Any Woman He Wanted Read online

  My God—Doc Yerrgsted had said that.

  The funeral director had reserved a canvas chair for Carolyn near the open grave, under the green striped canopy where the Flynn clan had gathered.

  She shook her head, and stood to one side with me while the minister read the final words of the burial ceremony. She barely seemed aware that I was beside her, and yet I had the damnedest feeling that she was leaning on me, clinging to me, and that behind the stark white mask of her face she was weeping uncontrollably.

  I was glad to have her to think about I stared at the black suits, black ties—and black hearts she had mentioned. Fred Carmichael had a black band on his sleeve. His face was rigid and set. Mayor Bibb’s eyes were red. Stewart Mitchell, the Police Commissioner, was leaning on his son’s arm.

  I moved my gaze beyond them—to men from the local bar association, Tom’s college fraternity, the veterans’ organizations. I saw Police Chief Clyde Waylin and Captain Neal Burgess, their faces set, eyes straight ahead.

  “Oh, God!” Carolyn whispered. “Oh, my God!”

  I turned quickly and looked at her. But she was all right. She was standing tall and straight in her black dress, her gloved hands clenched together before her.

  Across the grave I saw Ernie Gault and Grace, and beyond them stood Doc Yerrgsted in a shabby gray suit. Beside him slouched the Greek.

  I felt slightly better seeing Doc and the Greek. They made the whole affair a little cleaner.

  The chauffeur drove swiftly on the way back. He still kept his eyes straight ahead, but now he used the Cad like a hot-rod.

  “I know now what it was that Tom wanted to tell me,” Carolyn said. She seemed unaware of the way the car jockey handled the Cad, unaware of anything outside her own thoughts.

  “Yes,” I said.

  She turned and looked at me. “Do you know, too, Mike? Have you figured it out?”

  The funeral pennant on the fender was snapping in the wind. I nodded. “It was easy.”

  He had been threatened. That was what he had wanted to say to me that afternoon in his library, what he almost said to Carolyn—his life had been in danger. But he had not been able to bring in the issue of his personal safety in a public campaign. That was the Flynn pride. He could plead with me to help him clean up a dirty town. But he could not ask anyone to save his life in that same connection.

  “They threatened him, Mike,” Carolyn said. “They threatened to kill him, unless he stopped.”

  “Yes.”

  She pressed her hand against her mouth. “He thought—he thought he would be all right—if he could get you to help him.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I guess he did. But believe me, Carolyn, I couldn’t have saved him. He helped make the police force in this town what it is today. He didn’t mean to, but he did. He was, in some ways, an outsider and he made mistakes. But he wasn’t wrong. Believe that.”

  Carolyn nodded and then it was as if she went away from me. She sat beside me in the back seat of that swift moving car, but she seemed far away, out of reach.

  I watched the fender pennant snap in the wind. The sound did not reach into the silence between us.

  Big Fred Carmichael’s car was parked out front of her house when we got there. I did not even get out to go to the door with her.

  12

  “Mike. Mind if I sit down?”

  I scowled even before I looked up. It was a little after five the next afternoon and I was enjoying a double bourbon in the peace and quiet of the Greek’s. Maybe enjoying is a slight exaggeration. I had found scant enjoyment in the days since Tom Flynn’s death. Suicide on the highway. Murder was the better word—the only word.

  I stared up at Ernie Gault. The illness inside Ernie had turned his face a nice ash-gray.

  I shrugged. “Sit down.”

  He sat. “I wanted to talk to you, Mike. I had something on my mind.”

  “Will you have a drink?”

  “No, Mike. You go ahead.”

  “What’s burning your ulcer tonight?”

  He pressed the tips of his fingers against his solar plexus and belched. “God. My own hot plate. Mike, do you think Tom Flynn committed suicide?”

  I watched the bookmakers at play along the bar. “Do you?”

  “I don’t know what to think. But I do know this. Ed Clemmons, the boy that was—the boy who shot himself cleaning his gun. You know he was with Carl Hogan in the prowl car that reached the scene first when Tom Flynn died on the turnpike?”

  “Yeah, I remember that”

  “How can you be so calm about it?”

  “Why not? If Tom Flynn can kill himself, why can’t Ed Clemmons?”

  “Two nights later? Cleaning a gun at three in the morning?”

  “That’s the report.”

  “There’s more to it than that. It’s been eating me up. I haven’t slept The night Clemmons was killed he had left a note for me on my desk at headquarters. It was there at five o’clock when I was checking out. All it said was that he wanted me to get in touch with him and that it was urgent. Well, I know how these kids are, all of them have something urgent on their minds. Mostly it’s a gimmick that’ll get them a commendation or a promotion. So I went on home, tried two or three times to get in touch with him during the evening, but he was out prowling with Hogan and never called back.”

  “All right. Forget it. You tried.”

  “Can’t you guess what he wanted to talk to me about? Can’t you, Mike?”

  “No.” I stared at him coldly. “I can’t guess. And you can’t guess. And you better leave it like that.”

  I decided against having another drink after Ernie left—instead I ordered a steak. When the Greek heard about that he came running out of his office where he had hibernated all afternoon. “You eating a steak, Mike? I’ll cook it myself. It’ll melt in your mouth.” “Stop licking my hand,” I told him. “You’re wetting my cuffs.” He nodded, smiling. “You begin to see, huh? A steak seems pretty good, eh? You begin to see bourbon for dinner all the time don’t get you so very far, huh?” “Not around here anyhow,” I said.

  I walked back over to police headquarters and wandered into the ready room just for the hell of it. I was looking over the patrol assignments when I felt someone standing close behind me.

  I glanced over my shoulder. It was Captain Burgess.

  “Hi, Neal.”

  “What you doing around here, Ballard? You’re off duty. I thought you were a prowler.”

  ‘Always call a policeman when you see anything suspicious,” I semi-quoted. I turned back, running my hand along the roster.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Nothing vital. A kid named Hogan. You probably never heard of him.”

  I heard Neal’s sharp intake of breath. “Carl Hogan? What about him?”

  “Nothing about him. I just got curious. I wondered who was riding with him since Ed Clemmons shot himself the other night.”

  Neal pulled the roster away from me, checking it himself. “You know Hogan?”

  “Not very well. Do you?’

  “I think he has a pretty good record. A couple commendations—mostly an average rook. Why?” He paused reading. “Here he is. He’s not riding patrol car. He was reassigned since Clemmons died.”

  “Oh? What’s his assignment?”

  Neal checked again. “Walking beat. Halsey and Twenty-third area.”

  “Tough section.”

  “Somebody has to do it. We moved a new team into the prowl car. We had to find something for Hogan.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Look, Ballard. I don’t have to explain this department to you.”

  “That’s right. You don’t.”

  “I follow orders, Ballard. I assign men as I’m told. I see nothing wrong about assigning Hogan to a walking beat.”

  “So let’s forget it.”

  “I am interested in what you think about it, Ballard. What’s the gimmick? You know, as a matter of fact, Police Commis
sioner Mitchell was asking for a report on you today.”

  “How about that? Did he say why?”

  Neal Burgess hesitated, but after a moment he smiled. “As a matter of fact he did. He said that Fred Carmichael had asked about you. Wondered how you were getting along in the department recently.”

  “How thoughtful of him. I wonder why he gave a damn.”

  Neal’s mouth tightened. “He’s a public-spirited man, a leading citizen. Don’t ever forget how much you owe him.”

  “I won’t,” I said and walked out.

  I drove crosstown to Halsey. No matter how many street lights they set out in the Halsey section, the streets were dark, the doorways like inhabited caves. I drove slowly. Girls stood at lighted corners, smiled expectantly and then moved on, hips tight in cheap skirts. I parked near Maistre’s Bar, hearing the blaring of the juke box.

  I went into the bar, asked if they had seen the new cop on the beat. None of them had. No one even realized there was a new cop.

  I spent another hour walking the dark streets in the old neighborhood. Cats slunk in the shadows, people whispered from the black caverns of the doorways. I stumbled over a wino at the corner of Twenty-third.

  I was really back in my old neighborhood.

  I was already sick of this place. I glanced at my watch, decided to give myself another twenty minutes. Hogan was in none of the eating places, and there was no sign of him on the street.

  I walked back along Halsey slowly, going toward the Olds, parked near Maistre’s Bar. Far away, across town somewhere, I heard a siren scream. Nearer a cat squawled. Suddenly I remembered my dream—all of Luxtro’s men and all of Luxtro’s guns cornering me in a garbage-strewn alley where the buildings kept closing in tighter.

  I felt a sudden sickness and wiped the back of my hand across my mouth. It was as if I were suddenly suffering from claustrophobia. I stood at the black mouth of an alley and the very thought of walking into it was terrifying. I sweated, staring into the darkness.

  I knew I could not walk away from it. I had to walk through that alley. I knew better than to start running away from the things I was afraid of.

  I sucked in a deep breath. The yawning hole looked suddenly darker, narrower. I made up my mind. I’d walk through this alley, go around the block to my car and call it a night. Hell, Hogan was a big boy. I was the kid shivering at shadows.

  I glanced once along Halsey toward the brightly lit front of Maistre’s Bar. Then I stepped off the walk and moved into the alley. A cat slithered through the shadows and I caught my breath.

  When I stumbled over the wino, I almost yelled. I had to clamp my teeth shut to keep from yelling.

  I stared down at the man sprawled at my feet. Only it was no wino. I had found Carl Hogan.

  Ernie Gault knelt beside Hogan’s body. The alley was now lighted with police car headlights.

  “In the back of the head,” Ernie said, looking up.

  “Just goes to show you,” I said. “Never turn your back on your friends.” Except that here no one had even admitted knowing Hogan.

  Ernie walked with me to my car. “Well, Mike. I can’t pretend any more, can I? Hogan was murdered. Clemmons was murdered. And Tom Flynn was murdered. As sure as you and I are standing here.”

  “Looks like it.”

  “But that’s only part of it, Mike. Men in the department. Men over us. Fellows I’ve known almost twenty years. They know it’s murder, too. Just like we do. You know they do.”

  “You’re shooting into the wind,” I said.

  He stopped in the middle of the walk, staring at me in the street light

  “What’s wrong with you? You know I’m telling you the truth.”

  “Listen to me. Once it wasn’t safe to talk about anything in this damn town. That’s been changed. Now it’s not even safe to think it.”

  “I can’t keep still about a thing like this. Three men have been murdered. Two of them were cops. And men in the department have known about it, they’ve gone right along with it, they’ve hidden the truth.”

  “And you don’t think they’re as sick about it as you are?”

  “I don’t know. I only know about me. I can’t take it, and I’m going to make a stink.”

  I caught his coat roughly in my fist, twisted him up on his toes.

  “Don’t ever think anything like that again, Gault. You understand me? What’s the matter with you? Isn’t your ulcer killing you fast enough? You’ve got no proof of any kind—and until you have, you’re going to keep your mouth shut, or I’ll shut it for you.”

  The life went out of him. He sagged, relaxing. I released him. “All right, Mike. I know you’re right. It’s just that I don’t see how I can go on living with what I know inside me.”

  13

  The guys in the detective bureau office were licking their lips and whining a little inside when I got in the next afternoon at five. They were whispering as I passed their desks.

  “Sweet Jesus.”

  ‘And I got to go home to my old woman.”

  “Just one night with that and let me die.”

  Lupe Valdez was sitting rigidly in the chair beside my desk so filled with her woes and indrawn she had no idea of the commotion she was causing. I couldn’t blame the guys. Even with woes she lighted the place up like a torch.

  She saw me and tried to smile.

  I sat down behind my desk, my swivel whistling dryly at her. “Hello there,” I said. “Long time. I’ve been looking for you to show around here.”

  She sighed, “Why? Did you want to help me?”

  I shrugged. “Let’s just say I had you pegged as a girl who wouldn’t give up easily.”

  “I can’t give up,” she said. “And you’re the only one who can help me. I’ve stood out in front of this place—and in front of the Greek’s bar—every day, trying to get up my nerve to talk to you again.”

  “And now you’ve made it?”

  “Or else.” She glanced at the clock. So did I. It was ten past five. She tried to smile again. “Shall we go to the Greek’s and get you a drink while we talk?”

  I didn’t bother to ask her what she thought we still had to talk about. “This is all right. I can live without a drink.”

  She inhaled deeply, glanced about the room. She still didn’t see the hot eyes melting and running all over her.

  “You’ve thought over—what we said last time?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know I’m right, don’t you?”

  “All I know is just what I told you before. You’re fooling with a powerful man—the son of a powerful man.”

  “It’s for my baby.”

  “Yes. That’s what you said.” I shook my head, stared at my knuckles. “Let me get it straight. You’re willing to let Morgan Carmichael off the hook, but you think he ought to be forced to make some kind of settlement on you”

  “Not on me. On—his baby.”

  “Okay. On his baby. What kind of settlement do you think would be right?”

  Her mouth twisted, she sat straighten “His father owns a huge corporation, is director of a bank. I don’t know what else—”

  “Never mind that. I do.”

  “What kind of settlement do you think would be—right?”

  I grinned at her. “We’d never get that much.”

  For the first time, hope glimmered in her black eyes. She pushed her hand through her thick hair. “I thought you said the police couldn’t help me.

  “Technically, they can’t.” I shrugged, and she almost smiled again. I glanced at the clock. “But I’m off duty. Maybe we could work out something.”

  “Have you forgotten how powerful you thought Morgan’s father is?”

  “No. I remember all that. Clearly.”

  She did smile now. “Thank heaven I met you, Mr. Ballard.” She gathered up her purse, started to get up.

  I touched her arm. “What’s the matter with you? Where are you going?”

  “Maybe you’ll b
e fired, blacklisted—even killed. I don’t want that—not after you said what you just did.” Her voice quavered. “I’ve changed my mind, Mr. Ballard. Thanks anyway.”

  “Dammit,” I said. “Sit down. You came back here. I didn’t come looking for you.”

  “I know But I—”

  I stood up. “If you’re going to learn to think about your baby, the first thing to learn is to admit you’re not the only one with problems. Maybe I’ve got my own reasons now for playing on your team.” I took her arm, led her out. “Come on.”

  She did not say anything until we were downstairs in the parking lot. We got into my car. When I parked in front of my apartment house, Lupe was paler than ever.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Up to my place. Come on.”

  She breathed in deeply. She was very pale under her olive skin. “All right—if that’s what you want.”

  We were on the walk. I grabbed her shoulder, heeled her around. “Look, kid. Don’t get ideas about me. If I want a lay, I can get women.”

  She looked as if I’d backhanded her across the eyes. She took a step backwards. Her voice was low “All right, Mr. Ballard.”

  I turned and strode ahead of her into the apartment building. I fumbled through the bills in my mail box for a moment, letting her get used to the idea of going up to a man’s apartment. We went up in the elevator in silence. I wondered how Morgan Carmichael ever got her in this interesting predicament if she were so afraid of being alone with males.

  I let us in, went around opening up the apartment. A breeze off the river riffled the curtains.

  She sat down on the divan, knees together, looking at me.

  The phone rang. It was Ernie Gault, “You busy, Mike?”

  “Right now I am.”

  “Another blonde?” His voice sounded troubled.

  I glanced down at Lupe who had leaned back on the divan, trying to relax. “A brunette this time.” She looked up, startled, met my gaze, then smiled. She relaxed again.

  “Well, I’ll call you later.”

  “What is it, Ernie?”

  “Nothing. Just wanted to gab. Hell, there’s no hurry.”

  I replaced the receiver. I went into the kitchenette, found a glass, filled it with milk, brought it back to Lupe.