Mad Utopia

Part 1 (to start at the beginning)

The Client
The Butler

Part 2

The Associate
The Notebook

Part Three

The Cop

The doc down at St. Joe’s told me my knee wasn’t broken, just bruised, strained, and dislocated. Funny, the news didn’t make me feel any better. My ribs were another matter. I had one broken and two cracked ribs. And a big bruise on my stomach. When I told him I fell down the stairs because the light was burned out I knew he knew I was lying. They patched me up as best they could, gave me some crutches and some advice about changing light bulbs, and sent me on my way. It was well past midnight by the time I got out of there.

The trip home was no joy ride. I had to learn to accelerate and brake with my left foot, and each lurching stop and start sent new waves of pain through my chest and leg. Even driving over the cobbles of the alley was painful. I pulled into the spot next to Ferguson’s Plymouth and intentionally let my door bump into his as I got out. Lights from a half a dozen apartments came on, a window flew open and someone cursed the stupid car alarm and the idiot who had set it off. That was just fine by me. I just didn’t want any more surprises on the steps.

As I approached the brownstone Tom Ferguson came stomping out in his underwear, glowering and muttering under his breath. I shrugged atop my crutches and apologized, explaining that the crutches made it awkward getting out of the car and all. He just grunted at me and stomped on towards his car. He didn’t even bother to ask me how I had gotten hurt. I hobbled on. As I passed his place the car alarm went still. I labored on, up the steps, and heard him go back inside before I even made it to my back door.

I unlocked the door and reached in to flip on the lights. I peeked in and inspected the kitchen, half expecting a guy with a pipe to be hiding behind the door. No one there. I went on in, closed the door and collapsed into a chair at my kitchen table. When the throbbing subsided I got up and checked out the place until I was satisfied no one was there. Then I popped open a beer and sank into my living room arm chair to think about the day’s events.

I awoke to the sound of someone banging on my door. I jerked forward and collapsed back in a bundle of pain. “Go to hell!” I yelled towards the door. It didn’t seem possible, but it was daylight already. The beer bottle lay on the floor next to the chair, and I looked and felt like crap.

“Police!” the door banger responded. “We want to ask you a few questions.”

Oh jeez, could it get any worse? Now what the heck did the police want? Whatever it was, they were not going to go away, so I reached for my crutches. “Just a minute!”

I opened the door to find a blue and a dick standing in the hall. Mrs. Jennets from across the way was peeking through her door crack, to get all the dirt she could. The dick stepped forward and shoved his ID in my face like I didn’t know him, and said, “Hello Max.” He eyed the crutches without sympathy. “Can we come in?” Without waiting for an answer he pushed past me and immediately began to gaze around.

“Maybe.” I said. The blue stood out on the stoop, unsure if he really should come in at that point or not. Since I didn’t want to leave my door standing open for Mrs. Jennets, I nodded to him and said, “Sure.”

He came in and I closed the door.

“So, Murphy, what brings you around this early on a Sunday morning?” I asked. Buddy Murphy and I went way back. He didn’t like me and I didn’t like him, and we both felt just fine about that.

“Where were you last night?” Murphy asked. “Say, around ten o’clock?”

I snorted. “Me? I was enjoying the lovely emergency room facilities over at St. Joe’s. Why?”

He looked at my crutches and frowned. “Oh yeah? When did you get there?”

“About nine.”

“You can prove that?”

“Well, I had to sign in at the desk. Then I had a seat and waited to see a doctor.”

He frowned again. Something had happened last night at around ten and I had an iron tight alibi. He hated it when that happened. “When did you get out?”

“I was discharged a little after midnight. Why?”

He poked at the empty beer bottle with his foot. “A little early, ain’t it?”

“It’s from last night, asshole. I didn’t exactly feel like hobbling back to the kitchen to toss it. Now what the hell are you digging at?”

If looks could carry pipes, I’d be heading back to the hospital now. But he cooled down fast and asked, “You ever hear of Plum Orchard Fine Used Books?” My stomach tightened.

“I might have.”

“Cut the crap. I’ve got a patrol officer that puts you on the lot there at around six-thirty last night. I got a kid that says you were in there, poking around in restricted areas from around four-thirty till closing.”

“So?”

“So why were you there?” He walked up to me and put his face right next to mine.

“I was looking for something.”

He nodded his head like a bobble head doll, waiting for me to go on. But I wasn’t cooperating. “So elucidate, already.”

“Oh, big word, Murphy. I hope it didn’t hurt too much.”

He pushed his chest into mine. “You give me crap Mann, and I’ll haul your ass down to the station and lose the key.”

“Yeah, for what? Visiting the hospital after visiting hours? You can’t haul my ass anywhere.”

The blue was looking a little disconcerted and was nervously fingering his nightstick. It looked uncomfortably like a pipe to me.

“Did you hear any sirens last night around ten?” he asked.

“I was at the hospital, Murphy. Of course I heard sirens, all night long. Why?”

“Plum Orchard Fine Used Books burned down last night.” Despite the fact that I should have seen it coming, my head reeled. I needed that bookstore. There were too many clues in there to lose. But of course, that was why it had burned down. Damn!

He walked away from me then and chomped on his cigar. Then he turned back to me and said, “Funny how you go poking around and the place burns down. Looks like arson by the way. You like fire, Mann?”

“It has it’s place,” I retorted. “Arson’s not one of ‘em.”

“You seen anything of a Mr. Rodger Jones lately? The owner of the joint.”

“No. Have you?”

“No.” He poked his cigar in my direction. “And that’s the thing. The owner’s car is out back of the place, but no sign of the owner. Now I got a fire, a car, and no owner. Know what that smells like to me, Mann? Not just arson. Arson to cover up a murder.” Again, he poked his cigar at me. “The bomb and arson squad are going over the place now. If they just happen to find a body in there, I’ll be asking you down to the station.”

“You think I torched the place? Get real, Murphy, I was at the hospital.”

He grunted. “Who’s to say you didn’t have an accomplice?” He nodded to the blue to open the door. As he headed out he just happened to accidentally kick one of my crutches. I winced in pain.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Max. I hope that didn’t hurt.” He stuck his cigar back in his mouth and stepped out into the hallway. Mrs. Jennets scurried back into her place and mostly closed her door. “We’ll be talking to you again, Mann,” he threatened.

“Oh, I’ll be looking forward to it,” I assured him.

Mrs. Jennets door snapped closed just after mine.

The Reporter

I drove over to the Plumb Orchard Shopping Center to see the place for myself. I pulled into the lot and parked a few doors down, as close as the yellow Police Line tape allowed. Two cruisers, a fire department, and an unmarked car were there, along with a local crowd of onlookers. I saw Murphy talking to one of the blues. As I struggled out of the car with my crutches he looked up and saw me. He stopped talking and sauntered over my way. “Revisiting the scene of the crime?” he sneered from behind the yellow tape.

“Very funny, Murphy.”

“Oh, homicide’s not so funny,” he retorted.

“You found a body?” I asked, surprised.

“Should we have?”

“Only if somebody died,” I shot back. He grumbled something about me being a smart ass and wandered away at that.

On the far side of the ash pit that used to be the bookstore I saw my old friend from the Times, Cliff Williams, taking notes. He was talking to Joe Badger, the town Fire Marshall and chief arson investigator. From the smoke billowing around them you would have thought Cliff was on fire himself, but it was just his cheap cigar. As he wrote something down he looked up and saw me. Flipping his notebook shut, he said a few more words to the Fire Marshall, and hustled on over.

“So, what brings you out here, compadre?” he asked as he shook my hand. “Murphy call you in for an assist?” He grinned an evil grin, knowing full well how Murphy and I got along. Then he went on, “Joe tells me it looks like arson. Found traces of accelerants in the rubble. Kind of amazing they can find anything in that pile, eh?”

“I guess if you know how to look,” I offered.

“Yeah. I guess,” he echoed. “Someone says there was a strange car here early last night,” Cliff went on. “A big old Brougham. I think they said it was maroon.” He looked over my shoulder at my car.

“They? You mean Murphy, don’t you?”

He just grinned. “From what I hear, the bookstore didn’t do a whole lot of business. Guess maybe it was losing money. Think the guy might have torched it for insurance?” By the way he looked at me, with that sidelong glance, I knew he was fishing. I kept mum. At last he decided I was not going to bite, so he put another worm on his hook. “Or maybe it was torched to cover up some other crime?” I examined my shoes. At last, in exasperation he said, “I’m hearing rumors that the store’s owner is missing.”

“Is that right?” I avoided looking at him.

“Oh come on, Max, don’t act like you don’t know anything. Murph’s already told me you were here last night, in the store before closing, and that the old man is missing. Says you’re the prime suspect.” He gave me a big grin.

“Is that right?” I gave a shrug.

“Oh come on, Max. Give me something.” He gave me his old sad dog look.

“The old man was missing before last night,” I offered. He flipped open his notebook and poised pen over paper, waiting for me to go on. At length he looked up to me with a frown. “Come on, Max, you can do better than that.”

“Look, Cliff,” I apologized, “I’m working a case here. It wouldn’t be ethical for me to go blabbing to the press. What would my client say?”

He flipped his notebook shut in disgust. “So who’s the client?” Then, “Off the record.”

“You just don’t give up, do you Cliff?” I smiled despite myself. Truth be told, Cliff was a good guy, an old school chum, and I knew I could trust him to keep quiet if he promised we were “off the record”. It was not a promise he made lightly, or often. “OK. Off the record? Let’s go down to Mable’s for some coffee.”

Looking at my condition he offered to drive. I scoffed at the idea. I told him that I wasn’t going to let a simple dislocated knee and a few broken ribs slow me down. Truth is, I didn’t want to leave my car there on the lot with Murphy still around. The jerk was likely to have it towed, just out of spite. Before I let him into my car, I made Cliff snuff out his stogie. He pinched off the cherry and stuck the unused portion into his inside vest pocket. I swear, some day he’s going to go up like a torch.

We headed off for Mable’s, the old Brougham lurching and jerking to starts and stops as we went, due to my left footed driving. Cliff took it all in stride, making small talk as we went, though he buckled his seat belt, which was uncharacteristic of him. To his credit, he barely raised an eyebrow when a VW pulled out in front of us and I came within inches of creaming the stupid SOB. After I angrily pulled around the dolt, Cliff pointed at my leg and asked what happened. He didn’t buy the falling down the steps routine and at length I described the guy with the pipe.

“Sounds like Big Al Macavich,” Cliff decided. “He works for Micky ‘the Hammer’ Malone. They run the hot rocks market around here. Rumor has it that they’ve expanded into smuggled stones from Africa, blood diamonds they call ‘em. You know anything about that?” He pulled out his notebook and produced a pen.

I shook my head, “Sorry. Not really.”

“Too bad,” Cliff grumbled. “I could use a good story.”

I was unable to perform my usual three point parking job in front of Mable’s. It’s not so easy to parallel park with a bum leg. Still, I didn’t leave enough damage on the other cars to worry about. We went on in.

Cliff nabbed us a booth at the far end of the diner where we could talk. As I settled in, Angie came up all concerned to see me on crutches. She wanted to know what happened. I told her I fell down the steps and she looked to Cliff for confirmation. He shrugged, feigning ignorance, and Angie patted my shoulder in sympathy and told me I needed to be more careful. She took our order and headed back to the counter. Cliff watched me watch her sashay away and grinned. “So, you and Angie?” he winked.

“Ah, no.” I pointedly looked away. “Oh, she’s nice and all, but… No.”

“You ever ask her out?”

“Angie? No.” I shook my head.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Just never did.”

“She likes you.”

“Bull.”

“Sure she does. You could tell, the way she made all over you and your crutches. I think she likes you.”

“She was just being nice,” I told him. That’s the way Angie was. Nice. She was always nice. To everybody.

“If you say so.” Just then Angie came back with our coffee.

“Let me know if you need anything else, hon,” she said before walking away. Cliff winked at me and mouthed the word hon as she headed to another table. I tried to kick him, only to wince in sudden pain.

“So, who’s your client?” Cliff asked once we were finally settled.

“Off the record?” I asked.

“Off the record.”

“Mrs. Jones.”

He snorted coffee up his nose and about fell out of the booth. I looked at him somewhat perplexed. A few heads turned our way.

“The black widow?” he finally gasped.

“The black widow?” I returned.

“Christ, Max. Don’t you know about her?”

“I know she’s been married three times now.” I tried not to sound defensive.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah what?”

“Come on Max. Married three times. Widowed three times. Gets richer with each funeral she attends.”

“Now wait a minute. Who says this latest guy’s dead?”

“You don’t think they’re going to find his body in those ashes?” He looked incredulous.

“I don’t know. He wasn’t there when I locked up last night.”

“So you were there?”

“Hey!”

“Come on, you can trust me. What were you doing there last night?”

“I was looking for Mr. Jones,” I told him.

“She hired you to find her husband?” I nodded. He shook his head in disbelief. “Well, that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Why not?”

“Come on, Max. She’s three for three. She inherited that big house over on Park from her first husband. Took years for her to get title to it, before the insurance company would declare him dead. Then she married Henry Ferguson, the car dealer. The brakes on his brand new Vette failed on I-85. Hit a bridge abutment on 85 at 85. Wasn’t much left. She inherited millions on that one. And now number three is missing and his store just happens to be a smoldering pile of ash. How much insurance you figure he had on the place? How much on himself? A couple of mil if it’s a penny, I’d bet. One will get you ten they find his teeth in there.”

I stirred my coffee, mulling all this over.

“But what I don’t get,” Cliff pondered, “is why she would go so far as to hire you to find him. Something doesn’t add up on that score.” He looked at me with concern in his eye. “I’d be careful if I were you, Max. I don’t know, but it seems to me about the only thing that makes any sense here is that she’s trying to set you up to take the fall.”
~

Next week – Chapter’s 7 & 8: The Boss, and The Old Flame

(c) 2010, by J. M. Strother – All rights reserved.