my mind started going again.

"We have the autopsy report."

"What? How?"

"Judy – Judy Mancini. The gal that called you. She works for Dr. Northrup who did the autopsy. Turns out Northrup is no fan of the local cops. He let her take a copy to give to me."

"Great. Insurance company may want that. How do we get it?"

"I'll call her when I can and tell her to give it to you."

"Or I can call her."

"Let me."

"How are you doing, by the way?"

"Better. Sore. Head still hurts." Then something came back to mind. "Listen, something's been bothering me."

"Like almost getting killed?"

"Funny. No. Hear me. When I was talking to Harris, you know, the agency owner, he told me that I wasn't supposed to get dunned for the balance. I guess they didn't want anything to do with me. They were plenty scared. But he said the bookkeeper, Kucharik's his name, didn't get the memo and dunned me anyway. So I showed up and they had to deal with me."

"So?"

"So Kucharik survives the shooting by hiding out? When the place gets attacked by guys with shotguns who want to kill everybody?"

"I don't follow."

"What if the bookkeeper did get the memo? What if he ignored it because he was on the take or something? What if they wanted to get me to the agency so they could take care of everybody who'd been snooping into the Connie thing once and for all?"

"So then how did they miss you?"

"I don't know. Maybe I wasn't there long enough. Maybe the bookkeeper missed the appointment entry. I did reschedule. Maybe they had a flat tire on the way. I dunno."

"Seems like a stretch."

"I'm not so sure. That they didn't kill Kucharik tells me different. We need to check him out."

"I say let the police handle it. I don't see how that's relevant to the insurance."

I knew Marty was so close to that contingency payment he could taste it. But I was looking for something else.

"There's no insurance if I'm dead," I reminded him. "And that bookkeeper may know who's trying to kill me. Plus there's somebody driving around in a Ford who still wants to run over me."

Marty sat there considering the notion. "I don't understand why we just don't let the police handle it. Tell them what you know. It might help them."

"Let me ask you a question. Who knew I'd be stepping out of a cab at the cop house at four thirty Thursday? Let me tell you – only people in the cop house."

"Oh," is all he said.

(back to top)

# Chapter Twenty Two

**In hindsight, it** probably would have been better to stay in the prisoners' ward with a guard posted at the door. As it was, my paranoia just got worse and worse. I stopped with the pain pills, holding them under my tongue until the nurse went away and then spitting them into my hand and hiding them in the food I dare not eat. I didn't let them touch me unless there were a couple of nurses or doctors at the bedside. Worst was I couldn't sleep. I'd doze off because I couldn't help it, but I'd pop my eyes open at the slightest sound or sense of consciousness. The only good thing was that I could get out of bed and go down to the patient lounge and smoke. I did that a lot.

I know all of this sounds as boring as anyone's story about being in the hospital. It's hard to talk about without sounding like some kind of pansy or, worse, a braggart who wants to show you the scar. But the point is I couldn't wait to get out of there.

I called Judy late Monday night from a pay phone in the hall, my first try at remaining upright. She was cool at first wondering why I hadn't called earlier. After I told her about the accident and where I was her tone changed to frantic. How was I? What happened? Had they tried to kill me? You know, what you'd expect from somebody who cared. I told her I really couldn't talk given where I was but that I'd be out in a couple of days and would call or see her then. I told her not to worry. She said Doc Northrup had asked her if I got the autopsy report yet. I told her I'd get it from her as soon as I could.

Marty was good. He stayed in town and dropped in twice Tuesday to bring me food that wouldn't kill me and cigarettes so I wouldn't kill somebody else. The second time he came I pleaded with him to help me sneak out of there, but he wouldn't bring my suitcase up so I could put clothes on and escape. The clothes I'd worn when I got hit were all cut up thanks to the emergency room nurses. Marty promised me a new suit from his dad's store he said he would expense. He went so far as to take the bag of cut up clothes so the new ones could be tailored to match. And he brought me the gym bag. That made me feel better. I didn't tell him the .45 was in it. But maybe he'd looked and knew.

It was about eight o'clock Tuesday night when Judy surprised me and showed up. She said she'd come straight from work, but I could tell she'd made a stop for makeup and a change of clothes. She looked good. I wished I had something on besides a gown.

"You've had an adventure," she said, smiling as she approached the bed. "But you look okay. How are you?"

I had to smile back. I was pretty happy to see her. "A little woozy, but I'll live." Then I said, "You really shouldn't have come all the way up here." I meant it, too. Chicago was no man's land.

"I had to. I've been too worried."

"It's not safe here. I don't want you in the middle of this."

"What if I want to be?"

I made a face and shook my head. "Where's Margie?"

"Friends for dinner. I can't stay long, though. School night. I have to get back."

"Yeah. That's a drive."

"I have something for you." She reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope. She held it in her hand and then bit at her lower lip hesitating. "I'm not really sure I should give this to you now."

I knew what it was. "No, I need it." I saw her eyes go sad. "You looked at it, didn't you?"

"I know I wasn't supposed to. But I thought if I couldn't give it to you I could at least tell you what it said." Her face was getting tighter and tighter. "Roy, it's bad. Maybe when you're feeling better."

"No, now." I held out my hand. She gave it to me.

"I can't watch you read it."

"I'll wait."

"I know you couldn't have had anything to do with some of the things it says. But I'll need you to tell me that."

"What do you mean?"

"You'll see."

"So it's bad?"

"Yes. You'll have questions. I couldn't tell Dr. Northrup I read it, but I did ask him if you could call him with any. He said yes. He's disturbed about it."

"Okay," I said. "Appreciate it."

"Can I get you anything while I'm here?" She jumped into her nurse role to change the subject.

"No, I'm fine. You've done more than you should."

We chatted just a few more minutes. I could tell she'd gotten uncomfortable. She finally said she had to go and she gave me a kiss on the cheek and told me to call her. I watched her walk out of the ward. Then I looked down at the envelope on the bed.

***

Judy was right. I did have questions. Like what kind of monster had done this? As I read my hands began to shake so hard I had to put the paper down on the bed.

The cause of death was something like very thin piano wire that had been thrust into her head just below the base of the skull. Only an eighth of an inch had protruded from the skin. Another three inches were imbedded in her brain. But that was nothing compared to the rest.

Her back, buttocks and the back of her thighs were covered in scars as if she'd been flogged. Her breasts were marked by razor cuts. Her wrists and ankles showed deep bruising. Her genitals were shaved. Her nipples and labia were pierced with iron rings. Her vagina was scarred. Her anus was distended. Her butt had been branded with the letter "R." Below her navel was a crudely inked tattoo. "PUTE." Dr. Northrup had translated. French for whore.

There was more about the time of death and the contents of her stomach and the blood tests that had been done. But I couldn't go further. Not right that minute.

I folded the report and put it back in the envelope. I tucked it under the pillow. I sat there for a long time thinking, trying to stop shaking. I had no trouble staying awake that night.

***

Wednesday was a doctor's day off, at least in Rouen. But I thought I could find him at the golf course. Luckily he liked to play early. I reached him just before noon. I asked him if he was in a place he could talk. He said "yes" and that he very much wanted to talk to me.

"What do you make of the wire?" I began.

"Ingenious. Expertly placed."

"Ingenious?"

"I have a theory. I think the wire broke off from a handle of some sort. Too much force is required to push a wire like that into the cranium and too little wire was left exposed outside the wound for it just to be the wire. So I think in that regard the killer suffered a mishap in applying his method."

"But you said ingenious?"

"Had he been able to pull the wire back out the cause of death could have been nearly undetectable. Immediate application of ice to the wound to prevent bruising or positioning the body so postmortem lividity pooled in the area would have made so small an insertion point almost invisible just inside the hairline like that."

"It could look like a stroke?"

"Yes."

"It was quick?"

"Virtually instant."

"Her eyes were open." That had bothered me.

"I would guess the killer placed one hand across her face to gain leverage. In doing so he held her eyelids open."

"The other injuries?" I couldn't call it the mutilation it was.

"Very troubling. Ranged from months ago to very recent.

"How many months?"

"I'd say three to four."

"How recent?"

"Within the week."

"The police know all this?"

"They have the report. They haven't asked my opinions."

"Detective Larsen never talked to you?"

"No. I understand, though, that Chief Rittberger has taken over the investigation."

Maybe that was why it was Rittberger who wanted to talk to me. But they couldn't possibly believe I was responsible for the injuries. That all happened after she came back from California. I got a bad feeling.

"Doctor, I don't want to alarm you, but I think you're in some danger. Especially if this autopsy is released."

"I think so too. That's one of the reasons why I wanted to talk to you. I heard from Judy you filed some motions to have it and the death certificate released. I hoped you'd withdraw them now that you have a copy of the autopsy."

"I will. But you still need to be careful. I don't think anyone was ever intended to find her body. Or if it was allowed to be found, to require an autopsy. It tells too much."

"I agree. And I will be careful."

I promised to keep him informed if I found out anything. He promised to do the same.

***

Wednesday afternoon I started going through LeMay's parking lot receipts and matching them to locations on a Chicago street map I'd hustled up from one of the nurses. There were a lot of receipts and it was tedious, but I wanted to use everything I had. I was going through them in reverse chronological order just the way they were stapled to the file folder. The first ones I looked at either didn't mean anything to me or were easily explained. It started to feel like a wild goose chase. I was almost done when I came across a receipt I didn't need a map for. Midway International Airport. What was he looking for there? It was dated November 12. I made a separate note of it.

***

Marty came back Wednesday afternoon carrying a garment bag in one hand and a shopping bag in the other. "Got you a suit and some shirts," he announced. "And such a good deal I got for you."

I smiled. "Let me see."

He opened the garment bag. It was a nice looking dark gray sharkskin. I knew he hadn't picked it out. "Nice suit. You've got good taste."

He beamed. "And only sixty dollars for the whole thing on discount."

"Thanks. I could get used to having an attorney like you. But sit. We gotta talk."

I told him about the autopsy and about the conversation with Dr. Northrup. I could see him begin to squirm at the details. He interrupted when I told him what Northrup wanted.

"But if we don't get the death certificate we can't apply for the insurance proceeds."

"I know."

"But isn't that the point?"

"No. Finding the son of a bitch who did this to my wife is the point."

"But the longer you hang around here the more danger you're in. Get the money and get out."

"I'm gonna be in danger until we end this thing. No matter where I go. No matter how much money."

"Why?"

"I know too much." And then I added, "And so do you."

He looked stricken. "What'd you mean?"

"There are seven dead bodies. And they're dead because every one of them knew at least part of what was going on. Somebody wants this all gone. You think they care to stop at seven?"

"I see what you mean."

"Can you withdraw those motions right now?"

"No. Have to file more papers."

"Then do it."

He looked at his watch. "Too late. Have to be tomorrow."

"Then tomorrow. First thing."

We moved on. I was getting discharged the next day and I needed to disappear. Chicago wasn't safe. Neither was Rouen. We made plans.

(back to top)

# Chapter Twenty Three

**Just because you're** paranoid doesn't mean nobody's out to get you.

I stalled around in the hospital after being discharged so Marty had time to file his papers in Rouen and then get back to Chicago to pick me up. I also didn't want to hang around the station any longer than I had to and there was a train to Rouen leaving at two fifteen. At one o'clock I finally let them load me in a wheelchair so a candy striper could roll me down to the entrance with my bags on my lap. Marty was waiting at the curb. It's only ten minutes from Cook County Hospital to the LaSalle Street Station, but we took nearly twenty circling blocks and driving in and out of parking lots making sure we weren't being followed.

When I got to the station I left my suitcase in Marty's car because it hurt to carry it. But I kept the gym bag with my pistol. I bought a ticket to Rouen asking for it in as loud a voice as I could without being too phony just so anybody tailing me could hear. Then I went into the men's room and locked myself in a stall. I took the .45 out and held it in my lap while I checked out the shoes I could see marching back and forth under the door. At two o'clock I came out and made straight for the platform and boarded the train. Again I got onto the last car and took a seat against the back bulkhead. I slouched against the window and pulled my hat low, but not so low that I couldn't keep an eye out.

When the conductor came into the car and yelled out "Next stop Union Station Joliet, Joliet Union Station, Joliet," I grabbed my bag and went into the restroom at the other end of the coach. As soon as I felt the train jerk to a stop I scrambled out of the car and onto the platform. I looked around. Only four others had gotten off, and none of them looked like killers.

Marty was supposed to meet me at the curb, but when I got outside I couldn't spot that silly yellow Studebaker. I got anxious for a moment and thought about ducking back inside but just then he pulled up to the curb. I jumped in and we drove off.

We went out to the west side of town where there were several small motels along old Route 66. He pulled into one and stopped in front of one of the doors. He handed me the room key. I grabbed my bags and went inside as he backed away.

He drove next door to an abandoned gas station, parked behind it and then walked over to the room. He knocked once then twice fast. Our code. I let him in.

It was all kind of ridiculous I guess, but overkill is better than being killed.

***

Joliet sits about halfway between Rouen and Chicago. It was far enough outside of Chicago, maybe forty miles, that I suppose they thought that a safe enough distance to stick a prison there. That the Joliet Correctional Center was one of the places in Illinois where they executed people let you know they kept some pretty bad guys in there. I think even Al Capone and Baby Face Nelson had been guests there at one time or other. Anyway, it was the city's main claim to fame. So it was a little ironic I was hiding out from bad guys in a town that was famous for hosting them.

Still it was a good location. I had business in Chicago and Rouen. I just needed some wheels. Marty and I had talked about him using the Dodge on our little odyssey, but he was afraid to. I couldn't blame him. They might have planted a bomb in it for all we knew.

Marty had come into the room just to make sure I was settled and okay. We decided I could rent a car tomorrow in his name. I had calls to make, and I desperately needed some sleep. As he started to leave I asked him for one last favor. I needed him to pick me up something to eat and a bottle of scotch. I told him the scotch was to help me sleep. He made a face. But he did it.

***

I used the phone booth over at the empty gas station to call Rittberger. I wanted to get him off my back and keep him from sending the local constabulary out looking for me. He didn't seem especially happy to hear from me.

"Where you been? I need you to come in." He was using his best bully voice.

"I can't come in. I'm recuperating. I was in an accident."

"So I heard." I wondered how.

"My attorney said you wanted to speak with me."

"Where are you?"

"Temporary quarters."

"Don't be a wise guy. Answer the question."

"Don't have to. We can do this on the phone or not at all." I was getting tired of his routine.

"What are you doing in Chicago?" Good. He thought I was still there.

"It's a great town. I have business here."

"What kind of business?"

"Personal."

"So how'd you get mixed up in a shooting?" He was starting to ask questions he already knew the answers to. He'd obviously talked to the Chicago cops.

"Misunderstanding. Nothing to do with it."

"Why did you need a detective agency?"

"I don't."

"Then why were you in one waving a gun around?"

He knew the answers. Why the questions? I could hear a faint click then hiss on the line. Then again. He was trying to trace the call. Shit. I hung up.

I was scared all over again even though I knew I couldn't have been on long enough for them to make the trace. I hoped he was having a conniption fit over it.

I went back to the room and settled in. I had work to do.

***

A warrant would be the only reason Rittberger needed to know where I was. If there wasn't one, he was up to something else. I needed to call Marty and have him check.

While I waited for him to get back to his office, I made myself a drink. I got the autopsy report out and steeled myself to go through it again. I skipped the parts I'd already read. Blood tests showed no alcohol or narcotics. That was surprising. Time of death was between midnight and one. Her stomach was empty. No evidence of recent sexual activity in the last twenty-four hours. Some early indications of cirrhosis. No other pathology. I put the report back in the envelope.

I couldn't understand. With her history why hadn't they just pumped her full of drugs and let the family and police assume it a tragic overdose? Something else was going on and it had to do with the way she'd been abused. Her body was never meant to be found. There had to have been something in her father's car that would have shown that. I didn't know, cement bags or something. And they killed the killer. I was almost sure of that.

Then again, why had she been killed at all? Whatever they were doing to her, she was keeping secret. She could have called me and told me and I would have come and gotten her out of the nightmare. Almost anyone she knew would've. Even she'd been kept under duress, she was a smart girl. She would have figured a way to ask for help.

I freshened my drink and got out my steno pad. I tried to build a sequence using what I knew. I started making notes.

Back in Rouen. Marie to tell something. Marie killed. Hires Randolph. Seen in town. Goes away. Torture starts. Randolph investigates. Loomis killed. Buick sold. Randolph paid. Away again. Torture continues. LeMay killed. File destroyed. Back in Rouen. Torture continues. Killed. Killer killed. After me. Randolph attacked. Hit me.

I looked at the notes a long time. One thing stood out. The abuse continued after she returned to Rouen. Another thought came as a question. What if she wasn't supposed to be killed at all?

I lit up and looked at my watch. Quarter to five. Time to call Marty.

I told him about the Rittberger call. He said he'd call me back. When he did he told me there was no warrant out on me. He didn't know why Rittberger would need to know where I was. He sounded worried. I told him to be careful tomorrow when he came up to Joliet. He said he would.

I called Judy. She was nice but distant. I couldn't hear a smile through the phone. I think the autopsy report had scared the hell out of her. It didn't help when I told her I thought Dr. Northrup was in danger if the results ever got out. By the end of the call she was pretty shook up. She knew not to ask where I was. She promised to be careful.

I ate the sandwich Marty had brought. I walked down to the motel office and asked them for a Chicago phone directory. They had one they could let me use.

Even though crooks don't like to have their phone numbers listed sometimes their wives do. I wasn't sure Herb Kucharik was a crook, I wasn't even sure if he lived in Chicago. But he was one of the few people left alive who might know something. I had to find him.

***

I made up a story. My name was Steven Robbins, and I was representing the City of Chicago's Violent Crime Counseling Service. I was looking for a Mr. Herbert Kucharik to advise him that our records showed he was eligible for free counseling and services should he feel the need for assistance. Obviously no department like that existed. But maybe one should.

There were only eight Kucharik's in the phone book, none of them a Herbert, none of them a first initial H. I started calling anyway. Nobody answered at the first two. The next three had no idea who I was talking about. But the next one told me that I must be looking for her uncle who lived in Oak Park. She wondered if he'd still qualify since he didn't live in the city. I told her I was very sorry, but the service was for city residents only. However, if she happened to have her uncle's address I could have the Oak Park Community Health Department contact him about similar services they might have. She went to get her address book. When she came back on I took down the address.

I hung up and smiled to myself. That was easy. Then, just to be a show off, I called information and got his phone number too.

***

I had no patience with the TV set. Every time I got up to change channels I had to fiddle with the rabbit ears. The motel couldn't spring for a decent common antenna. I made what I promised myself was my last drink of the night. I hung up my clothes and got into bed. I lit up. It was eight thirty. _Dragnet_ was on. It wasn't so much Jack Webb I wanted to watch but scenes of LA. As bad as it had gotten out there it was a better life than the one I was living now. Every minute or so the picture would roll. I didn't care.

I'd finished my cigarette and the drink. I was starting to nod off. My last conscious thought was a question. Why was the tattoo in French?

(back to top)

# Chapter Twenty Four

**We'd played ball** together ever since the sandlot so by the time we got to high school we had some plays down to a routine. Butter was the catcher. That was short for Butterball. When I didn't pitch Lefty did. And when Lefty pitched I played first.

We were playing some rube team from some little town I can't even remember the name of now. Half their team just wore jeans and t shirts. We were drubbing them so badly that by the time they got to their last at bat they were letting the scrubs hit.

Anyway, they sent up this little guy in glasses who hardly knew how to hold onto the bat. For whatever reason Lefty went and walked him. The kid was just beaming trotting towards first so happy he was to get on base.

Now the play was that while the batter was trotting to first and nobody was paying attention during the lull in action, I'd walk towards home and Butter would quick fire me the ball. Then Lefty would come off the mound and kind of kick dirt around so as not to be called for a balk.

I kept the ball in my glove and took my place at the bag like I was holding the runner on. We started up our chatter like regular. The next batter stepped in. Lefty kept kicking dirt. The kid was pretty excited to be on base, and he looked over at the first base coach who was also their manager. The coach just nodded at him.

The kid took two steps off the bag to take his lead. As soon as he did I slammed him with my mitt and yelled, "You're out!" I held up the ball and the umpire smiled and held up his thumb.

The kid just stood there in shock while the coach started screaming at him what an idiot he was. Which was really stupid because it was the damn coach who hadn't kept his eye on the ball. They made the kid run laps around the field until the game was over. I felt bad for him.

Sometimes the people who are supposed to be the smartest are the dumbest.

***

Marty was getting as paranoid as I was. He'd left Rouen early and stayed off the interstate the whole way to the motel to make sure he wasn't followed. Which was smart. At this point, we had no idea what the bad guys might be up to.

He told me his motions had been quashed and so it was entirely up to the police when the autopsy report and death certificate would be released. By the police we both know he meant Rittberger.

I asked him how he was doing tracking down the corporation that had bought Connie's life insurance policy. He told me he'd had to resort to some mail inquiries to try to find out who they were, but he suspected it was a foreign-based business that had established an American subsidiary. I kidded him that he'd made a genius deduction since the word "international" was in the name. He just smirked. Then I told him I had a hunch it could be French. He said he'd check on that.

We got in his car and drove to a place in Joliet to rent a car. It was going on his credit card, so he had more of a say than I would have liked. We compromised on a four door '55 Chevy Bel Air that was that light blue color it seemed only Chevrolet thought appropriate for a car. But it was better than yellow.

He had to get back to Rouen, and I had someplace to go. We split up at the lot.

***

It's better to be the hunter than the hunted. I'd been hunted too much. Now it was my turn.

Kucharik lived in a modest older neighborhood in Oak Park with two story houses of asbestos shingles, enclosed front porches and not much front yard. But bad guys don't live in mansions.

A hunter has to be patient and so I was. I parked on a side street with a view of his front door and driveway, slouched down behind the wheel, smoked and waited. He obviously didn't have a job anymore, at least at Randolph Investigations, so it was anybody's guess how he was spending his days.

Halfway through the afternoon a woman came out of the front door in a house dress and apron carrying a broom. She swept the front walk, went inside and came back out with a watering can she used to douse the pansies struggling along the foundation. So I knew he was married.

It was about four o'clock when I saw an older gray Plymouth sedan back up past the house and down the driveway. A man was driving. I started the car. The Plymouth backed into the street and then turned right. I pulled from the curb and followed.

He didn't go far. Maybe eight blocks and one turn later he pulled into the parking lot of an A&P. I held back waiting for him to park then I pulled in a couple spaces away. I'd let him do his food shopping.

When he got out of the car, I could see he looked like a bookkeeper, small, narrow shouldered, glasses. Nothing like a killer. Once he was in the store I got out and wandered past his car. I looked around and then checked the driver's door. It was unlocked. I considered hiding behind the front seats but thought that too awkward and too much like the movies. I walked around and made sure the passenger door was unlocked. It was. I ambled back to my car, leaned up against it and lit a smoke. I watched the store.

He came out carrying a bag in one arm. I didn't move from the car right away. I had to time this just right. I watched him walk into the lot. Then I flicked the butt to the ground and made my move. I slowed just a little when I saw him open the back door and put the bag on the backseat. Then I sped up as he moved to the driver's door. As soon as his butt hit the seat and he closed the door I was in the passenger seat with the .45 held low and pointed at his head.

"Both hands on the wheel and look straight ahead."

He was so startled it took a second to register. But it did.

"I didn't talk. I swear to God." It was almost a whisper.

I believed him. "We're talking now."

"If you're gonna do it, just do it." He was almost crying.

"Who put you up to it?"

"What?"

"Constance Cutter case."

"You!" He'd figured out who I was.

"Who had you sucker me into the office to talk to Harris?"

At the sound of his dead boss's name, he choked. "I don't know."

"You don't know or you just lying?"

"No. I swear. It was always the phone."

"When did they hire you?"

"Not hired. They killed our dog. They'd kill my wife. I had to."

"When?"

"When the case came in – November."

"What happened to LeMay?"

He positively shuddered. "I don't know. Honest."

"You're lying." I moved the pistol closer to him.

"No, no. I don't know what any of this was about. I just did what they told me."

"What?"

"Just tell them if he was still working on the case."

"What about in the beginning?"

"Who was working on it. They wanted to know what he found, but I couldn't get into the files."

Seemed like they went to a lot of trouble for a stoolie that couldn't do much.

"How'd you not get killed?"

"I hid. I knew they were coming. I thought they'd kill me too."

I pressed the .45 into his ribs. "You're holding out. You'd be dead now if they wanted,"

He dropped his head. "No. Jesus. Please. I'm telling the truth."

"Who called you?" I thought I'd try again.

"Some foreign guy, then somebody else."

"What do you mean, foreign?"

"I dunno. Accent."

"What kind?"

"I don't know. Not American. Other one was."

"How were the payments made?" I'd try something he had to know about.

"What do you mean?"

"There were two payments made to you. Cash? Check? What?"

"Check then wire."

"What do you mean 'wire'?"

"International money transfer."

"From where?"

"France."

I was getting nervous. My little interview was taking too long. Shoppers kept walking by. I wasn't getting much and I could find him again if I had to.

"I'm getting out of the car. Wait a minute and then drive home. I'm gonna follow you. You do anything else and it'll be the last thing you do. I get wind you told anybody about this conversation and same thing. Got it?"

He nodded.

I got out of the car and tucked the pistol in my belt. I was halfway back to my car when he started blowing the horn and screaming "Help! Help!" out the window. Treacherous little bastard. I turned and looked in his direction like everybody else in the lot. I calmly walked back to his driver's side window like I was going to see what was wrong and maybe help. I leaned in and threw a quick punch that caught him square on the jaw. He yelped and looked at me terrified.

"You need to take me seriously," I said. "Now do what I told you." He got the message this time. He went home like a good boy.

***

When I got back to Joliet I headed for a little bar Connie and I had visited a couple times before we went to California. She told me it was where she liked to escape from Rouen. It was sort of an Italian place that played a lot of Sinatra and Tony Bennett. I was in the mood for that.

I had a lot to think about. That Kucharik had gotten calls from two different people didn't bother me so much as that one of them was foreign. And that the Buick money had come via France. The tattoo was in French. I remembered LeMay had parked at Midway. They had flights to France. I began to think maybe that's where Connie had gone. France. But why?

After the second scotch, I started to think about Judy. I kind of wanted to call her, but there was nothing really to say. I'd only make her more upset. No, it was better to let her be. It's just that sometimes when you don't have any family you can run out of people to talk to.

That made me think of Connie's family. Now there was a pack of wolves. Carl and Arlene, haughty, imperious, cold – the kind of people who used their wealth to use other people.

Then there was Charlie following in his father's footsteps, but with a more casual underhanded kind of charm. There was just this feeling I had about him and his perfect wife and perfect house and perfect kids. None of it seemed perfect.

And Cathy, the spoiled brat. What should she be now, twenty-nine? Thirty? I wondered where she was. I didn't remember seeing her at the wake. I did remember that she was one of the calls I got that day when they found Connie. There was no doubt she was a good looking woman. A dark haired version of Connie with a bigger bust and wider hips. It was just that she was one of those people who never agreed with anything you said in a way that made it seem as though she thought she knew more than you. So if you said something like, "The sky is blue," she'd say, "Not really, it's more an azure with a veil of gray," or "Blue? That's not really blue," or "Maybe but not for long." That kind of thing.

But I needed to find out more about what was going on in that family and what really happened with the housekeeper. Maybe it was time to find Cathy.

(back to top)

# Chapter Twenty Five

**Overnight the weather** turned wet and raw. It was one of those dark Saturday mornings when you just want to stay in bed. The light around the drapes was far too dim for the hour and I could hear the slap of rain against the window and its drum on the hood of the Chevy parked outside the door. I sat up in the bed and lit a smoke. I tried to decide whether I needed coffee badly enough to go out into it. I was disappointed the answer was yes.

I got up and went to the window to see how bad it was. I pulled the drape back a little bit. Sheets of rain swept the parking lot. It was nasty. Just then I saw a black and white cop car pull into the far entrance to the motel. I closed the drape to just a sliver. A Joliet cop. He started to crawl slowly through the lot pausing behind every car. When he got behind the Chevy he stopped altogether. I couldn't see what he was doing. I couldn't move. I thought Kucharik might have gotten the plate number. Finally, he rolled away. He got to the exit and turned left onto the highway and went back the way he had come.

I cursed to myself. I was sick of being scared. I went to the nightstand and got another cigarette. I had to get out of there. I had to ditch the car. I had no choice.

***

The rain stopped by early afternoon, but it was still overcast and chilly. I'd checked out of the motel and gone to the rental place where I'd swapped the Chevy for another one, a copper and white two door hardtop. I had to put this one in my name, but that couldn't be helped. Anyway, it was a much better looking car.

It's funny how much slower you drive when you've got no place to go. I found myself wandering toward Rouen on back roads I barely remembered from when I was a kid. I noticed the corn had seemed to grow a half a foot in the two weeks or so I'd been back. I wasn't a fan of the landscape. I'd done enough farm work to see only hard labor when I looked at fields like that.

The drive gave me some time to think. The new wheels gave me a little more freedom to move around. At least for now. So as I approached Rouen I thought it might be safe to drop by Judy's and say hello. A crummy Saturday like this might find her home. Maybe she'd offer me some coffee. But when I got there a pickup was parked in front of the house. Probably entertaining some dark mysterious farmer. I kept going.

I got back to 53 and turned right. It occurred to me that the HoJo was safe for one night anyway, especially with a different car. Lord knows I was still paying for the room. Might as well use it.

That dumpy brown Dodge was still there. I parked a couple spaces away from it. I brought the bags up to the room one at a time. My side still hurt like heck when I tried to carry anything, and my left wrist was still a little weak. I didn't unpack.

I went down to the lobby to get some cigarettes. There shouldn't have been any messages. But I was surprised. There were two. One from Judy. And one from Cathy Fowler. I took them back to the room.

Judy had left her message Friday when she didn't know where I was. It was nice to think she'd been looking for me even if she was going to have a guest. Cathy's message was from Thursday night. The desk clerk had checked the little box marked "urgent" on the pink message form. I didn't recognize the number. It wasn't her folk's, that much I knew. What I didn't know and couldn't understand was how she knew I'd been staying at the HoJo.

It was an 815 area code, so it was local. I sat down on the bed and dialed out.

"Hello?" It was a man's voice.

"Hello, I'm returning a call from Cathy."

"Who?"

"Cathy. Cathy Fowler."

"No Cathy here. Wrong number."

"Wait," I said. I knew I'd dialed the number correctly. "This is Roy Cutter, her brother-in-law. She called and left this number."

There was a pause. It grew longer. Then, "Roy?" It was her.

"Yes."

"I'm so glad you called." She was almost breathless.

"Yeah. How'd you know about the Howard Johnson's?"

"No time for that. I can't stay on this line. We need to talk."

"Okay."

"I need you to come here."

"Where?"

"A farm. Can you write directions?"

"Yeah." I grabbed the pen and pad on the nightstand.

"Take Route 4 west ten miles. North on Lindenwood Road six miles. Then left on County 14. Go two miles after it turns to gravel. You'll see it down a lane on the right. Barn has a sign that says, 'The Good Earth'. "

"Got it."

"When can you be here?"

"I can leave now."

"Good. Gotta go. Wait. What are you driving?"

"Copper and white Chevy."

"Okay." She hung up.

The call had gone too fast. I cursed under my breath. She knew where I was, what I was driving and where I was going to be. That was too much. I smelled a trap. I couldn't trust anyone much less a Fowler.

I got up from the bed, lit a smoke and paced around the room thinking about what I should do. It somehow sounded like she was hiding out. But who was the guy who answered? And why was she on a farm? That was the last place a Fowler would be. Then I thought maybe that was the point. I'd do it. I grabbed my pistol and went straight to the car.

***

If it was a hideout, it was a good one. Even though it had rained and I wasn't throwing up a cloud of dust behind the car as I drove down the gravel road, they could still see me coming from two miles away. I'd considered stopping the car and sneaking up to the house on foot, but I could see that was going to be impossible. The house and out buildings were surrounded by plowed and freshly planted fields. They could see a rat crawling in the dirt a quarter mile away. No, they already knew I was coming.

As I turned into the lane, I caught the name on the mailbox. Severson. A Norsky. That was all right. Better than French. I saw the sign, too. "The Good Earth." I guessed the farmer had some respect for his calling.

The lane went past the front porch that faced the road and more or less came to an end opposite a side door in back and the start of the packed dirt farm yard. There were still puddles around from the morning rain. It didn't look like anybody ever used the front door since it still covered over in plastic from the winter and the porch was barren, so I pulled in opposite the rear entry. I sat in the car for a minute and looked around. There was the main barn, a corn crib, some chicken coops and a couple of sheds. All were painted red. The house was white and when I looked at it I could see a picnic table and clotheslines outside the back door. There was an outhouse too, but it didn't look like it was being used anymore.

But there were no signs of life. No animals. And no people. When I turned the car off there wasn't another sound. I didn't like any of that. I leaned forward and moved the pistol to my hip. I buttoned my jacket and got out of the car.

I'd taken three steps up the walk toward the door when I felt hard steel jammed into my back. I froze.

"Hands up now and slow," came the nasal drawl.

I had no idea where he'd come from, but I did as I was told. I felt a hand reach around me and unbutton my jacket and frisk me. He felt the .45 and slid it out from my waist.

"You won't need that here," he said. Now let's go in the house." I felt the pressure on my back ease and I walked toward the door. When we got there he said. "Open the door and go on in."

I stepped into a ground level ante room with coats and hats hung on the wall and galoshes lined up underneath. A .22 rifle was propped in a corner with a broom and mop. That made me guess it was a shotgun pointed at my back. There were three steps on the right that led up to the kitchen. With a nudge from the barrel, I went up. I heard him close the door behind us.

Cathy was standing by a well-worn wooden kitchen table. She gave me sort of a sheepish smile and said, "I'm sorry, Roy. But we have to be careful." Now that I'd been positively ID'd, the barrel went away. "Roy, I'd like you to meet Tom Severson. Tom, this is Roy."

I half turned as he walked around me. He was a big man. As tall as me but burly big and a little older. Balding red hair and a full red beard. Looked like a regular Viking. And I was right. It was a shotgun, 12 gauge at that.

"Pleased to meet you," he said, offering his hand. I shook it and could feel the strength and the calluses. "I hope you can be some help to Cathy here. Have a seat and I'll get us some coffee."

Cathy came over to me and gave me a hug. "It's good to see you. This has been an awful time, hasn't it?" She backed away and said, "Come, sit down."

I was sure it was easier for her to recognize me than the other way around. She'd dyed her hair blonde, let it grow long and piled it on top of her head. She'd put on a few pounds. She was dressed in a plaid flannel shirt and blue jeans. She looked hardly the spoiled debutante any more. But with the blonde hair the resemblance to Connie was a little unnerving.

We moved to the table and sat down. Tom brought three mugs of coffee and then put the pistol on the table next to me.

"You're probably wondering what I'm doing here," she said.

"Yeah. What's going on?"

"I'm hoping you can help figure that out."

I raised my eyebrows.

"Tom here is my guardian angel. I went out with his brother Ken in high school and got to know the family then. His wife Bertie passed away a couple year ago. When I had to leave the house and get lost this seemed the only place to go that the family wouldn't think of."

"She's been most welcome," Tom added.

"Why'd you have to get lost?"

"I'll get to that. So I've been helping a little, paying some board and doing some things around the house."

"She's learned to cook, too," Tom threw in.

"And eat too much," she corrected.

"How long you been here?"

"A little over six months."

"I didn't see you at the wake."

"I wasn't there. I haven't set foot off the farm since I got here."

"What's going on?" I was getting impatient.

"You're hard to get a hold of, you know." She wouldn't get to the point.

"How'd you know to get me at the HoJo?"

"Discreet inquiries. Why didn't you call me back when I called you?"

"When?"

"When Connie died. I needed you then." She was being her usual argumentative self.

"I called Charlie instead."

She made a face and shook her head. "Why do men feel as if they can keep it to themselves?" She looked at me. "You have to stay away from Charlie."

"Why?"

"Because I think he killed Connie. And I think he wants to kill you and me."

(back to top)

# Chapter Twenty Six

**The kitchen went** quiet save for the rhythmic plop from a dripping faucet. Cathy and Tom sat looking at me. I tried to grasp what I'd just heard.

I'd certainly become wary of Charlie. There'd been too much funny business. Like pumping Marty for information. The insurance on the housekeeper he wouldn't talk about. The dead detective near his office. Being secondary beneficiary on the life insurance policy. But I hadn't jumped to the conclusion I'd just heard.

"Really? Charlie?"

"Yes. Something happened with the family, and I think it has to be Charlie." Cathy sounded like she'd made up her mind. But then she always sounded like that.

"Start at the beginning."

"I don't know if there is one."

She could be maddening. "Then anywhere."

"It was before Connie came back. My parents came back from a trip to Europe in September. They told me they wanted me to move back into the house."

"Where were you?"

"I had an apartment in Chicago. I was seeing somebody."

"So you moved back?"

"They made me. They were going to cut me off."

"Why?"

"They said they had to cut expenses. They didn't want to pay for the apartment anymore."

"Cut expenses? Your dad has more money than God."

"I know. But I had to do it."

"So then Connie came back?"

"No. Let me tell it."

"Okay." This was turning into the kind of interview that made reporters drink.

"They were acting funny."

"Who?"

"My mother and father. And Charlie." She waited for me to ask another question she could reject. She gave up and went on. "They said they wanted me to go to Paris with them. Then Charlie told me not to go, but he wouldn't say why. But I wanted to. I was so bored. Then they said they were canceling the trip."

"How's that funny?" I wasn't getting it.

"That's when Connie came home. They weren't that happy to see her. She was such a mess. You know that. What happened out there?"

"Go on."

"There was talk of sending her to a clinic or something but they decided not to. That's when Marie died."

"Tell me about that."

"Nothing really to tell. They found her on the floor in her apartment. They guessed heart attack or stroke."

"Was she lying on her back?"

"I wouldn't know. Why?"

"So what happened next?"

"It was a crazy few days. Lots of shouting I couldn't understand. Hardly saw anybody. Charlie was around all the time. Connie was in on it too. Then she left for a couple days. When she came back, she seemed beaten somehow."

"Beaten?" Had it started that soon?

"Yeah, like she'd just given up on everything. Quiet like. The next thing I know they're flying her to Paris. I got upset because I wanted to go. But Charlie told me to keep quiet. Again he wouldn't tell me why."

I was getting frustrated. This wasn't telling me anything. I tried to get her to the point.

"I still don't understand why you think Charlie killed her."

"Of course not. I haven't gotten to that part yet."

I sighed. "Sorry."

"Just before she left for the airport with Charlie she got me into her room. She was in tears she was so upset. She was whispering, so I wasn't sure I got everything she said. But I understood the important part."

She paused again waiting for me to ask a question. I just nodded. She screwed up her face and kept going.

"She told me to get out of the house as fast as I could. To hide. Not to trust anybody. Not our parents, not the police and especially not Charlie. She said something was – what were her words? – 'evil' and 'sick' – and I was going to be next if I didn't get out that day. She made me promise. She was crying. She was begging. I believed her."

She fell back against her chair. I could see this was taking a lot out of her. We all sat quietly for a minute and listened to the faucet.

Finally, she went on. "She said not to show myself until she told me it was safe. But I never heard from her. Not ever again." She dropped her head.

"So you stayed here."

"Yes. The first I knew she was back was when we found out she'd been killed."

"I still don't understand why you think Charlie did it."

"It had to be him. The way Connie talked about him I could tell she was afraid."

"But she went to the airport with him. You must know something else that makes you think that."

"The only thing I can remember is Connie saying something about insurance and Charlie."

"But you said you think Charlie wants to kill us too."

"That's why Tom is here. Tell him, Tom, tell him what you heard."

He took a sip of his coffee and put down the mug. "It happened right after Cathy got here and then it started up again a couple weeks ago."

"What did?"

"Men in town hanging around with no likely business. Asking questions about Cathy. This last time about you too."

"How do you know that?"

"Friends. Not everybody sittin' in a bar is soused."

I wondered if he was talking about me. "What kind of men?"

"Suits. But not friendly like peddlers."

"They been around the last few days?"

"Not that I heard."

I got up from the table and fished a pack of cigarettes from my jacket pocket. "Mind if I smoke?" I asked. Tom nodded and went for an ashtray. When he came back he and Cathy lit up too. I paced around in a little circle.

"How'd you manage to get away?" I asked her.

She gave an evil grin. I could see the little girl in her. "You don't grow up in a house like that without learning some tricks. Like the combination to my father's safe. I sneaked into his study and grabbed a pile of cash. I threw a few things into a suitcase. Then I waited until they were all having dinner. I poked my head in and said I was going into town for a drink. When I got to town I called Tom. He came and got me. I left the car there."

"So nobody filed a missing person's report on you?"

"No. Nice family, huh? Makes you wonder, doesn't it?"

Tom piped up. "There was nothing official. But there were some cops going around town asking questions."

I shook my head. The cops again. Another question came to mind. I turned to Cathy. "Do you know anything about an insurance policy the family had on Marie?"

"No. Never heard of such a thing."

"What about Jim Rittberger? He ever show up at the house when you were there?"

"He was over for dinner from time to time with his wife."

"Anybody else over like that?"

"Just friends of my dad. You know, Dr. Northrup and Mel Loomis, people like that."

"You know Mel Loomis was killed?"

"No. Really? When?"

"January. They said it was an accident. But I think different."

Cathy closed her eyes. "I don't know how much more of this I can take."

Tom looked over at me and said, "If you're going to be here a while longer we ought to move your car into one of the sheds."

I agreed. We went outside together. Tom showed where to pull in and then he slid the big doors across the opening to hide it.

Walking back to the house he said, "You know, she really needs your help. She looks like she's okay, but I know this is eating her up."

"You've done well to keep her safe," I said.

"I can't lie. It's been nice to have the company. The money helps out too. But she's been afraid too long. She needs to get on with her life."

I looked at him and said, "We all do."

***

We were all kind of worn out by the Connie talk for the time being. So the conversation drifted off to farm life and then the life I used to have in LA. Tom just shook his head when I talked about how it was out there.

"Doesn't seem anything like real life," he said. "How can anybody live where you have to buy your water and watch the mountains go up in fire every couple years. I mean, how many oranges can you eat before you get sick of 'em?"

I laughed. "It's not anything like real life. That's what makes it so great."

Cathy laughed too. Then she said, "You're staying for dinner. I've got a capon that's too big for just Tom and me. You need some home cooking I can tell."

That sounded good.

Then Tom said, "Why don't you stay the night? I've got a room for you. You're safe here, and the less you're running around Rouen the better for all of us, I'm thinking."

"I'd like to Tom," I said. "But I left things back at the motel. I really don't want to leave them there."

"Well, let's go get 'em while Cathy makes dinner. It's not that far. We'll take my truck. Less likely to be followed back to the farm."

I was kind of getting to like Tom. "That sounds okay."

Tom's truck was an old Ford pickup with tools and odd pieces of lumber in the bed that bounced around and caused quite a din while we were on the gravel road. But things quieted once we hit the blacktop. The truck had seen better days. But you could tell he'd taken good care of it, and he was proud to tell you it didn't burn any oil. As we wound our way back into town, I asked if we could stop at the package store on 53 so I could pick up a bottle of scotch. He didn't seem real happy about that but he obliged. I got some cigarettes while I was at it.

When I got back into the truck, he told me to bend over or slouch down so I couldn't be seen now that we were getting closer to town. I rode like that until we got to the Howard Johnson and he'd pulled around the back.

As soon as I sat up I said, "Oh shit."

"What's the matter?" Tom asked, surprised.

"The Dodge is gone."

"What?..."

"Sit tight, I'll be right back." I jumped out of the truck and ran as fast as my side would let me up the stairs to the room. It was locked. But when I opened it I could tell it hadn't always been. The suitcase and gym bag had been ransacked. Clothes were strewn everywhere. I cursed myself for not taking anything with me. I knew I had to get out of there, so I started stuffing everything back into the suitcase as fast as I could. The same with the gym bag. I made a frantic last search of the room to make sure I had everything. Even though it hurt like blazes I carried both bags down to the truck and threw them into the back. I climbed into the cab, ducked down and told Tom, "Let's get the hell out of here."

"What's wrong?"

"Go! Go now! Make sure we're not followed."

***

I was still upset when we got back to the farm. My mind was racing trying to grasp the possibilities. Tom helped me get the bags up to the room. I started going through everything, folding the clothes, checking the toiletries. When I got to the gym bag I felt sick. I rooted through it frantically. There was no file folder. There was no steno pad. The bad guys knew what I knew. That wasn't good.

I went back downstairs and asked Tom for a glass and some ice. Cathy was busy setting the table. I poured myself a drink and sat down. I lit up.

"What's wrong?" Cathy felt my mood.

"Things just got harder." I took a good pull on the drink. Then it hit me. "Oh crap!" I burst out. I sprang from the chair and made for the door.

"What is it?" I heard Cathy call after me.

I just kept running out the door and across the barnyard. When I got to the shed I pulled back one of the doors, cursing the pain. I opened the door to the Chevy. I couldn't see it. I dove inside. I pawed the floor and under the seat. I had to find the slip of paper – the directions to the farm. I got out and checked the back seat. Nothing. I was starting to sweat. I told myself to calm down. I started going through my pockets. It was in the right inside jacket pocket. I never put anything there. "Damn," I said out loud. I'd really scared myself.

My relief lasted all of five seconds. I'd written the directions on the pad next to the phone in the motel room. I don't press that hard when I write, but I'd been in a hurry. I wondered if the bad guys could have traced the impressions on the page underneath it like you see them do in the movies. I was sick all over again.

Tom appeared in the door. "What's the matter?" he asked.

I gave him a grim look. "We've got a long night ahead of us."

(back to top)

# Chapter Twenty Seven

**We ate dinner** in silence. I stopped with the scotch. I was making too many mistakes. The only relief we'd had was when I found Cathy's phone message folded up in my wallet. So at least they hadn't gotten the number. We hoped they hadn't discovered the directions, but we had to assume the worst. Plus they were around. They could've followed me from a distance and seen where I went. They might even have done that with Tom's pickup.

While Cathy cleaned up Tom and I assembled our arsenal. There was his 12 gauge, a .410 shotgun, the .22 rifle and my .45. We decided on two hour watches – one of us on the front porch with a clear view of the road running east and west in front of the house, one just inside sleeping on the couch. The guy on the porch would have the 12 gauge and the .45.

Once it got dark it got really dark. It was a new moon, and it was overcast. You could see the lights from Rouen reflect off the bottom of the clouds to the southeast. There were small glowing blips on the horizon from other farms in the distance. Tom made sure all the yard and out building lights were off and we pulled all the shades in the house. We wanted to turn off all the lights inside too, but Cathy said it made her too afraid, so we let her keep the light on in her room. I hung the bedspread from the curtain rod to make sure no light seeped out. I told her to stay in bed and away from the window.

Tom took first watch at eight o'clock. I lay on the couch with no hope of sleep. This was too much like the jungle where you'd sit in a foxhole and wait for them to come out of nowhere and start firing away and throwing grenades before you knew what was going on or where they were coming from.

As soon as I closed my eyes I realized we had it all wrong. This wasn't the jungle. The house wasn't a foxhole. It wasn't even a fortress. It should be a trap.

I got up and went around turning on lights. I switched on the TV and turned the volume up a little. I left the shades down. I went upstairs and told Cathy to put a sweater on and grab a blanket and a book or something. She was going to spend the night in the barn. She put up a brief protest. I knew she would. But she saw how serious I was and in the end did as she was told.

I went to the front porch to tell Tom the plan. He asked why I'd turned on the lights.

"I want them to think we're inside and not expecting them. Turn on the yard lights, too," I said. "With the weapons we have we've got to see where we're shooting."

"You think it's gonna come to that?" he asked.

"If they show up."

He shifted the shotgun in his arms. "I'll be ready."

"Ever shoot anybody?" I asked.

"No."

"It's not easy. Can you do it?"

"I can."

It was the best I could expect. "All right. But it's going to happen fast. They'll blow into the driveway and pile out of the car and rush the house with shotguns blasting. Or they'll try to sneak up on foot. Either way they'll head for one of the doors. I say shotguns because that's what they've used before. We have to take them down quickly. That means shooting them before they start shooting at us."

"You keep saying 'they'."

"At least two. They like to make sure. Anyway, that's what I think."

I watched Tom's face closely. I couldn't see fear, but I saw him swallow hard. Then he said, "I'm gonna change from shot to slugs." He broke open the shotgun and pulled the two shells from the barrels. He reached into his overalls and pulled out two others and loaded the gun. He snapped the barrel closed and locked it. "This'll be bigger game than I'm used to shooting is all."

I smiled at that. "I don't know where you were when you got the drop on me this afternoon, but that's where I'd like to see you wait."

"I was just inside the crib. We still standing watches?"

"No. We both need to be ready. We need to cover both doors. You cover the back, I'll cover the front. Could be a long night."

"All things considered, shouldn't be too hard to stay awake."

I thought the same thing.

I had Tom open the doors to the shed so they could see the Chevy. He got himself a chair from the kitchen so he could sit inside the corn crib and watch. I told him as it got later I would go into the house and start turning off lights so it would look normal. I told him to keep the yard lights on. Then I told him not to wait for me. If he saw them, he should shoot them.

I took up a position in the front yard behind a low dry well structure in the shadow of the house. I took a small dark tarp from the shed and draped it over me to mask my silhouette. I could see the road, the field to the east and the entrance to the driveway. Tom took the 12 gauge and the .22. I had the .410 and my .45. The .410 was a single shot, so I thought it might be almost useless, but it was all we had.

I hunkered down and waited.

***

It got to be almost three o'clock. I'd been into the house a couple times to turn out some lights. The later it got, though, the less inclined I was to leave my position. My legs were cramping from sitting cross legged so long. I didn't want to move around, so I just tried to flex my legs slowly.

It was funny. I'd never even so much as shot at a squirrel or rabbit so I'd only ever hunted and killed humans. But you get good at it when the quarry is hunting you. Which is probably why I was able to spot the two shadows while they were still a couple hundred yards away, bent over, slowly making their way through the dark open field toward the house. Cowardly bastards wanted to sneak up and kill us in our sleep.

I stayed still and watched. They were approaching the side of the house that had few windows. They were either going to have to circle the back or the front to get to a door. I could feel the adrenalin start. Cramps vanished. I had to wait to see which way they were wanted to go. They slowed then stopped about fifty yards from the house. They were carrying sawed off shotguns. I could see the silhouettes. The two seemed to talk. When they started to move again I could see what they intended. One would come around the front, the other around the back.

They were stupid to split up. I didn't have to move. I slowly picked up the .410 and put my finger on the trigger. He should come close enough for me to get him with that. I hoped Tom could take care of the guy going around the back. My guy approached the corner of the house. He looked around the porch and stopped.

I wanted Tom to take the other guy out first. More surprise and safer for him. So I waited. Nothing was happening.

My guy started to make his way along the front of the porch. He was only about twenty feet away. I really didn't want him to make it to the corner of the house. He might be able to see Tom come out of the crib or join up with his buddy. Once around the corner he'd be out of sure range and I'd have to chase him down with the .45.

Boom! It was Tom. Again, boom!

My guy jumped a foot in the air. When he came down I let him have it right from where I sat. Bam went the .410. He crumpled in a heap. I shot him in the head to be kind.

I scrambled to my feet and ran around the corner. The yard light showed Tom standing over a body on the ground with the .22 pointed at it.

I started to walk toward him. Suddenly I heard tires on gravel and a motor roaring. I turned and saw a black Ford slew into the lane and head for Tom. Shit. A third one. I was still in shadow.

I dropped the shotgun and pulled the .45 from my belt and started firing through the window as it passed, then into the back window. Tom ran toward the house for cover. By the time I'd emptied the clip the car was slowing. It glanced off the side of the barn and came to a stop.

I reloaded and ran to Tom. He was white.

"You okay?" I asked, grabbing him by the arm.

He could only nod.

"Stay here," I ordered.

I approached the Ford slowly, the pistol aimed at where the driver should be. I stayed in the blind spot as long as I could. I reached forward with my left hand and opened the driver's door. As I did, the body leaning on it fell out of the car. I'd gotten off seven rounds. Only one looked like it hit him. But it counted. There was a hole just above the right ear.

Tom came up and stood behind me. "Jesus," is all he said.

***

We found Cathy huddled in the corner of a stall under a blanket. She was shaking, terrified. Tom picked her up and got her to her feet. He draped the blanket over her shoulders and then put his arm around her and walked her back to the house. Along the way he put his hand over her eyes so she wouldn't see the body lying in the pool of blood there in the yard. The 12 gauge slugs had nearly cut the guy in half.

We didn't talk until we got inside. I turned on the kitchen light, and we all sat spent at the kitchen table.

We were quiet for a while. Then Cathy said, "Tell me it's all over. Tell me it's safe."

"For now," I said.

"No. Tell me it's over!" She was crying again.

"They were hired guns. That's all. It's not over 'til we find the people who hired them."

"No!" And she burst into sobs.

Tom got up to console her. He put his arm around her and looked at me. "What do we do now?"

"Clean up." I found my cigarettes and lit one. I held out the pack to Tom.

He shook it off. "Shouldn't we call the cops or something?"

"Can't. What happens next tells us if they're dirty."

"What do you mean?"

"Nobody knows this happened. Nobody will till they don't check in. And then only the people who hired them. If cops show up, we know they're in on it."

Cathy wailed, "My God what is going on?"

"We don't know," I said. "What's more we don't know if these bastards told anybody else about this place."

"Then we have to leave?" Now Tom was frightened.

"I don't know." And I didn't. "Whatever, the first thing we have to do is get rid of the bodies and the car like it never happened."

"Then what?" Cathy demanded.

I didn't answer. I got up from the chair looking for the scotch. I stopped and turned around. "Cathy, we're going to need coffee. Lots of coffee. Can you make some?"

She nodded. Tom helped her up. She went to the counter with something to do. She started to come together. She turned back to us and asked, "You boys going to start tonight?"

"Yes," I said.

"It'll be just a minute then," she said.

(back to top)

# Chapter Twenty Eight

**Had we been** thieves we would have considered the night quite a haul.

We stripped the bodies of wallets, watches and money. We threw all of that into a pillow case so I could look through it later. We rounded up the guns and ammunition. We ended up with two sawed off 12 gauges, two .38 Specials, a .45 and a German Luger. I guessed one of the guys must have been a veteran and brought the Luger home with him.

The trunk of the Ford yielded enough ammunition for all the guns to hold off a small army. We also took out a bunch of tools and rope and three suitcases. They'd obviously been staying away from home. Tom admired a new-looking hacksaw he said he could use.

From the glove box we removed the registration and insurance documents and some brass knuckles and a couple knives. All that went in the pillow case too. I looked hard for a wire attached to some kind of handle but didn't see one.

The biggest find was on the front seat. My file folder and steno pad were stuck in the crack between the seat and the backrest. They were splattered with a little blood, but that didn't bother me at all. I was just glad to have them back.

Next we threw the bodies into the trunk so we didn't have to look at them anymore. The first two we took down weren't really recognizable anyway. Then we just had to ditch the car. Tom had the solution.

First light was just peeking up across the eastern horizon. He loaded some chain onto the back end of his big John Deere and set off on a path north into his fields. I followed driving the Ford. I'd made sure neither one of us left prints on the car. I didn't turn on the lights. It was a bumpy ride, but it wasn't long before we came to a fair-sized farm pond. Tom had me pull up near to the edge. We rolled down all the windows and opened the doors wide. He crawled underneath the front end and hooked one end of the chain to the frame. The other end he attached to the tractor. He drove half way around the pond and then slowly pulled the Ford in to the middle. It didn't take long for it to fill up and sink. Bubbles were coming up from the trunk, but we knew those wouldn't last long. Tom unhooked the chain from the tractor and threw it into the pond. He said we could fish that out when it came time to haul the Ford out of there.

I rode on the back of the tractor to the yard. I was feeling better. We weren't done yet, though. We hosed the blood off the gravel where Tom had dropped his bad guy and off the grass at the corner of the house where I'd got mine. We could see where two or three slugs and pellets had hit the wood siding of the house, but there wasn't much we could do about that right now.

We hid some of the weapons, ammo and other stuff under hay in the barn loft figuring local cops would be too lazy to climb up there to have a look. We took the shotguns, some shells ammo for them and the pillow case into the house.

We put our loot on the kitchen table and sat down. Cathy had gone up to her room when we'd gone out to do our chores. She must not have been able to sleep because she heard us come in and came down the stairs. She was still in her blue jeans and shirt.

"Can I get you two anything? Some breakfast maybe?"

Tom shook his head "no." I looked around for the scotch bottle but then did the same.

"How about some fresh coffee?"

We both nodded "yes" and she went about making some.

Tom looked at me. "What do you think?"

"We've got a few hours before they suspect anything. We should get some rest."

"Don't know if I can."

I knew what he meant.

***

I didn't go back to Rouen when I was discharged. My mother said they wanted me back, but I knew better. What they wanted was somebody in the house paying room and board. She tried to entice me with talk of local parades honoring the veterans and the high school classmates still in town who had gotten jobs and were doing well. I wasn't having any of it.

I started out staying at my friend Danny's out in Anaheim. It was a little awkward though because he had just gotten married and they said I was keeping them up some nights screaming in my sleep. But they were nice about it. Luckily, it wasn't long before I got a job at a weekly paper over in Santa Monica and took a room in a boarding house in town. If I bothered anybody there, they didn't say anything.

I think I got hired at the paper just because I could type like a banshee. But that was all right because I learned how to write newspaper stories covering town meetings, school boards and high school sports. I used the G.I. Bill to enroll at UCLA and crammed as many credits into my week as I could.

I met Deb in one of my classes. English as I recall. It was kind of like high school. We started out flirting and then I began asking her out to movies and cheap little dinners at Mexican restaurants. She still lived with her parents and I only had the room in the boarding house, so I couldn't exactly bring her home with me. We managed, though, thanks to friends and motels. So after a year or so I thought we were pretty close and I started thinking about asking her to marry me. Looking back on it, she probably wasn't going to be the love of my life, but sometimes when you think it's time to get married that's what you do.

She was killed in a car accident on the Arroyo Seco Parkway on a beautiful May afternoon. I always thought she was a terrible driver. I never let her drive when we were together. They said she tried to pass somebody on the right and was forced off the road and into a tree. She had a very nice family. I felt badly for them. They all took it very hard.

It was after the funeral and the cemetery when we were at the restaurant having a midday meal. I was standing at the bar waiting to order a drink when I overheard her brother standing behind me somewhere telling somebody that she'd planned to break off with me and go on a trip to Europe when she graduated in June. He said she thought I was a nice guy but that she wasn't ready to settle down and wasn't it a shame that she wouldn't get to pursue her dreams.

For some reason I felt relieved. Maybe it was the dead spot. Anyway, I didn't even feel the need to order a double.

***

It had been a real effort for everyone considering how exhausted we were. Just when we were all ready to pack it in I announced we must not. If the cops showed up, there couldn't be any evidence of Cathy or me around. And we'd have to hide. We went through the house and picked up everything we could. Cathy's room was a challenge because she'd been there for six months and had accumulated a lot of books and magazines. Tom thought the attic would be the best place to stow everything in case they wanted to look through the out buildings. I climbed a ladder up into the attic and Tom handed up everything to stow including the shotguns and shells. We left the ladder under the attic door so Cathy and I could climb up there and then pull it up after us should the time come.

There was nothing we could do about the Chevy. I suggested he tell the cops he was holding it for his brother. We did close the doors on it.

It was nearly ten o'clock by the time we were done with everything. We gathered around the kitchen table again for a final pow wow. I asked Tom which cops were responsible for his part of the county. He allowed it was usually the Granger County Sheriff's jurisdiction. I wanted to know that so if it was the Rouen cops who showed up we would know the score for sure.

I volunteered to take first watch and let the other two get some sleep, but Tom was adamant that he do it. He said he was beyond sleep. Cathy and I went to our rooms and collapsed on the made beds. There would be no time to make them up if somebody showed up.

Unspoken among us was the fear that somebody besides the cops would show up.

I don't know about Cathy, but I immediately fell into a deep sleep. It was so deep Tom had to come upstairs and shake my shoulder to rouse me.

"Get up! They're coming!"

I was having trouble coming to. "Who?"

"Police car on the gravel road."

"Oh," I said.

"Cathy's already in the attic. Hurry up!"

I swung myself off the bed then bent down and smoothed the covers. I looked around the room to make sure it was clear of my stuff then headed for the ladder. Tom went downstairs.

There were louvered vents in the gables on the front and back of the house so you could see a little bit of the front yard and road and the farm yard in the back. I went to the front to see if the cop car was coming to the house. It was. I saw a Rouen black and white turn off the gravel road and into the lane. I cursed under my breath.

Cathy heard me. "What is it?"

"Rouen cops. We have problems." I moved across the attic to the other vent.

Apparently Tom had come out of the house to greet the cop. I could just make out the voices.

"Good morning, Ralph. What can I do for you?" That was Tom.

"Morning, Tom." A voice I didn't recognize. "I hate to bother you on a Sunday morning, but we had some reports of gunshots out this way last night. You know anything about that?"

"Can't say as I do."

"A couple folks said they thought it was coming from your farm."

"Don't know about that. I didn't hear nothing."

"Maybe you were asleep."

"Yeah, maybe so."

"In that case, if you don't mind, I should take a look around the place and make sure nothing happened you don't know about. I have to do a proper investigation of a report like that, you understand."

"Well, you're welcome to look around. I'll just be inside."

"I'd rather you come with me and show me around."

"I can do that."

I watched the two of them walk toward the barn and then go inside. I didn't see them again for a few minutes until they walked across my field of view toward the sheds. More time passed before I could hear them again approaching the side of the house. I picked the cop's voice up first.

"...without a warrant. But I'd appreciate it if you'd let me look around inside."

"Suit yourself," Tom said.

I understood why Tom didn't refuse the search. But I wasn't happy the cop was coming inside. I caught Cathy's gaze and held my finger to my lips. She nodded.

All we could hear were occasional muffled voices until they started coming up the stairs. Then we heard them going room to room with Tom captioning each room's purpose. They were directly underneath us in the attic when the cop spoke up.

"Seems like a lot of house for just you. Ever get visitors at all?"

"Like I said before, just my brother." Tom must have used him to explain the Chevy.

"Well, I thank you for letting me have a look around."

We heard them go back down the stairs and then the screen door opening and closing.

"Appreciate it if you could let us know if you see or hear anything suspicious."

"I'll do that."

Then we heard the door close on the cop car and the motor start up. It pulled away.

I shook my head.

Cathy said, "What is it?"

"You and I are going to have to get out of here."

(back to top)

# Chapter Twenty Nine

**Running for my** life all the time was leaving me no time to find it again.

It was twelve thirty and we were all hungry. Cathy set about making some cheese sandwiches and heating up some soup. Tom and I sat at the kitchen table watching her. I was mad as hell and had been sitting silent for some time.

Finally, Tom prodded me. "So you really think the Rouen cops are bad?"

"At least one."

"One?"

"It sounded like that cop knew you. Knew your name anyway."

"Yeah, that was Ralph Johnson, Jake Johnson's son."

"What do you know about him?"

"Good kid. Army vet. Still helps his dad on the farm. Hard to believe he'd be bad."

"May not be. Could've been sent out here by someone who was though."

"How so?"

"Nobody reported any gun shot," I said, "state police or sheriff would have shown up sooner. No, when the bad guys didn't report in with our scalps the word got to somebody at the Rouen cops. They guessed at the gun shot excuse and sent somebody out to check the place. I'm sure they'll grill him about what he saw."

"So what do you think?" Cathy had been listening.

"I'm sure it's Rittberger. He's connected to your family somehow and he's in on the scheme to get rid of us."

"Then why didn't he come out here?" Cathy asked.

"He's a coward. If he thought we were able to take out the bad guys he wouldn't try it on his own. And it's Sunday. Probably playing golf anyway."

"What do we do?" It was Tom's turn.

"If those guys last night knew Cathy and I were here then everybody does. We gotta leave."

"I don't want to go. I'm safe here." Cathy being contrary.

"Not anymore."

"You think they'll be back?" Tom asked.

"Not right away. They're still not sure what happened. But eventually."

"Damn," he said.

"Yeah."

We talked through lunch. Gradually Tom and Cathy began to accept the situation. I wanted the three of us to split up figuring three would be harder to track than one or two. Tom wouldn't hear of it.

"I'm taking Cathy with me. I watched out for her this long, and I'm not gonna leave her by herself. Not now."

I could see by the look Cathy gave him she thought that a fine idea.

"Where can you go?" I asked.

"Got a second cousin with a farm on the other side of Peru. He's got enough room for both of us. Should be far enough away. I know he'll take us in. What about you?"

"Don't know. Running out of options."

"Come with us," Tom said.

"No, too far out. Gotta stay close."

"Aren't you afraid they'll find you if you stick around?" Cathy wanted to know.

That gave me a thought. I turned to Tom. "Did the cop take down the plate number on the Chevy?"

"Didn't write anything down."

I couldn't count on anything, but that might give me a chance.

"I may head back to Joliet. I don't know. We just gotta get out of here before Rittberger can put a tail on us."

Tom got up. "You're right. Let's move."

***

It didn't take too long for Tom and me to get everything down from the attic. We took the guns and the pillow case full of our spoils down to the kitchen and divvied it up. I gave him all the money and watches. I kept the wallets and all the paperwork we found. I let him have all the guns except for their .45 and the ammo for it. I could use an extra pistol. I for sure didn't want that Luger. I'd heard those things can go off by themselves. I considered taking one of the sawed off shotguns, but I needed to travel light.

When we were done, I went upstairs to help Cathy. She didn't have a lot of clothes but she'd accumulated a lot of books and magazines. Stuck in the house like she was I guessed that's about all she had to fill her time. TV reception that far out was pretty bad.

We needed to remove all traces of her from the house so I started filling up grocery store bags with the books and magazines. After I threw in one handful, I stopped and pulled out the book that had landed face up on top.

It wasn't the title or artwork that got my attention. It was the author's name. Pauline Réage. It rang a bell. Marty had said the life insurance policy was owned by Reage International. Strange word. Strange name.

I held it up to Cathy. "What's this?"

She pinched up her face in disgust. "That? That's pornography. Throw it out if you want."

"You don't want it?"

"Believe it or not I grabbed that with some other books when I left the house. There was a whole stack of them in the study, so I thought it wouldn't be missed. Must have been my father's."

"It's that bad?"

"Sadistic sex. Hardcore. Not for me."

That rang more bells. I looked at the cover. _Story of O._

"Can I have it?"

She smirked. "Whatever gets you through the night."

***

I'd helped load up the back of Tom's pickup with their things and had thrown my stuff in the back seat of the Chevy.

Tom said he could be gone for a few days without losing anything in the fields. He thanked me for helping them and wished me luck. I told him I was sorry to have brought this on him. Tom had given me the number and I said I'd call his cousin when the coast was clear. Cathy waved through the window as they pulled away. I followed them out. At the end of the lane, they turned right, heading west. I turned left.

I still had no idea where I was going. I just knew I wanted to get out of the county as fast as I could. When I got to the blacktop, I turned left and headed north. I didn't drive slow. I did watch the rear view mirror.

***

I drove north for a long time. There wasn't a lot ahead of me except Wisconsin, so I gradually worked my way east. I eventually found myself in the little town of Geneva. It was a pretty little place with the Fox River running through it. It was as random a place as a wandering drive could produce. More importantly it had a hotel with a parking lot behind it where I could more or less get the Chevy out of sight. It also had a Union Pacific train station with a line that ran into Chicago.

I'd looked for open bars on my way in but maybe because the town was dry I couldn't spot any. Or maybe I just hadn't passed any. It was just as well. I'd been living with an addled brain for a while and maybe it was time to sharpen up. Might help me stay alive.

Once I checked in I took a long hot shower and changed clothes. That revived me a little. I'd worn those clothes far too long and done far too much dirty work in them. I checked them for blood stains but didn't see any. I hoped I could get them cleaned the next day.

I sat down at the desk and piled all the wallets and paperwork from the prior night's activities on top. I got out my steno pad and looked at it. I considered keeping the blood splattered page as a souvenir but then thought better of it. I made sure there was nothing I needed on it, ripped it off and tossed it in the waste basket. I'd start with a fresh page.

The first guy was Alfonso Peretti. He'd been thirty-seven and had resided in Chicago before his wicked ways put him at the bottom of a farm pond in Nowhere, Illinois. He'd been a member in good standing of the Knights of Columbus and the South Side Italian American Club as witnessed by his membership cards. There was a photo of a woman that, judging by its age and hers in the picture, had once been his wife of maybe ten years. Nothing on the back told me her name or the date when it was taken. There was an Esso credit card and two others for Sears Roebuck and Montgomery Ward. Business cards seemed to indicate he patronized several lawyers and a bail bondsman. Finally, there was a well-creased fifty dollar bill secreted in the lining that I supposed had once been his emergency stash. It now belonged to a guy he'd tried to kill.

I stuffed everything but the fifty back into the wallet and went on to the next one.

I didn't learn much either about Salvatore Giordano except, coincidentally, that he had also been thirty-seven, a resident of Chicago and a member of the South Side Italian American Club. There were no pictures in his wallet, but there were two poker chips and two condoms in foil packets. My guess was the poker chips were meant to mask the round indentations the condoms made in his wallet. Apparently Mr. Giordano felt it necessary to camouflage his intentions. He had been a member of the V.F.W. so I guessed the Luger had been his. There were a couple of credit cards but no business cards and no hidden stash of cash.

The third wallet belonged to Paul Cardillo. He had a photo of himself with a woman inside so I could tell he'd been the guy driving the Ford. He had been fifty-two and had resided on the same street in Chicago as Mr. Peretti. Unsurprisingly, I learned he too was a member in good standing of the Knights of Columbus and the South Side Italian American Club. He had more credit cards than the other two and more business cards: a barber, dry cleaner, florist, a lawyer, a bail bondsman, a funeral home, a doctor and four restaurants all with Italian names. He must not have been good a remembering phone numbers. I looked on the back of the business cards for names or notes, but there weren't any.

In the center of the wallet were some folded up receipts. There were four from gas stations and one from the Howard Johnson's in Rouen. That gave me a shiver. I checked the date. They'd been staying there Thursday and Friday and had checked out Saturday. They'd been getting closer and closer all along. I'd been stupid to return there. Looking at the receipts I wondered if hired killers submitted expense reports.

I started checking the gas receipts and finally came across something of interest. Handwritten on the back of one were the initials "CF" and three phone numbers. One I recognized right away as a Rouen number. The other two had a Chicago area code and they looked familiar.

I got up and got my black book out of the gym bag. The two Chicago area codes were Charlie Fowler's home and office. That's why they looked familiar. The Rouen number I didn't have in my book. I went to the nightstand, picked up the phone and dialed it. A woman answered, "Rittberger residence." I hung up.

I lit a cigarette and started pacing. I had to calm down. I already knew Rittberger was in on it. And Cathy had been right. It was her brother after us. It was just seeing it for certain that shook me up.

I went back and sat at the desk and put Cardillo's papers back in the wallet. As I did, it occurred to me that none of the guys we took down carried a social security card. Then again I understood the mob was a tax exempt organization. I kept the receipts out so I could put them in the file folder later.

The shuffled through the papers from the glove box, but they didn't tell me anything except the car had been Cardillo's and it was due for an oil change.

I looked at the wallets and papers. I didn't want to get rid of them, but I also didn't want to be carrying them around with me. I'd need to find a place to stash them.

Before we left the farm Cathy had made some sandwiches trying to use up food in the fridge. I was glad for that now since the hotel didn't have a restaurant and I didn't feel up to going out. Exhaustion was overtaking me. I took the wrapped up sandwich from the gym bag and opened it up. Ham. Good. I was too lazy to get ice, so I just poured a couple fingers of scotch in one of the bathroom glasses. Dinner was perfect.

I got undressed and crawled into bed. I had Cathy's book with me. I looked it over before I started reading. Seemed like a private printing. No publisher listed. But it did have notes. Originally published in '54, it was an English translation from the original French. Jacket blurb said the author's name was likely a nom de plume. I soon understood why. About a quarter of the way through I had to get up and pour a little more scotch. Halfway through I'd had enough. It wasn't fiction. It was the last six months of Connie's life.

(back to top)

# Chapter Thirty

**"** **Let's be frank**. I don't think it was an accident and neither do you."

Martha Loomis sat bent forward on the edge of her silk damask sofa, her hands clasped tightly in the lap of her beige silk sheath dress. "I told you. I cannot help you." She wouldn't look at me.

I'd gained this audience on the pretext that I was an adjuster investigating a claim on a life insurance policy that had been part of her husband's benefits as a state assemblyman. We'd been around the block on that charade. It was time to level with her.

I'd stopped at a stationery store and bought a leather portfolio to better look the part and get in the door. I opened it up, took the book out and put it on the coffee table beneath her gaze.

She gasped and covered her face with her hands. "No," she moaned. "No, no, no."

"Your husband was part of this, wasn't he?"

"Who are you?" she cried.

"Reporter. You can either help my story or be part of it."

She gasped again. "You wouldn't."

"I will."

She stood up and moved away from the couch her back to me. "We had nothing to do with that. I want you to please go away now."

She'd used the word "we."

"Of course you did. I already have proof. It's why I'm here." I lied.

She spun around. "You must understand. It was all a mistake. We didn't know what we were getting into. We tried to get out."

"How did it start?"

"A party. We were invited to a party."

"Where?"

"The Fowlers'."

"Who was there?"

"Friends of the Fowlers."

"Who?"

"I don't know. People. A police chief. A banker. A doctor. Their son."

"Couples?"

"Yes."

"Carl's daughters?"

"No."

"What happened?"

She sat down again. "There was drinking. A lot of it early on. I think the men knew. Some of them."

"Go on."

"Carl said there would be entertainment during dinner. When we sat down his son brought out this girl. I really don't want to talk about it. Please don't make me."

"The men participated?"

"Yes."

"All of them?"

"Yes."

"The women?"

She hesitated. "Some."

"Who was the girl?"

"I don't know. Carl said she was from France. He called her an exchange student. He said she was being trained."

When was this?

"November."

"When exactly?"

"I don't know. Early."

"Tell me about the next time." I didn't know if there had been a next time, but it was worth a shot.

"I pleaded not to go. I begged. But Mel made me. He said we had to. He said we were committed."

"When was this?"

"A month later."

"Same people? Same girl?"

"Yes."

"Same activities?"

"Yes. Worse. I tried to leave"

"What happened?"

"A man at the door stopped me and took me back to my seat."

"Who was he?"

"I don't know."

"What did you think was going on?"

"Carl said we were now part of an organization, a secret society he and Arlene had joined in Europe years before. We were now members and once members we had to participate. He said there were rules."

"Did it have a name?"

"La Vie Réage."

"What happened to Mel?"

She began weeping. Slowly at first. Then in great sobs. "Oh, it's my fault. It's my fault. It's my fault."

I let her go on and waited.

Finally, she continued. "I refused to go the third time. I screamed, I shouted, I threatened divorce. Mel went without me. He never came home."

"Did you ever hear from the Fowlers after that?"

"No. Not them. A man came to the door. An ugly man. French. He threatened me and the children. He said he would be watching. The Fowlers didn't even come to the funeral. Hardly anybody did.

"Guy have a name?"

"No. Said I could never talk about what I knew. That's why you can't write about me. Please. I know he'll kill me. He'll kill my children."

"What about the police?"

"I was told not to talk to them."

"I mean about the accident. What did they tell you?"

"Just that they were investigating. I never heard back. I was afraid to ask."

"State Police?"

"Yes."

I sat silent for a couple seconds trying to think of another line of questions. I watched her wring her hands, her eyes red from the crying. She was nearing the end of what she could stand.

"Do you have anything from the organization, anything you took back with you from the Fowlers'?"

"Just a book like that. I threw the filth out."

"The first time you went there did you see their housekeeper Marie?"

"No."

"Did Carl or Arlene ever mention their daughters Connie and Cathy?"

She shuddered at the recollection. "They said they were sending Cathy to France for training. She was to be their exchange student." She stood up again and tried to be final. "That's all I know. That's all I can tell you. Please go."

I took the book from the coffee table and put it back in the portfolio. I stood up. "You've been very helpful," I said. "I promise you won't be in the story."

"Please don't ever come back." She pointed the way to the door.

***

Journalism is printing what someone else does not want printed. Everything else is public relations. Or so said George Orwell. Or somebody like that.

I liked being a reporter. There was a certain power and status that came along with the perquisites of high pressure, low pay and miserable hours. Although most people with real power treated you like scum, they were just a little bit afraid of you sometimes. And sometimes they had reason to be. That can be heady stuff.

After a while, I wasn't having much fun on the Santa Monica weekly. There were only so many school board meetings and town council meetings you could attend and transcribe and rewrite before you considered the whole idea of democracy the worst thing to ever happen to the human race. Committees can't decide anything and take forever doing it. Outraged citizens show up only to vent their own stupidity and loudly at that. No, the day to day business of journalism is about as glamorous as folding newspapers and throwing them on porches.

I was spending one otherwise perfectly good Wednesday night attending a zoning board meeting that had dragged on for two and a half hours needlessly cutting into my play time. The issue was building a warehouse to service a chain of sporting goods stores around Southern California. Thanks to brilliant zoning the site abutted a residential area. And it wasn't just any residential area, but a rather crime infested one known for its gangs and their attendant killing sprees. Of course, the two and a half hours of discussion had nothing to do with that. Rather the zoning board and the developers had wrangled over parking lot configurations and landscaping. With all issues at a typical impasse, the meeting was adjourned to the next month.

Curious as to why the number of trees surrounding the parking lot in so impoverished and blighted an area was of such high moment, I wandered up to the front and joined board members and the lawyers and the engineer for the developer at a table looking at the site plans. The plan for the building was pretty simple. It was just a drawing of a big square. But in the back of the building I noticed a box drawn with thicker blue lines around it. I asked the engineer standing next to me what that was for, and he told me that was where they were warehousing their firearms and ammunition.

I went to work the next day and wrote a nifty little story about how an enormous cache of dangerous weapons was planned for the site complete with quotes from neighborhood clergy and school officials calling it an outrage. The story led to a month of front page stories on the same subject. But, more importantly, it punched my ticket to a job at a daily paper in LA. I never did learn whether they built that warehouse or not.

Sometimes luck is where you find it.

***

I stopped at a gas station halfway back to Geneva to fill up and use the phone booth.

I started with Marty. I told him I'd returned the rental car that had been on his credit card on Saturday. He was relieved. He wanted to know where I was and if I was okay. I just said I was on the move. I didn't want to go into the weekend festivities with him.

I didn't think he'd heard back anything on Réage International, and he hadn't. I did tell him it was definitely French and that he should make sure to include the accent on the e. I also told him to look for La Vie Réage. He said that might help and he'd work on it. I also told him it might be a secret society of some kind and he said it didn't matter. If they'd filed as a corporation, they couldn't be all that secret.

I asked him to check and see if there was a life insurance policy on Cathy Fowler with the same company as Connie. I told him I was pretty sure there would be and that the owner would be Réage International. And would he please call the HoJo and see if they knew what happened to the Dodge?

I almost hung up on him and then remembered something important – Rittberger and Charlie were definitely dirty – dirty and dangerous and he should stay away from them. I said a doctor and banker were involved too and that they were probably Aaron Resnick and Frank Haskell. Marty promised to be careful and I promised to be in touch.

When I got off the phone, I checked my watch. One thirty in LA. He'd be back from lunch. I went to the attendant, got some change, and went back into the phone booth.

"Yeah?"

"Norm, it's Roy."

"Roy? Roy Cutter? The guy that doesn't work here anymore but who keeps calling?" He must have been in a good mood. He was trying to be funny.

"Ha ha. Yeah. That's me."

"What do you want?"

"I might have a line on a story for you."

"A little late for that, don't you think?"

"Listen, I've stumbled into something out here. But it could be big. International big."

"Local angle?"

"Not sure but I'd guess yes."

"What is it?"

"Secret society out of France devoted to sadistic sex. Described in a book called Story of O. Call themselves La Vie Réage or Réage International. Looks like they've recruited people here in the states. Worse, I think they've got cops and government types in the ranks."

"Sounds like a fun group. Where do I sign up?"

"Not that fun. They're killing people."

"Your wife?"

"I think so."

"What do you want from me?"

"Can you get somebody in the Paris bureau to check it out? You know, ask around over there?"

"You're not giving me much to work with."

"I know for sure there's a group here in Illinois. They've hired mob guys for hits and I've run into both local and Chicago cops who are involved somehow. Norm, I'm telling you this is big, and it's nasty."

"I can make the call. Too late today though. It's getting toward midnight there."

"Then tomorrow?"

"Yeah. Hey, are you all right?"

"I'm okay."

"You want to work on the story if there is one?"

"Sure."

"Okay. Call me tomorrow afternoon. We'll talk some more."

"Thanks, Norm."

"Yeah right."

I hung up. I had everybody I could trust working on Réage. Now I had to work on the people trying to kill me.

(back to top)

# Chapter Thirty One

**I wasn't sure** why I felt so safe in Geneva. There really was no reason to be there. Maybe it was because I'd more or less picked it randomly and was able to keep the Chevy out of sight. On the other hand, there might have been more to it than that. It really was a nice little town. Certainly more money lived here than in Rouen. And it was nothing like LA. It was quieter and older. Quaint in a way. If LA was a neon sign, this was a gas lamp. I needed a break in a place like that.

There was a restaurant down by the Fox River I wandered into at dinner time. I weighed having a drink and something to eat at the bar but decided instead to be civilized and take a table. After the events of the weekend, a little civility was in order. I got a table for two next to a window overlooking the water. I took the chair with its back to the wall. I began to feel so civilized it was hard to remember I'd been killing people a day ago.

I ordered a drink and watched the ducks in the river. It was a beautiful view. Leaves on the trees had finally burst from their buds and the scene looked fresh and green and peaceful in the fading light. It occurred to me that there were a lot of places like this in the country. Places far from Chicago and LA where there weren't any people looking to kill me. I didn't have to stay here and take all this crap, being hunted down in the dead of night and getting hit by cars.

Maybe Marty was right. I should leave. I could just take off. Wait somewhere and collect the life insurance. I could find a place like this but far away. Georgia maybe. Or Kansas City. I'd heard Kansas City was nice. Nobody would miss me in LA or here. Nothing was holding me anywhere. I'd get a job with a little paper and not bother anybody. Maybe find a good woman and marry her and raise some kids. Learn to mow a lawn. Go to church even. That kind of thing.

My drink came and I took a sip. I lit a smoke. I smiled to myself. Who was I trying to bullshit?

***

There was a guy in our outfit who walked around like he was God's gift to mankind. He was a big guy always talking down to everybody. He had done this. He had done that. He'd had more women that any of us had even known. Don't tell him how to clean a rifle, he'd been shooting elk since he was five. Get out of his way in the mess line if you couldn't keep up. Don't anybody touch his footlocker else you'll get busted upside the head. Captain and lieutenant are faggots who wouldn't know how to kill a Jap baby. You know, a real quality guy.

We were in the third wave to hit to beach. There had been virtually no resistance to the initial assault and most of those ahead of us had moved into the undergrowth to establish forward positions. There was no fire on the beach, so the landing craft were able to drop us off in calf-deep water. We waded ashore and stood around while the officers, surprised by the developments, talked among themselves trying to figure out what to do.

That's when they started lobbing artillery down on us. The first shell gets your attention. The second and third scare the hell out of you. The officers started screaming, "Off the beach! Off the beach! Forward! Forward!" Everybody with half their wits about them ran into the jungle and kept running until we reached the other guys in the forward positions.

Later on we heard that they found God's gift curled up and whimpering back in the boat crying for his mother. Which turned out to be appropriate since he'd pissed his pants and needed his diaper changed.

***

I'd lingered at the restaurant longer than I should have. It wasn't like I'd had one too many, but I'd definitely had enough to take the edge off. I needed that edge though. I really had to stop that until this mess was over. It was just that it was a nice place and I'd needed to unwind some. My waitress had been a sweet little thing that had I been younger would have definitely earned an offer of a drink after work. She almost did anyway.

I got back to my room a little at loose ends. I needed to talk to somebody. I thought of Judy. The guy with the pickup should be gone by now. I thought about a drink to go with the phone call and decided against it. I lit up.

Her daughter, Margie, answered. I told her who I was and asked for her mother. I got the feeling she didn't remember me, or maybe it was she just didn't remember my name. Maybe there were too names to remember. Judy came to the phone quickly though.

"Roy?

"Yeah."

"Where are you?" She knew better than to ask that question.

"Out and about."

"What's going on?"

"I'm still alive."

"Seriously. I need to know."

"I'm still on the run if that's what you mean."

"What happened this weekend?"

"Why?"

"Dr. Northrup. He was so upset this morning. I thought it was about you because he told me never to talk to you or see you again."

"Probably just wants to protect you."

"No. That's not it. He got so hostile with me. Demanded to know if I read the autopsy report. Wanted to know again if I gave it to you. Made me promise not to talk to you. He was scary. Have you done something awful?"

"Why ask that?"

"I don't know. The way he acted about everything. Like you'd done something terrible."

"Haven't done anything but stay alive."

"You're not telling me anything."

"I can't. It wouldn't be safe for you."

"If you can't be honest with me I can't trust you."

She was starting to tick me off. "So who was the pickup truck the other day?"

She hung up.

I put the receiver back on the cradle. How could Northrup know what happened at the farm? How could he be in on this thing? Was that even what set him off?

I got up and went to the dresser and poured myself a drink. I looked in the mirror. I looked ten years older than I had when I left California. And I hadn't looked all that good then. I put the glass down.

I went back to the bed and sat. I took the pack of cigarettes from the nightstand and lit one up. Northrup had been the one to see to it I got the autopsy report. He was the one who explained everything over the phone. He was the one who told Judy he was upset with the way the cops were handling everything.

And what had happened? I got Marty to quash his motions. The autopsy report and death certificate were still not released. Without them we still couldn't put a claim in on the insurance. And that gave all the bad people more time to find me and kill me so Charlie could collect. What would it matter if I knew the autopsy results if I was dead?

Maybe the doctor at those parties hadn't been Resnick. Maybe it was Northrup. And if it was Northrup, Judy was in more trouble than she knew.

I picked up the phone and dialed her number.

"Hello?"

"Don't hang up. It's Roy. I have to talk to you."

Silence.

"Listen, forget what I said before. I'm sorry. I need to ask you something."

Still silence.

"I'll level with you as much as I can."

Longer silence.

"You still there?"

"Yes."

"Connie got herself mixed up in something very bad. Let's call it a conspiracy. Involved her family and others. I think I know who some of them are."

Silence again.

"It will benefit at least one of them greatly if I'm dead before the autopsy and death certificate are released. I need to find out who these people are."

"What does that have to do with me?"

"What do you know about Doc Northrup and the Fowlers? Are they friends?"

"He and his wife go there for dinner occasionally. They talk on the phone. Yes, I guess they're friends."

"What about Frank Haskell?"

"I don't know about that. What are you getting at?"

"Can't be sure, but I think your Dr. Northrup may be involved."

"No."

"Why?"

"He's a good man. I trust him. Not you."

"Have you seen anything different about him the past six months?"

"No."

"Think."

She took a few seconds. "He's been more interested in billing, insurance reimbursement."

"How so?"

"He keeps asking about it. Didn't used to. Wants everything out right away. Got short with me once when I fell behind."

"Any big cash outlays?"

"I wouldn't know. I don't handle that."

"Who does?"

"He hired a new accountant. Works at the bank."

"Which bank?"

"Granger County."

This was coming together and not in a good way.

"Listen to me carefully. You must never admit to reading that report. If two men who don't look right show up at the office together, you've got to get out of there. I think your Dr. Northrup is in over his head. Along with some other people."

"Why do you keep scaring me?"

"You should be scared. Understand?"

"Oh, Roy..."

"By the way, the doctor seeing any foreigners lately? French men or women?"

"Not that I know of."

"You have a phone book handy?"

"Yes."

"Can you look up Frank Haskell for me? See if he's in there? Phone and address?"

"Okay."

***

I cleaned the pistols that night. Mine was pretty dirty from the clip I'd fired. The other one was reasonably clean, but automatics can't be too clean. I took my time as I'd learned to do overseas. I loaded up my clip and some extras I'd gotten along with the new .45. I would carry the new pistol. I'd rather slugs be traced to it than to my own.

When I was done with that, I took out my steno pad. I drew a simple street map of Rouen. I started with the important ones. Route 53, Main Street, Route 80 and Catalpa over on the west side of town. That's where Haskell lived. Then I drew in the grids of streets connecting everything from memory. I studied that a long time, tracing different routes and imagining what was along them. I tried to remember what the layout was west of town but then decided that once you were out in the grid of farm roads it didn't matter much. You were always headed precisely due north or south, due east or west. Not great for beating a tail.

I would need someplace where noise would not be a problem. I fully anticipated this was going to get noisy. Someplace where I couldn't be seen and certainly not interrupted. I looked at the map, again imagining the town. I didn't want to do it outside. Any place accessible enough and remote enough was ripe for a teenage couple to show up. No, it had to be inside. And it would be nice if it were scary as hell. Then it hit me. Tom's barn.

(back to top)

# Chapter Thirty Two

**The glass of** scotch was still on the dresser when I got up. I did my best to pour it back in the bottle, but I pretty much made a mess of it so the room ended up smelling like a bar. But that was all right. I was leaving. Just not right away.

I hung the "do not disturb" sign on the outside door knob and climbed back into bed. I couldn't make the call until after nine. I had until noon to check out. I had time. I was going to use it all.

I grabbed the steno pad, flipped to a clean page and started writing. I began with the dateline.

***

It was remarkably easy. Just before I checked out I made the call. I was chief financial officer of a Detroit-based retail chain interested in building a warehouse and distribution center north of Route 80. We wanted to explore local financing options as a way of supporting the community. And, of course, we would have other financial needs once operational. Would he have a few minutes late today for a preliminary chat on capabilities? Of course he would.

I walked in at quarter to four and announced myself to the secretary. I kept my back to what I took to be his office door. The secretary buzzed him on the intercom and said I was there to see him. He asked her to show me in. Pretentious twit couldn't even get out of his chair. She got up, and I followed her to the door. I stood to the side as she opened it. He didn't see me until she turned back toward her desk.

Before he could move I had the .45 out and trained on him. I held my finger to my lips and motioned with the pistol for him to stand up. I closed the door. I motioned for him to come around from behind the desk. I didn't want him setting off any alarms.

Ten minutes later we left. He told his secretary he was checking on some property with me and would see her tomorrow.

We walked out of the bank like we were two pals headed out for a drink.

***

As I'd guessed, Haskell had not felt the need to be forthcoming in his office. As afraid as he was, he still had decided to keep his mouth shut. I'd first intended to put him in the trunk, but that would have been too much of a scene. I pushed the front seat back and made him curl up on the floor beneath the passenger seat. I kept the .45 trained on him with my left hand. I drove around back streets a while to disorient him and then I headed for the Severson farm. Once we got to the gravel road I had him take off his tie and make a blindfold out of it. That's when he started whimpering. Must have been afraid of the dark.

I parked in the shed. I got him out of the car and held him by the collar while I pushed the doors closed. Then I led him over to the barn. I needed to get some things from the house for this, so I had him sit on the floor against one of the stalls while I tied his hands to the stall slats. I left him blindfolded. I wanted to give him some time to think.

As soon as I got through the unlocked back door of the house I sensed something was wrong. By the time I got up into the kitchen, I saw what that was. The place had been ransacked. I'm sure they didn't know what they were looking for, but they had made sure to look everywhere for it. That sick feeling came back into my stomach and with it rage. I'd try to come back later and clean up as best I could. Right now I had something more important. I gathered everything I needed and carried it out to the barn.

When I got into the barn I let the fireplace poker clang to the ground. He flinched and whimpered at the sound. I put the pail out of sight in the stall next to him. I didn't say anything. I tied his ankles to posts on either side of him, spreading his legs. I left and went to the shed where Tom kept his tools. I had to root around to find what I needed, but I eventually came up with what I wanted. I knew he'd have one.

Back in the barn I closed the doors behind me. There was enough light filtering through chinks in the siding and around the doors to see a little. The silence and shadows made the heavy musty air smell almost pungent.

"What do you want from me?" he cried. "I told you I can't tell you anything!"

I reached down and pulled the tie up his forehead so he could see. I couldn't contain the rage any longer. I lashed out at his jaw with my fist. He yelped. My ribs screamed in pain.

"You piece of shit. That's for Connie... for starters."

I reached down and unbuckled his belt and unzipped his fly. I pulled his pants and undershorts down to his knees. His eyes wide with fear and pain he watched me back away. I picked up the blow torch from the floor. I flicked my lighter and the torch lit with a roar.

"What are you doing?" he screamed.

I put the blow torch on the floor and picked up the poker. I held the tip in the flame.

"You like to torture women. You should enjoy this."

"No! No! Jesus Christ! No!" he yelled shaking his head back and forth.

"We can make this simple, or we can make this hard. I'm hoping for hard. Start at the beginning. Tell me everything."

"I can't! I can't! They'll kill us!"

"They'll be quicker about it than I'm gonna be."

"No!"

The poker tip had gone from glowing red to pulsing white. I walked over and held the tip just in front of his eyes. He blinked against the heat. He squirmed side to side. I pulled the tie down over his eyes.

"I'm going to give you ten seconds," I said. "Start at the beginning." I quickly moved to the next stall and reached into the pail. I returned and held the poker close over his crotch. His pubic hair began to singe. He started screaming.

"Time's up," I said softly. I quickly jammed the edge of the ice cube I was holding into his groin and held it there for put a second before I pulled it away.

Now he really screamed. "No! Please No! Mother of God, no!"

"Tell me," again softly. I hovered the poker for him to feel the heat.

"No!"

Again I thrust the ice cube into his crotch.

"Aaaarrgh!" came a scream as loud as a man could make. Just like screams I'd heard in the jungle.

"I'm starting to enjoy this, Frank," I said all friendly. "Let's continue. Let me just take a second to heat the poker back up. Maybe we can burn something off next time. Or maybe an eye. Yes, an eye might be fun."

He started sobbing. "No, no, please no. No more. I'll tell you. I'll tell you."

"Go on."

"Carl. It was Carl. He got us mixed up with some group in France. He recruited us. We didn't know 'til later what it was all about."

"Later being after the first party."

"Yes."

"You thought the party a good idea?"

"Yes. We all did."

"Go on."

"It was like extortion. They would kill us if we didn't pay, if we didn't participate. We couldn't quit. We had to go on. They killed Loomis for Christ's sakes."

"What about Connie?"

"They provided the first girl. Then they demanded we send them one. Carl was going to send Cathy, but then Connie came home. She found out what was going on and went instead."

"Why did you kill her?"

"I had nothing to do with that. I swear to God."

I tossed the ice cube aside. I lifted the tie from his eyes. I stepped back and put the poker tip in the fire.

"You all had your way with her, didn't you?"

"No! No! Wasn't me! It was Charlie! Charlie and Alice! Carl too. They liked it. I had enough. Just watched."

"Who killed her?"

"One of theirs."

"Who killed him?"

His eyes went wild again. "How did you...?"

"Who?"

"Charlie."

"Why?"

"He'd wanted to do it himself. He said he had special plans for her. He got crazy."

I took the poker from the fire and stepped toward him. I held it in front of his face.

"You let that happen, you son of a bitch"

"No! No! God! None of us wanted that. He was out of control."

I backed away and turned off the torch. I propped the poker on the torch. He looked down at himself. He realized he wasn't burned.

"You didn't...?"

"Not yet. I have special plans for you." I took the .45 out from my belt.

"Oh, Jesus!"

"How much are you paying?"

"Three thousand a month from each of us. They're bleeding us dry. We can't keep it up."

"Who besides you and the Fowlers?"

"Jim Rittberger and Ben Northrup."

"And your wives?"

"Yes."

"Rittberger can afford that?"

"We're helping him. He's to protect us."

"Any other cops?"

"I don't think so."

"How do you pay?"

"I collect the money. Wire it to Paris."

"Réage International?"

"Yes. How...?"

"Insurance. There was insurance on Connie."

"They insure the girls."

"Why was I the beneficiary?"

"Charlie had them change it. You take the fall then get killed."

"You split the money?"

"We need it to pay them."

"Marie, the housekeeper?"

"She found out. They sent a man to do it. That's all I know."

"They have a man at the parties?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"I don't know. Carl calls him Jacques."

"Where is he?"

"I don't know. He stays in the housekeeper's apartment when he's there."

"The girls?"

"I don't know. I think they're brought down from Chicago."

"When's the next party?"

"Two weeks."

I kept the pistol trained on his eyes. I used my free hand to untie his ankles, then his wrists. I stood up and took a step back.

"Get up."

"What are you doing?"

"Get up."

He pulled his pants halfway up, rolled to his knees and stood up.

"Pull your pants on. We're walking," I commanded.

"Oh, Jesus."

"Shut up."

We first went to the Chevy where I retrieved the portfolio. Then we walked to the house. When we got into the kitchen I righted an overturned chair and told him to sit at the table. I took out the steno pad and a pen. I put them in front of him.

"I'm dictating. You're writing." I indicated the pen with the pistol.

He picked it up.

***

He was on the floor again for the ride back to Rouen. It was almost eight o'clock and dark. We parked in the alley behind the bank. After he unlocked the back door he disabled the alarm. We went to his office. He unlocked the file drawer in his desk and took out the folder that held the receipts for the wire transfers. He handed it to me.

"Please," he begged. "Please, I've done everything you want."

"Shut up."

I motioned with the pistol. We left the office. He re-armed the alarm and locked the door. He got back on the floor of the Chevy.

I drove out of town over the bridge. I turned left on the county road, then left again onto the lane leading to the river. I stopped the car at the river bank. I got out, walked around and opened the passenger door.

"Get out," I said.

He stepped from the car and looked around. "Where are we?"

"Where you killed Connie."

He looked at the .45 in my hand. "Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. No!"

"Get in the river."

"What?"

"Walk into the river. I'll tell you when to stop"

"No!"

I risked a shot at his feet. Bam! went echoing through the trees. Mud spattered against him. He jumped back. He started to shake.

"Do it!" I yelled.

He turned around and gingerly waded into the cold rushing water. He was trembling uncontrollably moaning, "Oh God, Oh God, Oh God." When he was thigh deep I ordered him to stop.

"Put your hands behind your head and keep them there!"

He did it, still shaking, half bent over in terror.

I moved to the car. "Stay there until you don't hear me anymore."

"Please! Please!" he begged. He started blubbering.

I got in and started the car. I backed up and quickly turned around and floored it back up the lane. I needed every minute I could get. His first call would be to Rittberger.

(back to top)

# Chapter Thirty Three

**I knocked on** Judy's door and waited. I could see her approach through the curtained window. She peeked through the lace and then opened the door.

"Roy! You!" She was surprised.

"Let me in. Gotta talk."

She backed away to let me in. "What is it? What's wrong?"

I waited for her to shut the door. "I was right. Your Doc Northrup is in on it. You can't go in there anymore."

"What? What are you talking about? I work there."

"Not any more. All hell is going to break loose. You can't be there.

"Wha...?"

"Listen to me. You've got to pack up Margie and get out of town. I don't know where you can go, but you gotta go there. Tonight. Morning latest."

"Are you crazy?"

"The world is crazy. The Fowlers, Northrup, Rittberger and Haskell are all part of the ring. You can't be around any of them."

She looked at me like I was a lunatic. "I'm not going anywhere. This is my home."

"It'll be your home again after this blows over. Right now it's not safe. You may know too much and they know it."

"Who?"

"An organization out of France. It's been extorting the locals. It's been killing people. It's the guy who came to your door. It's who's been trying to kill me."

"You can't be serious!"

"You think I put myself in that hospital? You think I'm running and hiding for nothing?"

"Roy! Don't do this to me!"

"Do what? Save your life? Save Margie's life?"

"I don't know where to go!"

"Yes you do. Who was that pickup truck Saturday?"

I'd made her mad again. She frowned. Then defiant she said, "My ex. He was here for Margie."

"Go there. He's down south right?"

"Peoria."

"Perfect. Call him right now."

"What do I tell him?"

"I don't know – the house is getting fumigated. Margie misses him. It's an emergency. Whatever. Just do it."

She lowered her eyes. I was getting through. "All right," she said.

"Do it now. I've got to go."

"Stay just a little while?"

"Can't. Gotta get out of here. Get me his number. I'll call when it's okay."

"Are you all right?"

"Not yet."

***

I couldn't go back to the farm. Haskell would tell Rittberger he'd been in a barn, and Rittberger would make a beeline for Severson's. I also had to swap out the Chevy in Joliet as soon as I could. I ended up at a motel south of Joliet in Channahon, the only one in the little burg. It had once been a thriving little place when the canal meant anything. It died a little when the train passed it by. And it died even more when Route 80 passed to its north. After the scare with the cop car trolling the motel lot in Joliet, I wanted to stay out of that jurisdiction.

The room wasn't as nice as the hotel in Geneva, but it would do. It had a phone. Knotty pine doesn't go with cornfields.

I called Tom's cousin. Cathy came on the line. I told her that she and Tom should stay away from the farm until further notice. I told her the place had been searched and that things were heating up and that it wasn't safe. She agreed and told me to be careful.

I'd never called Marty at home because he'd told me he still lived with his parents and he'd asked me not to except in an emergency. But that's what this had turned out to be. I dug his card out of my wallet. He'd written the number on the back.

"Hello?" A female voice.

"Hello, this is Roy Cutter. A client of Marty's. Is he available?

"Who?"

"Roy Cutter."

"No, who are you calling?"

"Marty Schein."

She put her hand over the phone, but I could still her yell, "Martin, you have a phone call! Come downstairs!" Then, to me, "He'll be right with you."

It wasn't long and it was Marty.

"Hello?"

"It's Roy. I need you to file motions again to get the autopsy and the death certificate. First thing tomorrow."

"What's going on?"

"Doc Northrup is in on the conspiracy. Along with Rittberger and Carl and Charlie. Frank Haskell too. Insurance was a setup for me to take the rap and then get killed. We need to collect."

"Isn't that what I've been saying?"

"I can't be sure, but I think Rittberger is the only dirty cop. But I think I've got 'em now. Haskell confessed. I've got proof."

"What kind of proof?"

"Signed confession and bank transfers."

"Where are you?"

"Hiding. The heat's going to be on worse than before. They want me bad."

"What can I do?"

"File those motions."

***

On the whole, it was better than the brown Dodge. But not by much. It was a white over gray '53 Buick Special. It looked like an army tank with braces on its teeth. And it drove like one. But money was getting low and my credit card was filling up. It was the best I could do.

My first stop was a Goodwill store in Joliet where I used to get my baseball stuff when I was a kid. I was able to pick up an Underwood portable typewriter for twenty-five bucks. The lady at the counter gave me directions to a stationery store where I got a ribbon and a ream of paper. I also picked up a pad of blank bill of sale forms.

I drove everything back to the motel in Channahon. I wanted to call Norm from a place I could make notes if I had to. It was only ten o'clock so I had a half hour or so to kill. I cleaned the .45 I'd fired the night before and topped off the clip.

***

Norm was in meetings that morning, so it was almost noon by the time he returned my call. By then I was so full of coffee I could barely sit still. I flinched when the phone rang.

"Norm?"

"Yeah."

"What do you have?"

"Not much. Rumor. Talk. Probably not much more than you already know."

"Tell me."

"Very old, very secret. Thought to extend into high places... their parliament, maybe even higher."

"What do you mean, old? There was a book just published."

"I heard all about the book. Created a quite a stir over there. Organization predates it. Author's pen name came from the group's name. Written to be private but somebody got their hands on it and went to a publisher and the author agreed."

"They're registered as a corporation here. Must be some link to follow?"

"Just part of a maze of holding companies and subsidiaries. Would take forever to unravel."

"I may have enough for a story anyway."

"What have you got?"

"Names of locals involved. Signed confession that links them to Connie's murder. Record of payments to this Réage group."

"How'd you get a confession?"

"Persuasion."

"You know that's no good. They'll just claim duress, coercion. You got a witness to it?"

"No."

"Then no good."

"Maybe not in court. But in a paper it'll do."

"I don't know. How can you tie a bunch of straight laced Midwesterners to a French sex cartel? A story like that is gonna read like a fairy tale. You're gonna need official attribution."

"I've got unnamed sources."

"Not good enough."

"Oh come on. This is a great story. And it's all true for Christ's sakes."

"Maybe. But I can't run it."

"Jeez, Norm. I gotta expose these bastards."

"I know. But look, it's got no local angle for me. Without that I can't take a flyer on a wild goose chase on a story that could blow up in my face. These people are connected, you know? It's gotta be solid. Get back to me when it is."

"How am I gonna do that?"

"Answer me this: How'd your in-laws get mixed up in a group like this to begin with? How can a former state senator make a sex slave out of his own daughter? If you don't know that you can't make a story out of it. It's just too crazy."

"Come on. There was a murder! More than one! That's front page!"

"Those were already front page. They're old news. Go to the cops. Get them on it. Then you might have something."

"Can't. Can't trust any of them."

"FBI?"

"Who knows?"

"You might have to take that chance."

"There's no time. They're after me."

"It doesn't matter to the news. You know that. Listen to yourself."

He was right, of course. I didn't know the whole story. "All right. I'll work on it," I said.

"You do that. I hear anymore and I'll let you know. This number good for awhile?"

"No.

"Well, then call me."

"Okay."

"Good luck."

We hung up. I looked at the typewriter sitting on the desk. It would have to wait.

I picked up the phone. I fished in my pocket for the slip of paper Judy had given me. I called her ex. No answer. I cursed under my breath. I found her house number in my wallet. I called it. No answer either. I cursed again. Then I called Northrup's office. I asked the receptionist for her. She said she wasn't in. Taking a sick day. Did I want to leave a message? I said no and hung up. I felt a little better.

***

I really didn't want to drive into Rouen in daylight, but something was eating at me. Marty's initial motions had never been acted upon before he withdrew them. And he'd said he would file new ones this morning. I wanted to believe him from the beginning but something just didn't feel right.

I pulled up in front of the court house. It was a great big stone affair that I'd always thought pretty impressive for such a little nothing town. On one side of the entrance walk there was a statue and spire memorializing Civil War soldiers. On the other side was a smaller statue of a doughboy in one of those old tin helmets honoring those who had fought in World War I. It was inside the court house that they'd put a kiosk-looking structure with the names of everybody in the county who'd been in the service in World War II. My name was there. I'd looked once. I never bothered to look again. They'd mixed the names of guys who got killed with guys like me who had survived. There was something wrong with that.

I went to the circuit clerk's office and told them I wanted to check on the motions my attorney had filed that morning. They asked me his name and I told them. They asked if I had a case number and I said no. Then they asked me my name. The gal at the desk started rifling through a stack of papers and file folders. When she was done, she did it again. She told me nothing like that had been filed that day.

My heart sank. I just nodded and thanked her and got out of there.

I sat in the car for some time trying to think of what to do. I finally decided I'd had it with everybody. Every last one of them. It was going to be my way from now on. I looked at my watch. Three thirty. Still time to get in to the library. I started the car.

Halfway out of the parking space I stopped. I pulled back in and shut the car off. I had another idea.

(back to top)

# Chapter Thirty Four

**It's amazing how** little you can know about people you're supposed to be related to. I mean I realize in-law relationships can be tenuous, but still, I had no idea. Connie hadn't talked much about them.

Growing up in Rouen I knew the Fowlers were rich. Everybody did. They lived in a big old mansion over on Ivy Street with fat white columns holding up the front portico and a black Mansard roof draped over the third floor. A matching carriage house stood at the end of the drive behind the main house with enough room for four cars or maybe five if you were garaging something smaller than Cadillacs and Lincolns. I'm not sure what style of architecture you'd call it. I'd call it Post-Civil War Pretentious.

I knew they were in the coal business which hadn't exactly made them popular with the farmers since all the strip mines they owned ruined a lot of farmland and poisoned a lot of the water that eventually filled them up. People who make their living from the land have a hard time with people who make their living spoiling it. To counter that they'd bought an empty block in town and turned it into Fowler Park, with a little playground and a gazebo and some benches. I don't think any farmers ever used it though.

When Connie and I first met I'd spent some time at the house and even had dinner there one night. Carl and Arlene had always been coldly cordial in that way that rich people can have. You know, with those no-lip tight little smiles and the kind of small talk that feels like it was tossed out a second floor window and accidentally fell on top of you in a way that made you want to apologize for being underneath the window. At the time, I thought it maybe had something to do with Connie's history with men, but I eventually got the distinct impression they wished I'd leave her alone. Connie did tell me they were pretty angry when she decided to go back to California with me. So, other than the fact they he'd been a state senator, that's about as much as I knew about them.

My foray into public records at the County Clerk's office at the court house had dug up some things to ponder. Most surprising was what I found out about Arlene. Their marriage license revealed her real name was Charlene Anne Réage Chouinard. Seeing the name made my hand shake as I made my notes. She had identified herself as a French citizen. She was only seventeen when they married in 1920. Carl had been 25. I was shocked. I'd never even heard a hint of a French accent out of her.

Rifling through the stacks and references at the library told me more. Carl had been an only child after a brother and sister died in childbirth. He had earned an engineering degree from Purdue University before he went to France as an Army lieutenant during World War I. He came back a captain but not until nearly two years after the war ended. I surmised it was during that time when he met his future bride. Which was a little odd because she could only have been around fifteen or sixteen at the time.

His father, who had founded the company along with a man named Archibald Morris who died in 1906, himself died of unknown causes a year after Carl was married. His mother ended up in Chicago where she died a year after that. So at the tender age of twenty-six Carl had found himself heir to the family fortune and a captain of industry. That's when they moved into the family house on Ivy Street.

Charlie was born in '21, Connie in '24 and Cathy in '27. I could find nothing on their mother's background.

Photographs from what passed for society pages in the _Rouen Daily Register_ showed a quite handsome couple aging not just gracefully, but regally. Arlene had kept her jet black hair – I'm sure with the help of modern chemistry – while Carl had gone prematurely white. On looks alone, they could have qualified for the governor's mansion.

The rest of what I found was just incidental – membership in some industry associations, on the board of a couple small corporations, and obviously active in Republican politics. I did think it odd there were no ties to any veteran groups or fraternal organizations. Maybe La Vie Réage was all he could handle.

I sat on the edge of the bed in the motel room flipping through the notes in the steno book looking to make some sort of connection. All I could think of was Arlene's name. That had to be the connection. It had to be more than a coincidence. But what did it mean?

I lit a smoke and looked at the clock on the nightstand. Eight o'clock. A little late for a farm but not that bad.

Tom's cousin answered and called Cathy to the phone.

"Roy?"

"Yeah. You in a place where you can talk without being overheard?"

"Yes. What is it?"

"I've been looking into things, and I've got some questions."

"So why...?"

"Could get personal."

"How?"

"Do your folks ever talk about France?"

"No, not talk about it. But they go back every year for a couple of weeks. Sometimes twice a year."

"Visiting your mother's family?"

"No. My mother was an orphan. She had no family there."

"Then why did they go?"

"They have friends there. From the time when they met."

"Know their names?"

"No. Wait. I think I heard her mention a Claude once. Maybe Simone?"

I wrote down the names. "Know where they went?"

"No. Someplace outside Paris."

"Think."

"No. I don't know. I never paid attention."

"How did your parents meet?"

"It's funny you ask that. I always wanted to know. But my mother always said she'd tell me some time when I was ready to hear it."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know. But she never has told me."

"I have to ask you some ugly questions."

"Like what?" I could hear her tone go flat.

"Did your father or brother ever do anything sexual to you."

There was a long silence. Then, "No."

"What about Connie?"

"How can you ask me things like that?" Now she sounded angry.

"I need to know."

"I don't know."

"Yes you do."

I was afraid she was going to hang up. I stayed on the line. I waited.

Then, "Yes," in barely a whisper.

"When?"

"When she was a teenager. Then when she came back."

"Who?"

"My father first. Then my brother later."

"And there was nothing you could do?" Now I was getting mad. "You couldn't go to the cops or somebody?"

"I got out of there as soon as I could. I didn't want to come back. I had to. They made me."

"You know about the parties?"

"They tell me to leave, and I leave."

"You know what goes on?"

"I didn't want to know. Marie told me."

"And you did nothing. She did nothing."

"I couldn't."

"I hear there's a man named Jacques at the house. Sometimes, anyway. You know him?"

"No. But I've seen him."

"Who is he?"

"He's not a servant. My mother's afraid of him."

"How do you know?"

"He came into the dining room. By accident, I think. My mother cried out."

"You know they were going to make you go to France."

"Who?"

"Your parents, the organization. One or both."

"For what?"

"For all the hell Connie went through. She did it to protect you, to keep you out of it."

"Me?"

"Yeah. It was your turn."

"Oh my God!" She started crying. "Roy! Roy! You've got to help me!"

I let her calm down a little before I answered. "I'm working on it. But I may need your help. Stay put for now. Don't let Tom go back to the farm. I'll be in touch."

"Oh, Roy, please..."

"Later." I hung up.

***

I made myself a drink. Neat. I told myself I would nurse it. I lit another smoke and paced the room. I still didn't have enough for a story. I looked at the phone. If I was going to call, it had to be soon.

It was a man's voice that answered. I asked for Judy. He asked who I was. I told him. He told me to wait. I was relieved.

"Roy?"

"Yeah."

"Are you all right?"

"Am now. Glad you made it down there." And I was glad.

"What's going on?"

"It's going to take longer than I thought."

"What?"

"Exposing the bastards."

"What do you mean?"

"You're going to have to stay down there a few more days. It's still not safe."

"Why?"

"All I've done is kick the ant hill. They're just going to be running around looking for me. And maybe you."

"I've got to go back to work!"

"No. Not ever again. Call them. Tell them you quit. Tell them you've moved back with your ex."

"I can't be here. It's too hard."

"You've got to be somewhere. The further away the better. Stay there for now. We'll think of something later."

"What are you going to do?"

"I've got answers. I need proof."

"What does that mean?"

"I've got work to do. Stay put. I'll call you again tomorrow."

At that moment came a loud knock on the door. I froze.

"Roy?"

"Call you tomorrow." I hung up. I stubbed the cigarette out.

They knocked again. There was no way I could see who it was without being obvious. But I needed to know if I needed the pistol. I quickly grabbed the .45 from the gym bag. I peeked through the drape. It was a cop. I stuck the pistol under the chair cushion. I went to the door, pulled back the chain and opened it.

He looked like a local. "Richard Smith?" he asked trying to look beyond me into the room.

I had to think fast. He'd checked at the desk. I cursed the scotch.

"No."

"Who are you?"

My mind raced. "Sal Giordano."

He looked at me funny. I don't exactly look Italian. "Who's Richard Smith?"

"My partner. We're salesmen."

"You got ID?"

"Hold on." I went to the gym bag and fished around for the wallet with my back to him. Giordano's had been the only one without a picture in it. I got it and went back to the door. I showed him the driver's license.

"Can you take it out of the wallet?"

I did. He looked at it. Then he looked at me.

"What do you sell?"

"Insurance," I said. Then, "Is there a problem, officer?"

"We're looking for somebody."

"Who?"

"A Roy Cutter. Know him?"

"No. What's he done?"

"Warrant out for him. Murder."

"Don't know him."

"All right. Sorry to bother you." He handed me back the license.

"That's okay," I said.

He nodded and turned from the door. I closed it.

My mouth was so dry I had to take a pull on the scotch. I coughed on the straight whiskey. I lit a cigarette. I had to get the hell out of there immediately. He'd run the plate on the Buick as soon as he got back to the cop house. Or sooner if he called it in. The rental agency would show up. But a phone call later and they'd have me. He could be back in minutes.

I stuck the pistol in my belt and threw everything into the bags. I cracked open the door and looked for the cop car. I couldn't see it. I made for the Buick.

(back to top)

# Chapter Thirty Five

**They told me** he died of rheumatic fever. Actually they told everybody that. And maybe that's even what the doctor said. But I know what he really died of.

I was fifteen and Stevie was eleven. Most of the time growing up together I had managed to distract them and deflect their anger. Often as not I'd take the beating for him. I was happy to do it because I could take it. I maybe didn't exactly love my brother, but I had to feel sorry for him. He'd always been a little sickly and hadn't grown as fast as I had. So he always looked younger and smaller than he should have for his age. He'd been a quiet kid, too. Sensitive. Cared about people and animals. He was always happiest out in the backyard watching bugs and birds and the like. And clay. He liked to play with clay.

When you were a kid like that you attracted bullies like road kill draws flies. I'd had to beat up any number of kids his age who were picking on him. I didn't feel bad either being so much bigger than they were. They needed a lesson. And they all stopped picking on him once they knew the score.

As Stevie got older, though, it got harder to protect him. Not from other kids, but from the kind of things that went on around the house. He always needed some sort of medicine or other and the parents resented every penny they had to spend. It got so the doctor would often give it to Stevie for nothing because he knew he wouldn't get it otherwise. But that didn't stop their resentment, and as he got a little bigger he started to take his fair share of whippings.

I really think that's what wore him down. One day he told me he had a real bad sore throat. I told our mother, and she gave him some water with lemon and honey complaining about the cost of the honey. They let him stay in bed for some days and told him rest would make him better. But you could see he was just getting sicker and sicker. After a while, he could barely talk. Then he stopped being able to walk, and I'd had to carry him into the bathroom. But he was hardly eating or drinking anything so that wasn't very often. It felt like he was burning up to touch him.

They finally called a doctor who came and took a look at him. I could tell by the way the doctor came out of his room that it wasn't good. I overheard him saying they should keep cold compresses on his forehead all the time and change them frequently. He left some medicine he told them they should be giving him every four hours.

I knew they wouldn't do it after the first day or so. So I did it. Took a whipping for it too when I didn't go to school one day.

Anyway, Stevie only lasted maybe six more days. I got up one morning to check on him, and he was gone. Mother just about went hysterical and even the old man looked like he teared up a bit. I didn't though.

After we buried him everybody came over to the house. They talked among themselves and blamed the strep throat and the rheumatic fever and went on at great length about other children they knew who had gotten it and survived or died. They were all sad and saying what a shame it was for such a nice boy like him to die so young.

But I wasn't sad at all. Stevie had gotten out of that house the only way he knew how.

I always wondered if a dead spot would have kept him alive.

***

I made my way north and east using nothing but the gravel roads and empty county roads that cut through the corn and soybean fields. I kept the headlights off as much as I could and held the speed down, so I didn't raise a lot of dust. I felt my way around the northern outskirts of Aurora and then made a bee line for Geneva.

I checked into the same hotel there. I used Richard Smith again figuring it didn't matter anymore. And maybe having been there recently it would throw off suspicion. Anyway, I hoped I wouldn't be there long enough to trace. It wasn't the same room as I'd had before, but it was enough the same that it felt familiar. And familiar felt safe.

By now it was almost eleven o'clock. I didn't care what time it was. I was pissed. I picked up the phone and dialed.

It rang twelve times before somebody answered. I counted them.

"Hullo," muffled and groggy. I woke somebody up. Good.

"Get me Martin."

"He's asleep."

"Wake him."

"Who's this?"

"It's an emergency. Get him on the phone."

"Why?"

"Do it!" I shouted.

I heard what I took to be the receiver landing on the nightstand. I waited. It took a couple minutes but eventually he picked up another phone. I heard the one in the bedroom click when it hung up.

"Who is this?" he said trying to sound indignant.

"Roy. What the hell is going on?"

He was taken aback. "Oh," he managed. "What is it?"

"Who are you working for?"

"What do you mean?"

"You didn't file the motions today. Did you ever file any motions?"

"Of course I did."

"When?"

"This morning. Like we talked about."

"Why weren't there any at the courthouse when I checked."

"What are you saying?"

"Look, I stopped over there at three o'clock. Girl looked through a whole stack of papers. Nothing from you."

"You were there?" I detected a little fear with the surprise.

"Stop bullshitting me. What's going on?"

"I couldn't do it."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Rittberger..."

I was beyond pissed. "Don't make me ask you again," I shouted. "Tell me!"

"He called. He threatened me, my family. He meant it."

"So you've been lying. How long?"

"Since the other day."

"When exactly?"

"Monday. He called Monday."

That was right after the weekend fun at Tom's farm. I guessed that had stirred them up.

"And you didn't tell me? You let me think you were filing motions?"

"I couldn't help it. I'm sorry. I had to do what he said."

I hate it when they whine. "Bullshit," I said.

"What could I do?"

"We're done. And just so you can keep your accounting straight, I don't owe you shit."

"But the expenses..."

"Eat it. Or I'm coming after your license when this is all over."

I slammed the phone down.

***

I had to stop pacing. I needed something to do. I went for ice. When I got back to the room I made a drink. There wasn't much left in the bottle. That was good. I still had to think.

I sat propped up in the bed smoking and sipping the scotch. I saw the typewriter case sitting on the floor. I got up and opened it on the desk. I got the steno pad out and put it next to the typewriter. I got the ream of paper out of the gym bag and opened it up. I sat down and went to work.

I hadn't typed long before the day and the scotch and the cigarettes caught up to me. The story wasn't working. I would have to start over in the morning. I needed a plan. But right then I needed sleep. I collapsed on the bed. I barely had time to turn off the lights before I was out.

***

The coffee shop down the street from the hotel was as safe as any place was going to be that morning. They could maybe track me to the hotel or find the Buick, but I doubted some cop would just wander into the coffee shop and decide to arrest the guy sitting in the back booth sipping coffee and reading a newspaper.

I was waiting for ten thirty so I could call Norm in LA. I had a little more for him that he could maybe trace. But there was no story yet, and I was desperate to get out of this jamb.

The warrant Rittberger had out on me was a murder warrant all right. It was for my own. Now there was no way I could go to the State Police or the FBI. As soon as I was arrested they'd turn me over to the Rouen cops and that would be all she wrote. With no attorney and nobody to bail me out I was going to end up a suicide in the jail. Something like that anyway.

The warrant also took away a lot of options. It wasn't going to go away by itself. There was no point in trying to run away or make a break for Canada or Mexico. It would be too big a chance trying to cross the border and then for what – hiding from extradition the rest of my days? It also was going to be tough to get around. No more rental cars. Running my license or credit card could bring the cops before I got out of the parking lot. Even driving the Buick around was going to be pretty dicey. No, I had to stay free and I had to make something happen and I had to do it with what I had.

I was still pretty burned up about Marty. That little shit was going to give me up. Still, if Rittberger could coerce him maybe I could too. I knew he valued his life, but I also knew the ten grand plus expenses could always motivate his sorry ass.

At exactly ten thirty I dropped the coins in the phone and dialed Norm.

"Yeah?" That was him.

"It's Roy. May have something for you."

"I shouldn't be talking to you."

Uh oh. I shifted the phone to the other ear.

"What's up?"

"Cops called yesterday. Said they got a warrant."

"Yeah."

"Wanted to know where you were."

"Nowhere. Police chief is in on it. He'll kill me if they take me in."

"Thought that might be it. You got proof yet?"

"No."

"You better get it soon. I'll run a story. But like I said, it's gotta be solid."

"Yeah."

"What can I do?"

"Haven't got much more. Two names. Claude and Simone. Probably in a Paris suburb. It's for sure a cult of some kind. Been around at least forty years. They're no doubt wealthy, maybe even high profile. Maybe your Paris guy can put the first names to a last name. And Connie's mother's maiden name was Charlene Anne Réage Chouinard. Born in '05, French, an orphan. "

"Got it. But that's not much."

"It's all I got."

"Okay. Listen. I don't think I'm tapped here, but we can't stay on the line. Stay safe. Call me back when you can."

"Right."

We hung up. I was getting nowhere.

***

The way I figured I had everybody coming after me. For some reason that made me think of that part in the movie they made about Sergeant York. He was the World War I soldier who won all the medals for killing lots of Germans. Gary Cooper played him. It was a great picture.

Anyway, the scene was a bunch of German soldiers charging in sort of a line at York's position. Instead of shooting the first guy in the line which would have made the rest of them hit the dirt for cover, York shot the last guy in line first. That kept them coming at him. And that let him pick them all off. If that's really what happened, that York guy was one cool customer.

I thought about that a long time.

(back to top)

# Chapter Thirty Six

**It took a** while to find an empty house with a garage, but I did. A bunch of newspapers on the porch gave it away. Getting into the garage was easy. It was unlocked. And I was in luck. It was empty. I drove the Buick in and pulled the door down behind it.

A guy walking around in a residential part of town in a suit and tie at eleven at night was going to get noticed. So I stayed off the sidewalk as much as I could and cut between houses and used the alleys. I only set off one dog. I hurried away from that house. The dog stopped soon enough.

It was a little further away than I hoped. Maybe five blocks. But then again that might help if things went south and I had to get out of there without getting caught. If I could make it back to the garage I'd have a place to hide and the Buick to make a break for it.

My first objective was the carriage house. I wanted to see if Jacques was around and I wanted to know if they still had my blue Buick. I'd never been in the carriage house so I'd have to take my time and be careful.

I approached the house from the back through a neighbor's yard. I found a gap in the hedge and then climbed over a four foot chain link fence. I could see a light in an upstairs room in the house. The carriage house was dark.

There was a door on the side of the carriage house. The storm door was unlocked and made no sound as I opened it. The inside door was unlocked. It creaked a little as I pushed it open. Once inside I saw a stairwell on the left leading to the upstairs apartment. Straight ahead was an open passage into the garage. I moved into the garage. There was enough light from the street lamps coming through the garage door windows to make out several cars. The first two were Cadillacs, one a DeVille the other an Eldorado. Next was a Ford wagon. The car they killed Connie in. It wasn't impounded. Those sons of bitches. The last one was my Buick. I was surprised they hadn't gotten rid of it yet. Maybe they were letting Jacques use it.

I moved along behind the Caddies to the back of the wagon. I looked through the back window. I could just make out cinder blocks and chain in the back. They hadn't even cleaned it out. I kept going to the Buick. I walked around it and checked it out. Looked just like it had when they took it away from me. Still had the California tags. I looked inside. No key in the ignition.

I went back to the landing by the door and looked up the staircase. It went up and then turned right. I took the .45 from my belt and held it out as I started climbing. I stepped on the side of the treads against the wall to avoid creaks. Trick I'd learned as a kid at my parents' house when sneaking around was very important. When I got to the door at the top I put my ear against it. No sound. A small window at the top of the landing gave me enough light. The door was locked, but it only had one of those old fashioned keyhole locks. Easy. I used my penknife. Scratching noise. Then "click". Louder than I would have liked.

I waited to see if the sound brought another. Still quiet. I turned the knob and pushed the door open and drew my hand back. I waited. Nothing.

I slid sideways through the half open door. It was very dark. Looked like a kitchen. I took a few steps in and waited again. Still no sound.

I tilted my head down to listen.

Wham! Something hard glanced off the back of my neck. I went to my knees. I instinctively rolled to the side. Whack! It slammed the hardwood floor where I'd been. I stood and spun around swinging the .45 blindly. It connected with something soft. A grunt. I kicked in that direction. Felt like a leg. Another grunt. A shadow fell back against the wall. I stepped toward it. I whipped the pistol down. I connected. Again. Again. First a mewl. Then nothing. Again. Again. Silence.

I stepped back. I switched hands with the .45 and reached into my pocket. I pulled out my lighter and flicked it on. He was on the floor with his back against the wall, head lolled to one side, a fireplace poker next to him. He only had on pajama bottoms. Jacques didn't look too good. I'd done a number on his face. He seemed to be out. I hoped he was dead.

I kept the pistol on him as I crouched down. I set the Zippo upright on the floor still burning. I felt his neck. A pulse. Good for him.

I looked around the kitchen. There was a light in the hood over the stove. I turned it on and looked around. I put the pistol back in my belt. I ripped the cord off a toaster on the counter and went back to Jacques. I picked up the lighter and snapped it shut. I rolled him to his side and dragged his arms behind him. I tied his wrists tightly with the cord. I was going to make sure though. I used a cord from the coffee pot to bind his ankles and a kitchen towel to gag him.

I looked down at him. I fought an urge to kick him in the kidneys. It was time to see what I could see.

The light from the stove was enough for me to make my way out of the kitchen and through a sitting room. It looked like an older woman lived there. And so she had until they killed her.

A short hall ran past a bathroom and into a bedroom. I picked my way toward the bed and turned on the lamp on the nightstand. The bed was unmade. I'd woken him up. There were open magazines on the bed. I picked one up. Naked men. Figured.

I moved to the dresser. His wallet and keys were on top. I opened the wallet. There was a French driver's license. Jacques Alain Thebault. Forty-two. Paris. I put the wallet in my pocket. I looked at the keys. He had two GM-style car keys on the ring. Probably my Buick's. I put the keys in my pocket too. One of them might be to the main house.

I started going through the dresser drawers. Nothing but clothes.

There were two drawers in the nightstand. The top one contained some medicine bottles, a box of tissues and more magazines. A couple of the bottles looked like prescriptions. I checked the labels. Doc Northrup had prescribed them. I put one in my pocket.

The bottom drawer held the kind of things I was looking for. His passport showed frequent trips between Paris, New York and Chicago. There were a couple stamps from St. Martin and one from Germany. He got around. The passport went in my coat pocket. There were also several letters in their envelopes. They were all addressed to him there in Rouen and all were in French. Probably from his boyfriend. Or not. I stuck those in the pocket with the passport.

In the back of the drawer was a manila envelope. I opened it. Black and white photographs. I pulled one out. I cursed. It was Connie. In one of their sessions. Apparently Jacques recorded the festivities. I couldn't look at the rest of them. I rolled up the envelope and jammed it into my side jacket pocket.

I found the camera on the top shelf of the closet. It had film in it. I rewound it and opened the back and put the film in my pocket. I checked the pockets of the clothes hanging there. There was nothing. A suitcase in the bottom of the closet was empty.

I turned around and looked at the room. Something was still missing. He had to be getting paid. There had to be checks or a checkbook or something like that. Thinking he may have pulled the same trick as Connie had back in our apartment I pulled all the drawers out of the dresser and checked the backs and bottoms. Nothing.

I turned out the light in the bedroom and moved to the sitting room. There was a small secretary desk against one wall. I pulled down the lid. There was a desk lamp inside. I fumbled around until I found the switch and turned it on.

I went through all the cubbyholes. It all looked like stationery and postcards from when Marie had lived there. Odd I couldn't find any financial documents for Jacques. I opened the small drawer in the middle and found only pens and pencils and postage stamps. Didn't look like Jacques had used the desk. But maybe that was good. I pulled the drawer all the way out. On the bottom was taped an envelope the size of a greeting card. Nothing was written on the outside. I opened it up. There were two sheets written in what looked like a feminine hand. I held them up under the light to read.

November 2, 1957

To whom it may concern:

This is most difficult for me to write but I am afraid for myself and for Constance and Catherine. Carl and Arlene have brought the most horrible thing into this house. It is so utterly vile I cannot bring myself to write it down. And they are involving their friends in their madness. And Charles is part of it. There is torture and a girl I don't know is suffering. I saw them and heard them tonight and I am afraid they know I did. There are men here. Strange men. One is French. The other is rough looking and sounds like he is from Chicago. I am afraid of them and what they will do to me. I cannot leave and let Constance and Catherine become part of this. I must speak to the Fowlers in the morning. This can't go on here. If something should happen to me I hope this note will be found. I know now for certain the Fowlers are evil. They will be the ones responsible for my death. I write this in fear and haste. Just know it was the Fowlers and their son who did it to me. God help Connie and Cathy.

Marie K. Dumont.

I had them. If I could find a cop who wouldn't arrest me. Or kill me. I put the note back in the envelope and put it in my jacket pocket with the rest of the goods.

At the thought of the cops I got up and went into the bathroom. I got a washcloth and dampened it in the sink. I went back into the bedroom and wiped down everything I'd touched. I returned to the sitting room and then the kitchen and did the same.

I walked over to Jacques. It looked like he was still out. I put the toe of my shoe into his side. He didn't flinch.

I pulled a chair away from the kitchen table and sat down. There was an ashtray on the table with some butts in it. It was okay to smoke. I lit up. Jacques was no good to me until he came to. But I wasn't sure I wanted to hang around waiting for that to happen. I could just leave and make my way back to the Buick and try to get out of town. That would probably be the smart move. Except while I had enough for the cops to go after the Fowlers, I didn't have enough to nail Rittberger. I also didn't have enough for a story. And a story was what I really wanted.

No, I wasn't done here. I was just done with Jacques. I stubbed out the cigarette and put the butt in my pocket. I pulled out Jacques' keys and looked them over. There had to be one for the house.

(back to top)

# Chapter Thirty Seven

**They didn't hear** me until I turned the knob on the bedroom door. I'd heard the moaning. Then I heard Carl.

"Jacques! Not now!"

I pushed the door open with the muzzle of the .45. They were on the bed. Arlene naked on all fours. Carl on his knees in an open silk robe had mounted her from behind. In one hand he held a chain leash attached to the dog collar around her neck. In the other he held a riding crop.

"You!" Carl screamed as he backed off her, dropped the leash and clutched at his robe. Arlene rolled away and covered herself with a pillow.

"Good evening," I said.

"Get out!" Arlene screeched.

I stepped further into the room. "No. We're having a little chat about Connie."

"Do something!" Arlene screamed at Carl.

Carl started to raise the crop.

I leveled the pistol at him. "Do something," I said quietly. "Please."

He tossed the crop on the floor. He found his tongue with a growl. "Get out you bastard. Get out. There's nothing here for you."

Arlene suddenly dove across the bed to get to the phone on the near nightstand. I moved just as quickly, grabbed the receiver and yanked it from her hand as she shrieked again. I kept the pistol on Carl. I grabbed the phone and ripped it from the wall and threw it across the room.

"You son of a bitch," she hissed. "You piece of trash. Connie was too good for you." She retreated across the bed behind the pillow.

"Maybe," I said. "Just like she was too good for you two." I took a pillow from the bed and held it over the .45. "Let's talk."

"Fuck you," Carl snarled.

I fired the pistol through the pillow into the mattress just in front of him. Muffled but still loud. Feathers flew up as he fell backwards. He raised himself back up on his elbows, his eyes wide. I lifted the pillow slightly from the pistol and the casing fell to the floor. I cocked the hammer. Carl heard that.

"Now you know this works. Let's get to business."

"You're a dead man," Carl muttered.

"You first."

I shot again. More feathers. Another slug thumped into the mattress next to him. He cried out and slid back. Again I let the casing fall out of the pillow. I cocked the hammer.

"What do you want?" Arlene cried. I'd gotten to her.

"I want the truth. La Vie Réage. What is it?"

They glanced at each other. Carl spoke. "We can't say anything."

I stepped to the edge of the bed and trained the pistol on his eyes.

"You want those to be your last words?"

"Stop it!" Arlene yelled. "C'est notre mode de vie."

"English."

"It's our way of life."

"Explain."

She put the pillow aside and rose on her knees, legs spread, defiant. She turned to show her back then turned back to me, hands on hips, her eyes on fire. Shaved, pierced, scarred, an "R" branded on her ass cheek. Just like the autopsy report. Only she was alive.

"It is our family. Il nous fait plaisir. It is the way we show love." She sat back and covered herself.

"Killing Connie was real loving."

"She broke the rules," Carl said. "They had no choice."

"What rules?"

"She was trying to expose us," he said.

"La vie is our way," Arlene added. It was how I was raised. It's how we met. It's how we live."

I looked at Carl. "You molested her when she was young."

"It was training. She couldn't take it. We gave up."

"And Cathy?"

Arlene spoke up. "We were saving her. She was to be our best."

"You people are sick," I said, getting even sicker of them. "What happened with Connie?"

Arlene again. "She came back to us damaged. Thanks to you, you drunken bastard. She wanted to do it. We let her."

"You sent her to Paris."

"Yes. That is where we go."

"Why bring it here?"

"We were told to. Forced to," Carl said. "The organization has changed. It is much more aggressive about everything. Girls, money, everything."

"And you agreed."

"We had to. There is no choice."

"You killed Marie and your friend Loomis. You killed those in the detective agency. You killed Connie's killer. What kind of animals are you?"

"Not us. They are now ruthless," from Arlene.

"Jacques?"

"He is one of them. An enforcer of sorts. Il est leur espion."

"English."

"He reports on us."

"To whom?"

"La Vie Réage."

"And what the hell are they?"

"They take in young girls, girls with no home, girls unwanted. They care for them, they teach them. We all teach them. When the time comes they give them away."

"And that was you?"

"Yes."

"Carl took you?"

"Yes. I was a lucky one. He married me. He takes care of me. But when you take a girl from them you must eventually give them your own. It is the rule."

"Where are these people? Where is this 'school'?"

She looked at Carl. He shook his head.

"We cannot say." She lowered her eyes.

"Bullshit."

Another shot. Again even closer to Carl. This time he flinched but didn't move. I got the casing out of the pillow.

"Where?"

"Clichy," she whispered.

"What is Réage?"

"Nothing. A word on an old map. Everything. It is who we are. It is all our names."

"Give me some names."

"No. You must kill us first." She went defiant again.

"It may come to that. What about Charlie?"

"He is one of us. He was born to the life. He lives it."

"Alice?"

"She is one like me. She is from the school."

"The others? Rittberger, Haskell, Northrup?"

Carl answered. "Our friends. They were interested. We could use them. There are many like us."

"Others here?"

"Not here. But everywhere."

A nightmare. Connie lived a nightmare. All of them. A nightmare.

"And you were to kill me too."

"They were," she said.

"And they will!" shouted Carl.

"Shut up!" I yelled back.

Arlene started to plead. "You can't stop them. They are too big. Too powerful. In too many places. If you want to live, you must run."

I smirked. I was already running. But no more. I pointed the .45 at Carl.

"Tie her to the bed. I'm sure you have the gear for it."

He hesitated.

"Now!"

He slid from the bed and tied his robe. He moved to the far nightstand and started to open the drawer.

"Slowly!" I commanded. I moved to where I could see what he was doing.

He took out two pairs of handcuffs and showed them to me. I nodded. Arlene knew where to move. He fastened her wrists to steel eye bolts embedded in the headboard just below the top of the mattress.

"Her legs," I said motioning with the pistol.

He went back to the drawer and brought out rope. He tied her ankles to the posts at the corners of the foot board. She was spread-eagle on the mattress, her chest heaving in rage.

"Cover her," I said.

He pulled a blanket from the floor and threw it over her.

"Now gag her."

Again he went to the drawer and pulled out a leather strap with a red ball in the middle. He put the ball in her mouth and buckled the strap tightly behind her head. She kept her eyes closed.

"This way. We're going downstairs."

I followed Carl down to his study the pistol trained on his back. He flicked a wall switch and his desk lamp lit the room. I motioned for him to sit at the desk. I tried the drawers. They were locked.

"Open them," I said.

He reached under the desk and pressed a button. They unlocked with a snap.

I opened the top right. Carl's hand lunged into it. A gun. I came down hard with the pistol. You could hear the wrist bones crack. He screamed in pain. I pulled his hand out of the drawer, the wrist bent in an unnatural "u."

"Keep pushing me. I'll just enjoy this more."

He grimaced cradling his injured arm. "Son of a bitch," he let out between clenched teeth.

"You don't know the half of it." I pulled the drawer open. I took out the revolver and stuck it in my waist.

"Open the rest," I said, pointing the gun at his head. "Pull out what you have and show it to me."

He did as he was told. There was nothing but business files and personal records.

"Where is the stuff on La Vie Réage?"

"There is none."

"What do you mean? You must have correspondence, financial records."

"Cables only. We burn them. And code in newspaper ads. Money is wired to secret accounts. There are no records. Nothing on paper."

I knew differently. I had Haskell's records. I guessed Frank a compulsive numbers guy. Good for Frank.

"Open the safe."

"So now you're a common thief?"

"Open it."

He got up from the chair and went to the wall. He pulled a painting back on its hinges revealing the safe. He only moved the knob a few places and opened it.

"Take everything out and put it on the desk," I ordered.

It took him three trips with just the one hand. There were cash, securities, insurance policies and some jewelry. Nothing of use.

"Where's the title to the Buick?"

He looked at me funny. "In there," he said pointing to the pile from the safe.

"Get it out."

It was in a small stack of documents held together with a rubber band. I took it from him and pulled out the title. I put it on the desk.

"Sit down," I told him. "Endorse it to me."

"It's mine. I paid for that car."

"And you gave it to Connie and me. Now you're giving it back. Do it."

He sat down and with difficulty used his left hand to hold his wrist while he signed the back of the title. I pulled a bill of sale out of my inside right pocket. I'd filled it in with the typewriter before I left the hotel.

"Sign this," I said.

When he was finished, I took the documents from him and put them back in my jacket pocket. I reached into my pants pocket and pulled out a dollar. I threw it on the desk.

"Here's for the car. We're done now."

He looked up at me. I could see the fear. "What are you going to do?"

"Finish what Connie started. Get on the floor."

He slid down from his chair onto the floor holding his arm.

Using the cords from two floor lamps I bound him just like Jacques. He screamed as I drew his wrists tight. I gagged him with the sash from his robe. As a final touch, I used the tie back from one of the curtains to bind his neck tightly to a leg of his chair. He wasn't going anywhere.

I looked around the room. I saw the phone. I ripped the cord out of it. I looked again. There was nothing else I wanted. Fingerprints weren't a problem. They'd know it was me.

As I left the study I turned back and looked at Carl. His eyes were shut in pain. Fuck him. I turned off the light. I heard him whimper.

***

I had too many cars. But there was only one choice. They might have a line on the rental by now. It was too dangerous. With the California tags I'd be freer to move around with the blue Buick. At least tonight. Plus I figured I'd earned it.

I went back up into the carriage house apartment. Jacques was still out. Still had a pulse. Pity.

I went down and got into the Buick. Jacques' keys worked. Started right up. Nearly full tank of gas too. I'd need it.

I backed it out of the carriage house and closed the door. I kept the lights off until I got to the street. I drove to the empty house and quickly transferred my things from the rental to my car. I'd deal with the army tank later.

Now I had to save my life. I had to get out of town.

(back to top)

# Chapter Thirty Eight

**It's funny how** when that new car smell disappears your car starts to take on your smell. You know, like the brand of cigarettes or cigars you smoke or the coffee or the taco you spilled on the floor a month ago. It all adds up to an aroma you get used to so you don't ever tend to notice it. It's just your car and your smell.

I wasn't even over the bridge out of Rouen when I noticed the Buick didn't smell right. There was this sweet, acrid kind of smell that opening the vent and turning on the fan didn't take away. Maybe it was just the lingering smell of Jacques' cologne. He and his clothes had stunk of some kind of nasty perfume that night. French no doubt. But I was more worried about cop cars and dark Fords and so I put it out of my mind. I had to put miles between myself and Rouen and do it in a hurry.

An hour into the drive I was headed south on Route 66. It was pretty late. Clock in the car said two o'clock but sometimes it was slow and it was too dark to see my watch. I'd stayed off the highway as much as I could all the way out of Granger County and the next county too. I hadn't done much over the speed limit either. By the time I got to 66, I still had a way to go.

That's why when I saw a truck stop all lit up ahead I decided to make a pit stop. I could use some coffee and I was low on smokes. When I came out I decided to get my stuff out of the front seat. I'd just thrown everything in there when I got it out of the rental. I put the coffee cup on the roof and took the typewriter out. I walked to the back of the car and opened the trunk. As soon as I saw what was in there I slammed it shut. I looked around. I couldn't see anybody. I put the typewriter back in the front seat and got the hell out of there so fast I almost left the coffee on the roof.

Knowing what the smell was made it worse. It couldn't stay in there. I drove a few miles further south on 66 and then turned right onto a narrow country road headed west between cornfields. A half mile in I turned off the lights and dimmed the dashboard. The road turned to gravel. I crunched along slowly waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Eventually, I saw what I was looking for. It was a path into a cornfield over a small culvert in the ditch. I pulled onto it and stopped the car.

He was wrapped and tied up in some sort of rug. His head stuck out, so I'd recognized who it was right away. Haskell. His eyes were open. He'd taken a bullet just above them. I guessed he'd seen it coming. I was happy about that. He'd bloated up, so the rope was too taut to grab. And he was heavy. "Dead weight," I thought, making a little joke to myself.

His feet stuck out too so I grabbed him by the ankles. His shoes were caked with mud. They must have killed him right there at the river or at least that same night. Two nights ago. No wonder he smelled. Why had they waited to get rid of him?

I dragged him out of the trunk. He landed on the ground with a thud. I pulled him down into the ditch and stuffed him head first in the culvert. With any luck, it would be a few days before they found him.

I closed the trunk. I kept it empty. I really would have to wash it out.

***

One of the things I hate about motels is that half the time when I wake up I have no idea where I am. I mean when you come out of a dream about naked women on tropical beaches and you open your eyes and see giant chrysanthemums on peeling wallpaper it makes you wonder what the hell just happened. It also makes for a disappointing start to the day.

It took a few seconds, but I remembered I was in Peoria. I looked at the clock. It was nine thirty. Later than I wanted, but early enough. I lit a cigarette and swung my legs out of bed. I got the number out of my wallet and dialed out.

"Hello?" It was Judy.

"It's Roy."

"Oh." It was not a welcoming "oh."

"You okay?"

"Not really." She was peeved.

"What's the matter?"

"You were supposed to call yesterday. I can't stay here. Margie's missing school. It's awkward. I need to go home."

"Not yet. It's still crazy up there."

"Well, I'm going crazy down here. I've got to go back to work."

"You didn't quit yet?"

"No."

"Why? I told you about Northrup. You can't go back there."

"I think you're wrong. He couldn't be part of something like that. They're wondering why I'm down here."

"You talked to them? You didn't tell them did you?"

"Just Nancy."

"Jesus! What did I tell you? Where's Margie?"

"Here."

"Get your things together. I'm coming for you."

"What?"

"They're killing people again. They killed Haskell."

"They killed Frank Haskell?"

"Yes. You talk to anybody else?"

"No."

"Where's your ex?"

"At work."

"Leave him a note."

"Are you in Rouen?"

"No. Here. Peoria. I'll be there in half an hour. Give me an address."

***

It was more like forty minutes. I was too late. A black Ford was parked in front of the small frame house. Black-wall tires. Little hubcaps. Spotlight mounted above the outside rear view mirror. An unmarked car. A cop.

I slowed as I drove by looking at the license plate for a clue to where it was from. Municipal tags. But nothing said from where. I kept driving. A couple blocks down I spotted a corner store with a phone booth outside the door. I parked and called. No answer.

I started to sweat. A cop looking for me would let her answer. He would make her answer. Something was wrong.

I got the .45 out of the glove box and stuck it in my waist. I left the Buick parked where it was on the side street. I hustled down the alley behind the houses the two blocks back to the house.

I sidled along the garage and peeked around the corner at the house. The cop was still there. I could just see the nose of his car on the street side. If it was Rittberger, we were all in trouble. I had to find out.

I crouched and ran for the corner of the house. I stole a look in a window at the back of the house. Empty kitchen. I moved down the side of the house, my back against the siding. Another window. A bedroom. Empty. I ducked underneath the window and moved to the next. I was about to lean in for a look when I saw him and he saw me. A mailman stopped on the sidewalk. Jesus Christ.

He got this funny look on his face. He looked around like he didn't know what to do. I stepped away from the house and smiled and waved a greeting. "Insurance inspection," I said as loudly as I dare.

He gave a half smile back. He hesitated, then continued on his way to the next house. He looked back at me once. When he did, I turned and walked toward the back of the house as if I had someplace to go. As soon as I thought he was out of sight I got back against the side of the house. I made my way again to the window towards the front of the house. I leaned in for a look.

The barrel of the gun stabbed the small of my back hard.

"Don't move." A snarl. Rittberger. Shit. "Hands behind your head." I did it.

He grabbed the back of my jacket collar with his free hand. He pulled me backwards toward the rear of the house. When we got to the corner he pushed me forward toward the back door. I thought of making a move. I let it go.

We went into the house and moved to the living room. Judy and Margie were on the couch, eyes big, hands bound, adhesive tape across their mouths. Rittberger let go of my collar and patted me down. He found the pistol and pulled it out of my waist. He stuck it in his belt.

"Get in the chair," he commanded. "Keep your hands behind your head."

I half fell into the side chair and looked up at him. "What are you doing with them?"

"Aiding and abetting a murderer. Gonna have to take them in." He smirked.

"Not the kid," I said.

"Shut up."

He reached under his suit coat and pulled out a pair of cuffs. He snapped one around my wrist, pulled my other arm forward and snapped the other cuff shut. Good. My hands were in front of me.

"Now what?" I asked.

He backhanded me hard across the face. "I told you to shut up."

He kept his revolver on me as he moved to a phone on a side table by the TV. He picked up the receiver and put it on the table while he dialed. He picked it back up and put it to his ear and waited while it rang. He kept his eyes on me.

Somebody answered. He talked. "I got 'em... Yeah... The girl too... Yeah, send her down... There's time... Gonna wait... Safer... Tonight... No, him too... All of them... Trying to escape... House fire... No, I got this... Right... Hear from your dad?... Okay... Same place... Right... All right... Later. He hung up.

There was nothing there I didn't know, except maybe the fire and that he was going to wait for Judy's ex to get home. And a woman was coming. Sounded like he planned to be thorough.

He moved to the coffee table and picked up the roll of tape, tore off a piece and plastered it across my mouth. Then he sat down in the side chair opposite mine. It looked like he was gloating. Son of a bitch was enjoying this.

"You people just relax. We're all just gonna take it easy for a while." He put the gun down in his lap, reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out some cigarettes. He lit up. He was too far away for me to try anything.

That's when we heard a car pull up outside. He rose quickly and went to the window and looked out. He turned back to us. "All of you up... we're moving. Do it now!"

He herded us into a bedroom. "Anybody make a sound and I'll kill you all right now." He closed the door. He'd had no time to restrain us further. The doorbell rang.

I pulled the tape off my mouth and left one side hanging from my cheek. "Come here," I whispered to Judy. "Hurry."

Her hands were bound with clothesline. I worked to untie her. As I did, we could hear Rittberger at the front door.

"Hello officer. What can I do for you?"

The mailman had called the cops. We couldn't hear the cop. But we could hear Rittberger.

"I'm Chief Jim Rittberger from the Rouen Police Department. That's my car out front. We're conducting an investigation... No, we didn't feel it necessary to contact your department... Not that important... Him? He was who he said he was... I'm just interviewing someone and waiting for a person of interest to return home for another interview... That's quite all right... If I need anything I'll call... Okay... Thanks... Will do."

We heard him shut the door.

Now untied, I wrapped Judy's wrists loosely with the cord and tucked the ends into the wrap. She could wiggle out of it. "Don't do anything until I tell you," I whispered. She nodded, eyes frightened. I put the tape back across my mouth.

Just then Rittberger opened the door. "All right, come out of there. Back in the living room," he ordered, waving his gun at us.

We marched out and took the same seats. He sat down and lit up another smoke.

If he was waiting for dark, we had some time. I would be waiting for the right time.

(back to top)

# Chapter Thirty Nine

**A cop doesn't** cuff you with your hands in front of you. Even when they arrest you for something stupid like jaywalking they cuff you behind your back. Rittberger was being careless. Or overconfident. Somehow in his mind we were already dead. Whatever the reason, it was an advantage I didn't want to give up, so I sat quietly and avoided eye contact. That was easy to do because he decided to amuse himself by watching TV. Apparently he was a fan of game shows. Three people bound and gagged in a living room, and he's watching Bob Barker yuk it up on _Truth or Consequences_.

Halfway through the afternoon he gave the girls bathroom breaks. Of the course, the pervert did it so he could help them with their panties and watch. We were lucky he didn't do more. He didn't give me a break, and that was fine. I'd had no coffee that morning, and my anger was such I was happy to wait until the time came I could piss in his face.

The doorbell rang. We all jumped. I looked at my watch. It was a little before three. None of us had heard a car. Rittberger got up from his chair and holstered his gun. He went to the window and peeked through the blinds. He opened the door. Alice came in.

"Thought you'd be here earlier," he said.

"I'm here now," she said.

"The husband will be here soon. You should hurry."

She gave him a look. Then she turned and looked at Margie.

"Hello, dear," she said to her in a voice too sweet. "I'm here to take you on a great adventure." Then to Judy she said, "Don't worry, she'll be safe with me. We'll be taking very good care of her. I promise."

Margie gave her mother a look of panic. Judy did the same at me. I gave a slight shake of my head. "No." Now was not the time.

Judy got it. She turned back to Margie and nodded, "Yes." It was the only option. It could get rough for the kid if we balked.

"Get up and come along now," Alice said. "You won't need to bring anything with you. We'll have all lovely new things for you to take on your adventure."

Margie stood, hesitated, looked at her mother, then walked around the coffee table. Alice gave her a hug. Margie shrunk back. "What a pretty little thing you are," Alice cooed. Then to Rittberger she said, "I parked in the alley. We can leave out the back."

"Rouen?" Rittberger asked.

"Yes," she responded. She held Margie by the shoulders and guided her toward the back of the house still bound and gagged.

Margie looked back at her mother as she walked out of the room. Judy gave a cry through the tape on her lips and started to rise from the couch. Rittberger took out his gun and moved toward her and motioned for her to sit. She fell back and curled up sobbing. We heard the screen door slam shut behind them.

***

Time was running out. I didn't know what kind of job Judy's ex had, but I guessed it would be shift work and if it were shift work he ought to be home by four or four thirty. We weren't all that far from the Caterpillar plant. I had to do something before he came home. Once Rittberger had all of us he would move quickly. After the cop's visit, I knew he wouldn't wait until dark. It would be over fast. Maybe different than he had planned. I watched him as he watched TV. I had to disarm and disable him. Even with Judy's hands free it would be up to me. I gave her a look. Her eyes were still red from crying. She looked scared, defeated. I gave her a wink to cheer her up. She closed her eyes and shook her head.

I looked around the room for something to use as a weapon. Judy's ex must have been living as s bachelor because there were none of the knickknacks and froufrou that women like to scatter around a room. There was just the heavy glass ashtray Rittberger was using on the coffee table in front of him. That and the gun in his lap and my pistol in his belt.

It's hard to kill somebody with your bare hands. A lot harder than they show it in the movies. It takes longer than you think. Especially if you're strangling them. They thrash around and try to get their hands on you and kick their legs all over the place. At least in the beginning. Then they start making gagging sounds and puking. It's not easy. It goes on for some minutes. I'd had to do it once in the jungle. And that was just a little guy. Rittberger was built like a bull. I had to do something different, something quicker.

At three thirty the game show went off and _American Bandstand_ came on. He got up to change the channel. It must have been out of habit that he holstered his revolver. He was such an idiot. This was it.

As he passed on the other side of the coffee table, I kicked it with both feet as hard as I could. He fell toward the table with an outstretched hand to catch his balance. I jumped forward and swung my hands to cut the arm out from under him. He landed on the table reaching for his gun with his wrong hand. I grabbed his head with both hands and pounded it against the table. That slowed him. I got my thumbs on his eyes. This wasn't going to a high school fight. Or even a movie fight. This was jungle. I pressed hard. He screamed and thrashed his arms up at me trying to get a grab onto something. I pressed as hard as I could. He screamed even louder. I felt something give. Screaming turned to a screech of agony that wouldn't stop. His hands clawed at mine trying to get them off his face. He started to thrash his body back and forth screaming all the while. I took a chance and snatched my .45 out of his belt. He'd started to squirm away. Now he was gagging, almost convulsing. I tried to slam the pistol against his windpipe, but it only glanced off an arm. Then I brought the butt down hard on his forehead. I did it again. Harder. He went quiet. I did it again. Then he went limp.

I stood up and looked down at him. Blood ran out of his eye sockets. One was black and empty. There were three deep dents in his forehead. I had blood all over my hands. I wiped them on his shirt. I took his revolver from the holster and tossed it away on the carpet. I looked over at Judy. Her hands covered her face. She couldn't look. I checked for a pulse. Faint. Irregular. Not dead yet. Like I said, it's tough to kill somebody with your hands.

I ripped the tape from my mouth. "Help me," I said to Judy.

She shook her head "No." She was convulsed in sobs of horror. No help there.

I pulled him across the coffee table and reached into his pockets looking for keys. It was hard to do with the cuffs on but I managed to snag his key ring. I went to Judy. "You've got to help me. Unlock these. Hurry."

She looked up, eyes still reflecting her horror. She wriggled out of the clothesline and took the keys from me. She got the cuffs off then turned away and covered her eyes again. This from a nurse. I'd have thought she was tougher.

I went back to Rittberger and rolled him over on his belly. I cuffed his wrists behind his back. Then I pushed him off the table onto the floor. Harder for Judy to see him.

I went back to Judy and sat down next to her. I got the tape off her mouth as gently as I could. I put my arm around her shoulders. She tried to pull away. Then she gave up and put her head on my shoulder and sobbed. I held her like that for some time.

I went outside and got into the cop car and drove around the block and into the alley. I put it in the garage and closed the door. A surprise for her ex when he got home. Then I went and got the Buick and drove it into the alley behind the garage.

When I got back into the house, Judy was right where I'd left her. She was still too shook up to be of any help.

I taped his mouth, bound his ankles and hogtied them to the cuffs. If he ever came to he wasn't moving. I wrapped him in a bedspread and dragged him out the back door holding him under his armpits. I thought it only fitting he take a turn in the trunk. I prayed nobody would see me doing it. He was a heavy bastard, and I cursed with the effort as I tried to lift him into the trunk.

Back inside the house I sat down next to Judy again. She wouldn't look at me.

"Here's what we're doing," I said. "You're staying here and waiting for your ex. When he gets home tell him what happened. Tell him you two have to get out of here. Tell him there are still bad people out there who know where you are. You're not safe here. And for God's sakes, don't answer the phone. Look at me. Do you understand me?"

She nodded, "Yes."

"No. Say it!"

She looked at me. "Yes, I understand. We're not safe here."

"I'm going after Margie. I think I know where they're taking her. You can't call the cops. That's important. They'll stop me. They may try to keep me from getting to Margie. They may try to keep anybody from getting to Margie. You can't trust them. Do you hear me?"

Again looking down and a nod, "yes."

"Look at me! Say it!"

"I won't call the police."

I went and picked Rittberger's revolver up off the floor. I stuck it in my belt. It might be useful. I went into the bathroom and finally took a leak. I washed my hands. They were raked and oozing from Rittberger's clawing. I splashed water on my face. I came out and went into the kitchen and grabbed a can of beer out of the fridge. I was beyond thirsty. I found a can opener in a drawer, opened the can and took a healthy slug.

I returned to the living room. Judy had stood up. I went to her and hugged her. She couldn't hug me back. That was okay. I sat her back down on the couch.

"Wait here. I have to make one call."

I went to the phone and dialed Marty. No answer. I'd try later from the road. I looked at Judy. "Remember," I said, "you and your ex get out of here. And no cops!"

She only nodded. I made for the back door with the beer in my hand. Alice had almost an hour head start. I was a good two hours from Rouen. I had to get moving.

***

An hour into the drive I stopped at a gas station and tried Marty again. This time he answered.

"Marty, it's Roy."

"Yes." He didn't sound happy to hear from me.

"Rittberger is dead." I lied. "You're off the hook. You want to be my lawyer again?"

"Dead?"

"Yeah. Terrible accident. Tragic. Never saw it coming." I smirked. I'd made a joke.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. If you're interested, meet me at County Seats across from the courthouse in an hour."

"All right. You sure it's safe?"

"Yeah. It's safe. And I'm going to need your help tonight."

"Tonight?"

"Yeah. I need to get you some evidence. I can count on you, right?"

"You sure it's safe now?"

"Yes. I'm sure."

"Okay."

"Good."

I hung up. I was banking on Alice finding the Fowlers as I'd left them. There should be all kinds of commotion while they sorted everything out. That would give me the time I needed. And it might even get Charlie down to Rouen. I really wanted to see Charlie.

(back to top)

# Chapter Forty

**The yellow Studebaker** was parked across the street from the bar. I pulled in next to it. There was no time. I had to make this quick.

Marty was waiting at a table inside nursing what looked like a glass of white wine. There was no smile when he saw me. I put the gym bag on a chair and took another for myself.

"Waiting long?" I asked.

"No. Just got here. What's going on?"

"No time for the whole story. But we have them on the run."

"Who?"

"The Fowlers, the bunch of them."

"What happened to Rittberger?"

"Out of the picture. Don't worry."

"You said he was dead."

"I said don't worry."

"Why shouldn't I worry? It's a whole gang of them."

"You want to be my lawyer or not?"

"Yes."

"Okay. I need you to hold on to some things, some evidence I've gathered. If anything happens to me you go straight to the FBI with it. Nobody else. You got that?"

"All right."

"They've kidnapped Judy's little girl. I'm gonna get her back. But if I don't and I don't show up again by tomorrow you've got to put the feds on it. They're eventually going to try to get her to France. Don't let them do it."

Marty pushed his glasses back up his nose. "Damn."

"It's the Fowlers, Charlie and Alice too. Doc Northrup and his wife. A Frenchman named Jacques Thebault staying over at the Fowlers'. They killed Frank Haskell."

"Killed?"

"Yeah. After he confessed." With that, I reached into the gym bag and started rooting around for the stuff. I started putting it on the table – the wallets, the files of receipts and bank transfers, the autopsy report, Haskell's confession, my steno pad, the book, Jacques' stuff, the envelope of photos. It made quite a pile.

"What's all this?" Marty asked.

"Evidence. Hold on to it. I may need it back tonight. I gotta do a story before everything breaks. Where are you gonna be?"

"Home."

"Address?"

"814 Post."

"I gotta go. Remember. FBI unless I show up. And right away."

"Right."

"I can trust you?"

He nodded. I got up and grabbed the gym bag. "One more thing. If the cops grab me, they're going to arrest me. I'll need you to bail me out."

"All right. If I can. Where are you going?" he asked.

"Hunting."

***

Somebody with some sanity would've just called the cops and told them there was a kidnapped child over at the Fowlers'. They would describe Margie and give them Judy's name and phone number and let them handle it. I didn't do that because I didn't trust the cops to get past the Fowlers who would dismiss it as a crank call because, after all, they were the Fowlers as well as Chief Rittberger's personal friends and people who could never be involved in something like that. How ridiculous, they would say. The cops would go away.

I also didn't do it because I was not completely sane. I'd had it.

It was a quarter after six. Still light. Reconnaissance would be tricky. I drove past the house where I'd left the rental car. It still looked empty so the army tank should still be there. I couldn't chance driving past the Fowlers' in the blue Buick and I had to be careful where I left it. If Rittberger was still alive, he might come to and start making noise. I didn't have the time or inclination to check on him.

I thought about waiting until dark but gave up on the idea. I needed to get Margie back while I knew where she was. Alice had probably been at the Fowlers' for well over an hour. Maybe two. Time to free them if they were still tied up and maybe time for Charlie to get there to help. No, I had to do something now.

I ended up leaving the Buick parked on the street next to Fowler Park a couple blocks away from their house. Nobody would have reason to come close to it. I had a .45 in my belt and two clips in my pocket. Turned out I wouldn't need them.

When I got to the Fowlers' block, I saw two cop cars in front of their house and an ambulance backed into the driveway its back doors swung open.

Judy must have called them. Or Marty. No, it had to be Judy. Probably called once her ex got home. Somebody with some sanity. And if Judy called, she told them about Rittberger, which they might not believe, and about me, which they might not either. She was probably on her way up to Rouen now. That would not be good.

My instinct was to turn around and get out of there. But I couldn't. I had to know. I owed it to Judy.

I walked down the road toward the house and took my wallet out. I got the press card ready. I had to chance it. There were no cops outside, so I thought I'd check around first. Alice's car was on one side of the drive beyond the ambulance. I walked back to the garage and looked in through a window. The Cadillac was gone.

I went back around to the front of the house and the front door. I rang the bell. I prayed the cop who answered didn't know me. I held the press card with my finger over my name.

I got lucky. It was the cop who'd been out to Tom's farm. "Johnson" his name tag said.

"George Murphy, Associated Press," I said, flashing the press card. "State Police alerted us to the crime, said we could take a look here." This was turning into much too big a bluff.

"Oh, okay. We're almost done."

He held the door back, and I walked in. I could see a blanket covering a body on the floor in the study. I took a guess at what happened.

"All of them dead? No sign of the girl?"

"Yeah," he said. "Two tied up and beaten with a hammer. One looks like a broken neck. Pretty nasty."

"Any leads on the girl?"

"We think there was a man living here who might have taken her."

"Who's that?" I had to play a little dumb.

"Don't know for sure yet. Stayed above the garage. Looked like the place had been ransacked. Couldn't find any ID or anything." No kidding.

"So it was both Mr. and Mrs. Fowler? Who was the third?" Of course, I knew.

"Yeah, both of them. We think the other was a daughter-in-law, Alice Fowler."

I needed to go out of there before another cop appeared who might know me.

"Thanks, officer. I think that's all I need. Anything else you can tell me?"

"No, I'm sure the department will issue a statement. You should wait to publish any names."

"Yeah. Thanks."

I hustled back to the Buick. I thought I knew where Jacques had gone first. I hoped I wasn't too late.

***

Everybody in Rouen knows where everybody else lives. I remembered the house.

The Northrups' place wasn't far. Maybe four blocks. I could have walked it, but I drove the Buick. I might need it. When I got there, there was no Cadillac in sight. I was too late.

I pulled into the driveway behind what I took to be one of their cars. I went to the back door and knocked. No answer. I knocked again. Same thing. I shrugged my coat sleeve over my hand to try the door. It was unlocked. I went in.

It didn't take long to find them. Both were on the floor in the living room. Both with their skulls pulverized, still dripping into the shared pool of blood that surrounded their heads.

There was no sign of Margie. She was alive. He was saving her for France.

Jacques was on a mission. La Vie Réage had obviously issued orders. Their little group in Rouen was a liability. They had leaked too much. Enough was enough.

I'm not sure why I thought it a good idea, but it seemed like it was at the time. I'd later forgive myself because I knew I had been pretty stressed right then.

I went outside and checked the trunk of the Buick. He was dead. I thought so.

I pulled him out and dragged him into the house and into the living room. It would be more efficient for everybody if they were all together. I untied him and got the cuffs off and sort of splayed him out like the other two. At the time, I guess I hoped they'd think Jacques killed him too, but later I realized it was obvious that with his car being in Peoria and whatever Judy had told them, that would be impossible to believe. They'd know I'd done it.

But, like I said, I was a little crazy at the time.

***

I had no time. None. But I had to resist the urge to floor it all the way to Downers Grove. If I got pulled over it would be all over. Still, I pushed it as hard as I dared. Jacques couldn't be all that far ahead of me.

As I drove, I wished a lot of things. I wished Connie had never left California. Her family could have gone on with all their sick games, and nobody would have cared. At least not Connie and me. I wished she were still alive. We could try again. We could lay off the booze together. We could help each other. I wished I'd never come back to Rouen. It wasn't my town. It had never been my town. Not really, anyway. But mostly I wished I'd killed Jacques when I'd had the chance.

Judy had been another mistake. You shouldn't let other people let you in when they have no idea about the dead spot. It hadn't been her fault at all. Sometimes things that look good and feel good aren't good. She was paying too big a price for it all. I had to fix that.

Halfway to Downers Grove I resolved to stop wishing and start thinking. That's when I thought about Marty. I needed gas anyway. I pulled into a station and told the attendant I needed a couple dollars' worth. While he pumped I went to the phone booth.

"Hello?" Great. His mother.

"I need to speak to Marty."

"Hold on." Then, again with the hand over the receiver came the screaming, "Martin! It's the telephone for you!"

He came on shortly. "Hello?"

"Marty, it's Roy. I have no time, so listen. The Fowlers are dead. Alice too. Cops are already there. Forget the feds. Go to the Rouen cops right now. Take everything I gave you except the steno pad. Tell them they'll find Rittberger and the Northrup's dead in their house. Have them check Haskell's and Rittberger's houses too. Their wives may have gotten it. Show them what you have. Tell them what I've told you. There's a conspiracy at work that has killed them all. Show them how I'm in the clear. They'll already know some things from Judy. They need to know the rest."

"Damn. They're not going to kill me too?"

"No, no. They just want their own group dead. You're safe. And I'm pretty sure it was just Rittberger among the cops. Ask for that Larsen guy we saw or whoever is in charge."

"Yeah, okay. Are you all right? Where are you?"

"I've got to go. I still have something to do."

"But, what?..."

"I'm still hunting."

I didn't want anybody to take down Jacques or Charlie but me.

(back to top)

# Chapter Forty One

**It was eight** o'clock, just getting dark. The Cadillac was there. So was Charlie's black Lincoln. I couldn't let them see the Buick. They both knew the car. I parked on a side street and walked to the corner where I could see the house. I hesitated behind a tree, peeking around at the place. I didn't know where Charlie's kids were, and I was afraid to just barge in like gangbusters and start blazing away. I wasn't completely crazy. Just almost.

I hadn't stood there two seconds when I heard the shot. I flinched at the sound so sudden and unexpected in such a quiet, perfect neighborhood with the porch lights on and the street lamps starting to glow. The place was so perfect that when the echo trailed off nothing changed. It seemed nothing could. Nobody came to a window, nobody opened a door. It was as if bad could never happen and even if it did, it really hadn't.

I didn't think Jacques had a gun. Everybody he'd killed had been bludgeoned to death. And he'd only come after me with a poker. All I knew is that one of them had to be down. I took off for the house. Halfway there I saw Charlie come running out from the back door into the driveway carrying Margie under his arm like a load of laundry, still bound and gagged. I sped up, running hard now. Charlie threw her across the driver's seat and got in behind her. I wasn't going to make it in time, but I kept running. He started the car and backed out of the drive, turned away from me and hit the gas. I stopped and watched him speed down the block and turn left, squealing the tires as he rounded the corner. He was gone. I didn't think he saw me.

I had to check the house. I couldn't believe he'd leave his kids behind, but I had to make sure. And I wanted to see Jacques dead.

I wasn't disappointed. Jacques lay on the kitchen floor a bullet hole in one side of his head, most of the other side of it gone and splattered against the refrigerator. Charlie was carrying some firepower. What was left of Jacques' face looked pretty bad too. I took some satisfaction in that. There was no sign of Charlie's kids anywhere in the house.

Once I'd had a look, I left in a hurry. I trotted back to the Buick, got in and pulled away from the curb. I didn't have a destination, but I knew a crime scene was not a good place for me to be.

I headed in the general direction Charlie had gone. I tried to think like he would. He knew the game was up and that La Vie Réage wanted him dead. He might not know that Jacques had already taken care of everybody else in Rouen. He also might not know the cops would soon be after him. And he for sure didn't know that I was too.

He'd probably taken Margie as a hostage, maybe as a bargaining chip for his French friends, maybe just as a shield. Then again, maybe to use her. But where would he go?

He wouldn't go to Rouen. Too much unknown there. He had to think Jacques had maybe killed some of them. And, knowing he was a target, he'd stay away from his kids, wherever they were. It was too late for him to take a plane or a train. Maybe he could hole up in his office? No, there might be a cleaning crew at night. And how would he explain the little girl? Where would he go?

He needed time. Time to make phone calls to find out who was left. Time to maybe make a deal to save his life. Time to figure out what the hell was going on. Where would he go?

I'd go someplace I knew, someplace familiar enough that I'd feel safe. Someplace sort of public, but also where I could hide. Just like I'd done the past three weeks. A motel. A hotel.

That's when I remembered the detective, LeMay. His expense receipts included one from a hotel, a swanky one on the Magnificent Mile in Chicago. That's when he was tailing the Fowlers. I'd never found out why he'd been there. Maybe that was Charlie's retreat. What was the name of it? The Regal? The Empire? No... I got it... the Empress.

It was a long shot, but it was the only shot I had. I headed east for Chicago.

***

Nine o'clock on a Friday night and Michigan Avenue was still clogged with traffic, and I was stuck in it. Chicago and New York aren't like LA. They've got these huge tall buildings that loom all over you and block the sky so that when you're sitting in a car wedged in traffic down on the street it starts to feel a little claustrophobic. LA is different. Most of the time you can at least get a glimpse of the sky, so it feels like you can breathe anyway. Even if the air is smog. I like that better.

When I'd finally crawled my way to the Empress, I pulled into the entrance and got out and walked around to the passenger side. The doorman came over. Before I let him take the suitcase and the gym bag from the front seat, I held out a folded dollar bill. As he reached for it, I said, "Listen, I'm meeting a friend and his daughter tonight. I don't know if they made it here yet. You guys park a black Lincoln Continental the last few minutes?"

He smiled a smile of big white teeth and took the bill from my hand. "Why, sir, I would have to give that some serious recollection. Been such a terribly busy evening, if'n you must know."

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a five. I held it out. "Is this serious enough?"

He smiled even wider. "I should say. Goodness. Thank you, sir. Why yes, now that you ask, I do recollect such an automobile arriving here not thirty minutes ago."

On a hunch, I took a chance. "Thanks. Say, Charlie's a friend of mine. Know what room he's in tonight?"

He looked down at my hand. I'd made a bad precedent. I reached in and pulled out another five. He took it with the same big smile.

"Mr. Fowler and another of his daughters are checked in to room 816 this evening, just like usual."

"Thanks," I said. I let him take the suitcase and gym bag. I'd be checking in.

***

I stood at the front desk waiting for a room key with my legs shaking. I prayed I had enough room left on my credit card. Fifty bucks was a lot of dough. I tried to stay cool though, as if I belonged there even though I must have looked like a real schlump.

Finally, the clerk looked up, handed me my card back with a key and smiled. "You'll be in room 711 this evening, Mr. Cutter. I hope you enjoy your stay." Then he yelled out, "Front!" and a valet came over to take my bags.

I waved him off. I was running out of tip money.

I wanted a room. It had been a rough day. I had to gather myself. And I needed a place to stay out of sight until the time was right. Plus I might need a place to keep Margie safe. Charlie wasn't going anywhere tonight. I had time. I looked at the plastic key fob. Room 711. Good, a lucky number. And I was almost right underneath him.

The room cost nearly ten times the HoJo in Rouen, and it was smaller. But the furniture was pretty nice. But I wasn't there for comfort. I took off my jacket and went into the bathroom. I splashed water on my face and toweled off. I was bushed. I was going to need a real adrenalin pump to do what I needed to do.

I went back to the bed and sat next to the nightstand. I pulled the .45 from my waist and checked it. I pulled the two clips out of my pocket and looked those over too. Then I looked at the phone. It was too soon to call anybody. I needed time to get to Margie. Then Charlie. No, I'd make the call right before I made my move.

The trick was going to be separating Charlie and Margie. Except I had no idea how to make that happen. I didn't want any gunplay or whatever was going to go on between Charlie and me with her around. But I didn't see a way around it.

It was sickening to think the doorman had hinted at Charlie rendezvousing with young girls on a regular basis. That made me think the hotel staff might be complicit in whatever he was doing. That would make things harder. It also meant moving sooner than later. I had to get busy.

I took the pack of cigarettes out of my jacket pocket and lit one up. I smoked it down to where I couldn't hold it anymore. I stubbed it out, left the room and went down the hall to the elevators. A house phone sat on a table against the wall opposite the doors. I picked it up and asked for room service. I ordered a bottle of scotch, a bottle of cola and two hamburgers to be sent to room 816, Charles Fowler. They said it would be twenty minutes. I looked at my watch. Quarter to ten.

I went back to my room and picked up the phone. I called Marty's house. He wasn't there. His mother asked me not to call so late anymore. I apologized and said I'd try not to.

Then I dialed the Rouen Police Department.

"Rouen Police."

"I'm looking for an attorney. Martin Schein. Is he there?"

"Who is this?"

"His client."

"I need a name."

I gave up. "Roy Cutter."

He paused half a beat. "Where are you?"

"On the phone waiting for you to tell me if my attorney is there."

"Don't get smart."

"Is he there?"

"This isn't an answering service. Where are you?"

"This is an emergency, goddamn it. If he's not there give me Detective Larsen."

"Listen, buddy, I'm not doing anything until you tell me where you are."

"I'm in room 110 at the Holiday Inn in Ottawa. Now give me somebody I want to talk to."

"Hold on."

A pause, then, "Larsen."

"Roy Cutter. Has my attorney seen you?"

"Yes."

"Do you understand now what's going on?"

"Why don't you tell me?"

"Is Marty there?"

"Yes."

"Let me speak to him."

"All right." I guessed that meant he believed us.

"Hello." It was Marty.

"No time. Listen. Charlie's got Margie at the Empress Hotel in Chicago. Room 816. Holding her hostage, abusing her, I don't know. I'm there now. Give me ten minutes then tell Larsen. You got that?"

"What are you doing?"

"Still hunting."

"No. No. Wait for the cops! It's too dangerous. They killed everybody here."

"Do what I tell you. Does Larsen know what's going on now?"

"Yes."

"He believes you?"

"Yes."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

"Good. After you tell him, you get the hell out of there and get up here to Chicago."

"Why? Wha...?"

"If the Chicago cops pick me up I may be good as dead. You're going to have to bail me out tonight or get the Rouen cops to have them let me go. Got it?"

"Yeah."

"Do what I say!" I hung up.

I looked at my watch. It was five after ten. Time to move.

***

Room service always lies. I believe every hotel kitchen keeps a bulletin board above the phone with a memo pinned to it headed "Delay Du Jour" that they change every morning and which instructs the order taker how far off they need to be when they estimate the delivery time for an order. The late time doesn't start until the food is done and sitting on one those funny little rolling tables so they can be sure it is good and cold if it was supposed to be hot or tepid if it was supposed to be cold. These daily late times are sacrosanct and can only be exceeded, never beaten. At the Empress today's late time was fifteen minutes. With every minute I was losing time to any cops who might be on their way.

I'd taken the stairs up to the eighth floor and was hanging out in the stairwell, chain smoking, periodically cracking the door every time I heard the elevator open, waiting to see a room service waiter rolling his cart toward room 816. The elevators were far down the hall, Charlie's room halfway between them and where I was. I tried to calculate the timing I would need to get to the door at the same time as the waiter.

I wasn't sure this would work. If I was Charlie, I wouldn't let them in. I'd ignore them or tell them to go away. If this were a haunt of his he'd be used to the routine. This wouldn't be routine. Then again, running for his life wasn't either. It was just this was the only plan I could come up with.

"Ding." The elevator again. I opened the door a crack and watched. This time a table appeared before a person emerged. It was room service. The waiter started pushing the table down the hall. I got ready. Then I stopped. Something was wrong. There was no bottle of scotch, no glasses, no metal covered plates for the hamburgers. Just a single dish with a white napkin over it. It had to be somebody else's order. I closed the door.

I heard the muffled knock and the waiter announce, "Room service." Then quiet. Another knock. "Room service."

I chanced a peek. The waiter was at Charlie's door. Damn!

He looked up and down the hall. He didn't see my door cracked open. He took a pistol from underneath the napkin. The barrel was too long. He stuck a key in the door and opened it. It was happening too fast for me to move. The chain was on the door. He took a quick step back and kicked it open. I heard a cry of surprise from inside the room.

"Phhht. Phhht. Phhht." Three shots. A silencer. It was over.

I watched him push the table into the room. He was going after Margie. I ran out of the stairwell, but the door closed before I could get there. I heard the lock click. I drew my .45 and put my back against the wall next to the door. I waited, heart pounding.

It was taking too long. What was he doing? My mouth was going dry.

I heard the doorknob turn and the latch click open. I got ready. The table came out first. I saw his left hand pushing the table, his right hand holding the door open. As soon as I saw his head I moved away from the wall and swung my pistol at his temple. He was too quick. The barrel glanced off his shoulder. He reached for his pistol under the napkin.

Not a chance.

"Boom!" The .45 sounded like a bomb going off, reverberating down the hall. It hurt my ears. It hurt him more. I'd caught him in the chest. Must have got his heart. He was dead before he hit the ground. I stepped over him and went in the room. Charlie dead on the floor. No Margie. I checked the bathroom. No Margie.

I turned to the door. Two cops with guns pointed at me. "Drop the weapon!" one of them screamed. I did. "Face down on floor, hands behind your head!" I did that too.

"There's a girl somewhere," I pleaded. "Gotta find her!"

"Shut up!" the one cop commanded, stepping toward me, his gun pointed at my head.

"No, no, there was a girl in this room." This as the cop stuck his knee in the small of my back and wrestled my arms into the handcuffs.

"No... wait! Look under the cart..."

The other cop pulled up the tablecloth. There she was. Trussed up and gagged. Blindfolded too. But alive.

Now it was over.

(back to top)

# Chapter Forty Two

**I never did** get to write the story. Not the one I wanted to, anyway. By the time the cops were done questioning me and Marty got me out of custody, it was mid-day and the _Trib_ and the _Sun-Times_ both had it on the front page, not to mention all the wire services sending it out to every place else on earth.

I drove the Buick back to Rouen and checked in again at the HoJo. I called Cathy. She was pretty shook up over all that had happened. I guess losing your whole family was hard even if they were a bunch of degenerates. She wanted to know about Charlie's kids, but I didn't know anything. She put Tom on the line, and I told him it was safe to go back to the farm. He was glad to hear that but asked about what to do with the three guys in the pond. I told him I'd get back to him on that. I figured I'd better check in with Norm and I got him at home. He told me he'd read about it and that I should write a follow-up and he'd see if he could use it. I tried to call Judy, but there was no answer. I really wanted a drink but I was just too beat. I hit the sack at seven and stayed in dreamland for the next fourteen hours.

I pretty much spent Sunday writing the story and napping. I tried Judy a few more times, but no luck. I called the story into the copy desk at the Sun when I was done with it. I decided to stay off the sauce for a couple days until everything settled down. I didn't have much appetite, so the truck stop down the road was all I needed.

My followup appeared below the fold on page one in the _LA Sun_ that Monday. Norm gave me a byline even though he'd had somebody there add a bunch of stuff from the wire services. The story was so lurid it had some legs even out in LA. All I wrote about was how the FBI was now on the case and coordinating efforts with Interpol to ferret out the ringleaders in France. Just things I'd heard while I was with the cops in Chicago. Somebody else wrote sidebars printed after the break about Carl Fowler's political career and a prostitution ring with similar deviant twists that had been busted down in Long Beach a couple years before. Norm really had made a reach trying for a local angle. But writing follow up stories is like cleaning a toilet. Nothing you really want to do, but something you have to do. Still, I was happy he let me handle it.

I spent the next two days at the Rouen police station answering questions from the Rouen cops, the State Police and a couple different FBI agents.

There was talk of Tom and me getting into trouble for ditching the hit men in the pond, but Marty was with me and he explained how everything had been done in self-defense, and he pointed out the dangers for us if there were too much publicity about their demise. The cops agreed, and later in the week they hauled the Ford out of the pond and released a statement to the effect that another gangland hit had been perpetrated on the three unfortunates found in the car. It just didn't say where they found them other than a Granger County farm. I think half the reason they let it go was they were just too busy sorting out all the other dead bodies.

It wasn't until Wednesday that Marty and I got around to taking care of business. We got Connie's death certificate released along with the official autopsy report. Marty immediately filed a claim with the life insurance policy. I told him I didn't understand how a life insurance policy purchased by the same people who killed the insured was valid. He said as long as the beneficiary wasn't connected to the murder, they would pay it off. That sounded all right to me, but I was still having trouble believing I'd ever see the money.

Wednesday afternoon we took the death certificate and the safe deposit box key down to the Granger County State Bank. We got pretty unhappy looks from everybody in there. I wasn't exactly a hometown hero. Haskell's secretary wouldn't even look at me. They'd all known the Fowlers, the Haskells, the Northrups and the Rittbergers as upstanding citizens, and they were having trouble with the guy who had come into town and helped expose such nasty lie about their nice little world. But without too much fuss or chit chat, the acting manager led us into the vault and took the box out.

All that was in it was a will and an envelope with my name on the front. I gave the will to Marty for him to take care of. I opened the envelope. It was a letter from Connie. I folded it up, put it back in the envelope and slipped it into my jacket pocket. I'd read it later.

Things started to get a little complicated after that. I really wanted to get back home to California, but I was out of money. And I was still unemployed. I talked to Marty about it and he agreed to lend me a few more bucks to tide me over. I'd pay him back out of the insurance with some interest. I was happy he seemed so confident in a payout.

Both the brown Dodge and the army tank had ended up impounded by the Rouen cops. They were happy to release them, but I was going to owe a ton of money to the rental agency. Marty assured me he'd take care of it and negotiate something with them for just a small additional fee. It occurred to me I was turning into an entire career for him all by myself.

Charlie's kids had turned up at a friend of Alice's up there in Downers Grove. Apparently she'd taken them out of school and left them there before she went down to Peoria. Cathy was all about the children, so she and Tom brought them back down to the farm. She was the only kin they had left, so the cops and social workers had no problem with it. Cathy said she never wanted to set foot in the Rouen house again and that a farm was a perfect place to raise kids. She said Tom was really happy to have some sort of family back at the place again. I kind of thought there was something going on with Tom and Cathy. Maybe that would work out for everybody.

I was starting to worry about Judy. I couldn't figure out why I couldn't get hold of her. I drove by her place a few times but her car was never there. Nobody ever picked up the phone at the ex's house.

The Buick had started to bother me. I couldn't seem to get Haskell's smell out of it. But more than that, I kept thinking of Connie and the Fowlers and all that happened every time I got in it. It's really sad when something you liked so much winds up making you depressed just to look at it. So on Friday I decided to sell it. I made a deal with the Chevy dealer up on 53 to buy it from me and give me a loaner until I was ready either to buy another or head back home. I told him either way it wouldn't be more than a couple weeks. He was happy to get the Buick and said he knew how to get the smell out of it.

It was also on Friday that Marty told me about the will. It seems Connie knew she didn't have any real assets so she'd used most of the will to describe how she wanted to leave jewelry and other personal effects to Cathy and her nieces and nephew. But Marty said that because she mentioned leaving the rest to me, it could cause some issues depending on what the wills for her parents and her brother had to say. I asked him what that meant, and he said I could be in line to inherit a portion of the Fowlers' estate although he suspected that could be tied up in litigation for years to come what with everybody coming after it like Marie's family and the survivors of those killed at the detective agency. Marty did offer to handle that for another contingency. I told him to go ahead.

By the time the weekend came I had been getting kind of lonely. I'd started hanging out over at the County Seats in the evenings. The bartender there was friendly enough, and the sandwiches were good. But it was obvious nobody in town wanted anything to do with me. I mean, I couldn't blame them, but it would have been nice to have somebody to talk to.

So Saturday I stopped at Judy's house even though I couldn't see her car. I knocked a couple times and stood there waiting longer than I should have. I was just about to give up and go back to the car when I saw her coming to the door. She opened it just a little and looked at me. She wasn't happy.

"Hello," she said. "I was afraid you might try to stop by."

"Can I come in?" I asked.

She hesitated, then opened the door for me. I went in.

"Would you like some coffee?" She asked.

"Yeah, sure."

"Have a seat. I'll be right back."

I sat in the wing chair she had there in the living room. When she came back she handed me the coffee cup and took a seat on the couch.

"Are you all right?" I asked.

"No."

"What's the matter?"

"Margie's at her father's. She doesn't want to be here. And he's talking about filing for sole custody."

"Why? What's going on?"

"Seems he thinks my dating puts Margie in jeopardy. Claims knowing you almost got her killed. Says some of the other guys I've seen weren't any better and we'd just been lucky up to now."

"This wasn't your fault."

"Maybe. But maybe so. I've seen too many men."

"What does Margie say?"

"She's still in shock. Can't go to school, can't do much of anything except cry in her room. She liked you and then she hears about you killing people with your bare hands, is right there when you shoot someone, and she can't handle it. Plus Charlie Fowler told her what was in store for her in France, what he was going to do to her. She's terrified. She doesn't feel safe here. I don't blame her."

"What are you going to do?"

"I have no job. I can't stay in town. Everybody knows what went on, and they think I'm some kind of slut to put my daughter in harm's way. They don't think much of you, either. I'm just here starting to pack up. I'm moving to Peoria. I'll find a place, get a job and at least be close to Margie."

"I'm sorry."

"Well, I am too. I don't pick men well."

I wanted to defend myself, tell her I liked her, tell her I liked being with her, tell her I was just trying to avenge Connie's death. But I didn't. The dead spot told me there was no point.

I stood up. "I guess I should be going."

"Yes. We just needed to talk a bit."

She got up from the couch and walked me to the door. I left. Neither one of us said goodbye.

That night, back at the hotel room, I read Connie's letter. I'd bought a bottle of scotch for the occasion but I only took a sip before I started reading. I needed to be sober for this.

My Dearest Roy,

If you are reading this it means you found the key or that I am dead. Or both. Either way someone needs to know what happened. I did what I did to protect Cathy, although they may take her anyway. It's my father, my brother and others. Horrible. They are monsters. They're a group, an organization, they do things to women, to me, I can't even write down. They sent me to Paris, to another group like them. They said it was to train me. I couldn't do anything but what they wanted. Please believe me. You must stop them. You must protect Cathy. They killed Marie when she found out. They killed Loomis when he wanted out. I think they're going to kill me too. You must know I had no choice. I have no choice. I tried to get help to find out what happened to Marie. I hired some people to expose them but that's not working. They caught me and they made me one of them. But I was always one of them. Since I was a child. That's why I wanted to go to California with you. I'd had enough of them, of that life, of all that they wanted me to become. I am so sorry for all that I did to you. You are a good man. You wanted better for me. I wish I had wanted that for myself. I love you, Roy. I always will. C.

I folded it up and put it back in the envelope. I'd show it to the cops. It didn't say anything that wasn't known, but maybe it would help them be sure. I just knew I didn't need it. I finished the scotch, got up and turned on the TV and made myself another drink.

***

Monday I made up my mind and Tuesday I was gone.

Marty told me it could be a few more weeks before the insurance paid out as the company was still investigating the claim. I didn't want to wait around. I returned the loaner and Marty drove me up to the station in Joliet. I took the Super Chief back to LA. Same train Connie had taken back to Rouen. Somehow I liked the symmetry.

***

It took some time, but eventually I got a life back. The money showed up, and I was able to buy another car for cash. I picked out another Buick, a white convertible. It was a '58, so it had a lot more chrome.

I sent Judy some money. Enough for her to take care of Margie. I didn't hear back from her although I know the check cleared. But that was all right.

Marty was thrilled to get paid. He promised he'd keep working on the will and the Fowler estate.

Norm offered me a job. Maybe it was out of sympathy, maybe he missed me. Since I really didn't need to work for a while we decided on part time. I'd write crime features. Maybe one a week. It turned out to be a lot of fun.

I stopped drinking so much. I started to take up golf. I wasn't any good, but it was something to do and a golf course was a nicer place to hang out than a gin mill.

I stayed away from women, too. Or at least I tried to. Except there was this one named Sheila that turned out to be something else. She wound up being a story worth telling.

**END**

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# Acknowledgements

For me, writing a novel like this is an exercise in self-indulgent obsessiveness. It takes enormous time and thought and energy that might otherwise be spent in much more pleasurable pursuits with my best friend, my soul mate, my wife. That she is a consumate creative person, she not only humors such binges, she encourages them. I wouldn't have written my first novel without her nor would this second one ever have happened. So this book, like all I have written and may ever write, is dedicated to Jean Cormier. To see how incredibly talented an artist she is, I invite you to view some of her work here.

I don't think there is a writer alive who isn't blinded by their own hubris. It takes a certain amount of chutzpah to think you can tell a story the world wants to hear. Which is why every writer needs someone to burst the ego bubble and tell it like it is while fixing all the stupid mistakes you made because you thought you knew better. Dara Price, my long time friend, was my editor for both novels and has made me keenly aware that I have a way to go before I write as well as she edits.

Even with a healthy dose of hubris comes insecurities that must be assuaged. So it is I must thank my beta readers who plodded through early drafts in dreadful formatting to offer praise and corrections. Steve Rauschkolb helped make substantial improvements while Alva Birnbaum, Mary Welch and Bob Weatherly gave the encouragement I needed to go ahead and publish this book.

I also want to thank Tatiana Vila of Vila Designs for the wonderful cover. I've worked with many graphic designers over the years and have never found one as responsive and accommodating as she is.

Finally, I want to thank you, the reader, for downloading this book. I hope with all my heart you enjoyed it. Feel free to leave your comments on my website or contact me directly by email.

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# About the Author

_Road to Rouen_ is author Jack Waddell's second novel and marks a decided turn in genre from his first offering. Tuesday's Caddie was a bittersweet love story set in the 1930's while _Road_ definitely explores 1950's crime noir. At the same time, both draw from his experience as child in California and his youth in rural Illinois.

A life-long reporter, writer and producer whose adult life was spent working in the New York Metropolitan area, he currently is much happier living on a golf course in Central Florida with his loving wife Jean Cormier, their three cats, Macy, Khloe and Jersey, and doting on grandchildren Rich and Cali.

The author welcomes your comments and queries. His website includes notes on developing the book and its inspiration and he can be reached directly by email.

_Road to Rouen_ is the first in a planned three book series featuring Roy Cutter, an ex-marine and newspaper reporter with a dead spot in his psyche and a dead eye with his.45. Watch for news on the next release!

