We had breakfast at Turner’s café, lingering over coffee.
“Shall I drop you at home?”
“Yes, thanks. I need to freshen up before work.” She smiled, suddenly shy, and I felt the same shyness.
“Could I be the son-in-law your parents want?”
Her smile warmed. “Maybe,” she said. “Ask me again when you’ve solved the case.”
That morning I reviewed the files and my notes. Doherty had said he was calling from Vegas, so I dialled Bill Moreno. Bill had retired as Detective Sergeant, a rank he achieved late in a career that had given him a lot of useful experience, and contacts for his retirement hobby, which was solving cold cases his former colleagues had put aside. Occasionally, we collaborated. Most recently we had successfully solved a child abduction.
I filled him in, and asked what he thought.
“If he really is Doherty, he’s likely to have taken another name,” Bill said. “But he may use the same initials. I don’t know why, but when people want an alias, they often fake a name with their middle name plus a last name with the same initial as their own. What did you say Doherty’s middle name was?”
“Allen,”I said.
“Ok, leave it with me. It’s poor odds, but I’ll check if there’s any dope on a guy named Allen D-something.”
“Thanks, Bill. Before you go, don’t you do some gardening?”
“Oh, that’s Elaine’s thing. I just dig dirt and rake mulch. Why, you discover a green thumb?”
“Roses,” I said. “Sheriff Booley here in Elysium City grows roses. It looks like a calming pastime.”
“Hah! Don’t you believe it. Elaine is always complaining about black spot and white fly. You don’t want to know what those can do to roses. And our desert climate isn’t exactly friendly towards roses, either.”
I laughed. “Bye, and say hello to Elaine.”
*****
Rereading the investigation report, I noticed a fact that was of interest, to quote the Master. The accident was called in from a call box at Ted’s Gas, about a mile north of the accident site. The driver who had stopped at the accident site was a Walter Whitborne. He had been driving north with his wife and three kids to celebrate his mother-in-law’s birthday. I called Whitborne to request a brief interview. He agreed to meet me at Meg’s Home Style Restaurant for lunch.
Whitborne looked about fifty years old, but was probably closer to forty. He had strong features with worried grey eyes and greying hair. He wore a blue shirt and a grey suit that was losing its shape. He had loosened his dark red tie. He sat down opposite me and studied my face.
“Are you on the level?”
I showed him my licence.
“All right,” he said, and ordered a hamburger with onions, sliced tomatoes and a pickle, no ketchup. I ordered their steak-on-a-bun, which turned out to be a mistake, with warmed-over day-old roast sliced thin on a bun that became soggy mush before I’d finished it.
“You say Mrs Doherty wants you to investigate her husband’s death? I told the deputy all I know. That car veered off to the left, hit the barrier, and flipped up and over.”
He took another bite of his hamburger.
“Weirdest thing I ever saw. It sort of stood on its nose for a second or two before tipping over. Red and white Chevy Belair. By the time I got out of the car and got to look over the edge, it was already burning. The other guy said he’d phone it in at Ted’s Gas, so I said I’d wait for the cops. Which I did.” He paused again. “The kids wanted to get out and look, I had quite a bit of trouble making them stay in the car.”
I felt the hair on my neck rise up.
“Did you know that other driver?”
“No, I didn’t. I mean he looked kind of familiar, but I couldn’t say I’d ever seen him before.” He paused again and chewed thoughtfully.
“I mean, you’re always meeting people that look familiar. Uh, you know, someone that looks like your brother-in-law, but isn’t.”
“Sure”, I said. “In fact you look kind of familiar to me. Like the guy that rents the apartment above mine. Except he’s not married and he doesn’t have kids.”
“That’s just his luck. Well, like I said, he didn’t introduce himself and I never saw him again.”
“You mean he didn’t come back?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“What kind of car was he driving?
“It was a red and white two-door Chevy Bel Air. Like the other car, the one that went off the road. A ‘57.”
“Do you think you can recall the plate number?”
Whitborne studied his hamburger. “No, I’m sorry. But the first two letters were CT, if that helps.”
“It might,” I conceded. “Tell me, how well did you know Mr Doherty?”
“I didn’t know him at all. I was surprised when it came out that he was married to Miss McGrath. Glenda, that is Mrs Whitborne and I, well, we don’t travel in those circles. I mean I do bookkeeping for a lot of businesses, but that’s not the same as having a social connection.” He took another bite.
“So if you wanted to get, what do you call it, an impression of the character of the man, I’m afraid I couldn’t help you. Not that I would be indiscreet if I did know him, you understand. I mean, my reputation depends on my ability to keep things confidential.” He paused again, and with a vaguely dissatisfied frown finished off his hamburger.
“Would you like a dessert? I’m a sucker for apple pie myself.”
He thanked me and said no, he had to get in his lunchtime walk before he got back to the office. I watched him walk away, slightly hunched over, not quite shuffling his feet. A man who’d accepted that he’d navigated as far as he could through the maze to success. I hoped he knew that wife and family and friends were successes denied to many men his age.
I drove back to the motel and read over my notes again. The story they told didn’t quite match up with the official one. For one thing, the mysterious driver in the second ‘57 Bel Air was missing from the incident report. For another, Marina Webster had said that Doherty owned her husband’s ‘57 Bel Air, the car that went over the edged. But according to Marina Vern would have been driving that car, and she thought he wasn’t. So which car was which?
Chet had not done a follow-up interview with Whitborne. Maybe Chet could find the Bel Air given the two first letters. Or at least narrow it down to however many red and white ‘57 Bel Airs were registered in the State.
The identification of Vern Doherty relied on a single distinguishing mark, the tattoo. He had acquired it during a weekend of reunion with an old army buddy. I decided I should interview the buddy, if I could find him.
I dialled Ruth Doherty’s number and left a message with her maid. Then I called the front desk, and told Richard I expected two phone calls, and asked if he would take messages if I wasn’t in. That done, I took off my tie, and lay down for a nap.
Bill called first.
“Probably bad news, Tom,” he said. “I found a John Doe at the morgue. Brought in last night, but likely killed a two, three days ago. Found in an alley three blocks off the Strip. No wallet, no ID, no jewellery, cheap blue suit. If you have a photo of your Vern Doherty, that could be helpful. My friends think he was an out-of-towner who was mugged.”
“What do you think?”
“Well, maybe they’re right. But he had two bullet holes in him, right through the heart. Very close together. Could be a professional hit.”
He paused.
“The incident report noted that there was no blood on the ground. So it looks like he was killed somewhere else and dumped in the alley where they found him.”
I told Bill I’d get a photo to him that evening. I tried Ruth Doherty again, and this time got her on the line. She said that Vern’s Army buddy was a Frank Collina, and he lived in Fenton, near Las Vegas. She said she’d have a photo of Vern available as soon as I showed up. Ten minutes later, I had the photo, and checked in with Booley. I told him that my associate in Las Vegas might have a lead on Doherty, but it was likely to be bad news. Booley studied a spot on the wall that only he could see. It was above my left shoulder.
“OK,” he said, “sounds like you’re close to the finish line. Did you tell Mrs Doherty that you were closing in on Vern?”
“Yes, but I didn’t tell her the odds were that he was dead after all.”
I let Richard know I would be gone overnight and asked him to hold my room. Then I headed for the bright lights of the gambling capital of the world. Maybe the gambling capital of the universe. But unless little green men show up for some action, we’ll never know.
Bill and Elaine were welcoming as always. We had just enough time before supper to get to the morgue. On the way there, Bill studied the photo.
“I think it’s Doherty,” he said. He was right. His friends kept the photo, and wrote up the new evidence. I gave them Ruth Doherty’s address and phone number, but asked them to talk to Booley first.
“So, you’ve got the answer to Mrs Doherty’s question.”
“Yes, but I don’t like it. I don’t think Mrs Doherty will like it either. He was likely dead when she came to my office to hire me. Somebody thought he was worth rubbing out. And that’s the problem. This case ends with more questions than answers.”
We were enjoying Elaine’s paella with a Greek salad and English bitter when the doorbell rang. Bill came back followed by two men wearing dark anonymous suits and dark anonymous hats. One was very tall with a thin grey face that oozed melancholia. The other was short, but the smile on his round face clashed with hard brown marble eyes.
“They asked for you, Tom,” said Bill. His blank face meant he expected trouble.
“Mr McCann?” said the tall one. “I’m Jose Richardson, and my associate is Nigel Delmano. We are here on behalf of Mr Romero. He would like to consult you on a matter of mutual concern.”
“A matter of great importance,” murmured Delmano.
“I see that you are dining,” Richardson continued. “We will wait, if Mr ah, er?”
“Moreno,” said Bill. “Bill Moreno. And this is my wife Elaine.”
“Mr Richardson,” said Elaine, “Why don’t you join us for dessert. It’s English trifle.”
The two men looked at each other.
“It’s a cake soaked in sherry, then it’s covered with custard and raspberry or strawberry compote”, said Delmano. “My mother used to make it. It’s very good.”
Richardson turned to Elaine.
“We will be honoured to partake of your hospitality, Mrs Moreno,” he said.
We passed the next twenty minutes in polite chat, mostly about our mothers and their cooking. As I rose to follow Richardson and Delmano, Bill asked if he could come along, saying he might have additional information. Romero’s goons looked at each other, shrugged, and waved him to my side.
A large black Lincoln with tinted windows was parked at the curb. Delmano drove smoothly and seventeen minutes later we were ushered into an office panelled in dark wood. A tall man dressed in an impeccable grey suit stood next to a wall of floor to ceiling windows that gave a view of Las Vegas to anyone who cared to look. The lights glistened. Vegas looked like one of those cities in a movie about distant planets where Captain Zoom is chasing aliens. The man turned from counting the lights and walked toward me, holding out his hand.
“Ah, Mr McCann, I’m Charles Romero. I’m delighted you were able to accommodate my request.” He turned to Bill. “I believe we’ve met, Mr Moreno. That inconvenience, ah, five years ago concerning one of my, ah, associates exceeding his authority. If I recall correctly, you were the investigating officer. I must apologise again that the, ah, person in question did not fully understand my instructions.”
He walked towards a low round table supporting three glasses and surrounded by armchairs. “Please,” he gestured, and we sat down. Delmano appeared at our elbows and filled the glasses with ice water.
Romero sipped from his glass, steepled his fingers, and looked from me to Bill and back again.
“Mr Moreno, I understand you were helpful in ascertaining the fate of Mr Doherty. I must thank you for that. Mr McCann, I take it that now that you have found Mr Doherty, your contract with Mrs Doherty is at an end.”
“Yes. But she may want me to find out who was responsible her husband’s death.”
“Ah, yes, that is certainly a possibility. I take it that until you have received her final instructions you still consider Mrs Doherty your client?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Suppose I also would wish you to discover the person who killed Mr Doherty. Would you consider taking on that assignment immediately?”
I sipped some water. “I’m not sure. Technically, I’m free to accept your request. But suppose Mrs Doherty wants me to continue? Do I tell her I’m already on the job?”
“I understand your scruples, Mr McCann. Suppose I say that I’m willing to be a junior partner, so to speak, to Mrs Doherty. I do think I owe her that much. I would consider the partnership to include the work you have already done.”
“I see. Mr Doherty was in your employ.”
“Yes, and I’m afraid it cost him his life. I think it only fair that I assist his widow in finding the person or persons responsible.”
“OK, Mr Romero, you have yourself a deal. If Mrs Doherty wants me to continue, I’ll send half the total bill to you. If not, I’ll consider finding the killer a new assignment and you my sole client.”
“Admirable, Mr McCann.” He turned to Bill. “I assume you will continue to assist Mr McCann?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I want you to know that if at any time you believe that my organisation can provide useful information in this or any other investigation, I will do my utmost to supply it. Mr Richardson will be your liaison.” He turned to me. “He will take you to see Mrs Saunders. She is our archivist, and will supply you with background information that I believe you may find useful.”
He stood up and smiled. He had expensive teeth.“Now, I must ask to be excused as I have other matters to attend to.”
Richardson opened the door and followed us out into the hall. He led the way to a door marked 412 and knocked. We accepted the invitation to enter.
Mrs Saunders was a fifty-something woman whose face gave nothing away. She reminded me of Miss Latham, the librarian in High Bridge, who enforced the rules with stern impartiality, but encouraged us to read whatever we wanted. Mrs Saunders offered me a large brown envelope inscribed Elysium City and asked for my signature on a receipt. The ride back to Bill’s house was enlivened by Richardson’s commentary on the Wranglers’ playoff chances. Apparently Mr Romero owned a piece of the team and expected other teams to acknowledge that fact.
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