Murder Red, and Money Green
The throbbing in Jake's Perry's temples immobilized him as he came fully
awake. The din from the buzzing alarm clock eventually forced a reaction
however. A groan escaped his throat as Jake heaved himself toward the side
of the bed and slammed at the loud noise. The sound of the alarm clock
breaking as it hit the floor caused another groan. What time was it anyway?
The light crawling under the shades hurt Jake's eyes.
The memory of the Christmas party at the Courier drifted through his
thoughts, along with vague recollections of a woman's hands. They were long
fingered, diamond ringed, and holding an empty wine goblet. Jake couldn't't
put a face behind the hands, but he had a definite impression they weren't't
those of a fellow reporter. When he closed his eyes he could almost see her.
A nagging question pulled at the edge his brain.
Jake carefully rose and headed to the bathroom. The whole room seemed to
heave in sync with the throbbing in his head. He'd been drunk before and to
be truthful, more often than he should, but never to the point that it wiped
him out so totally. Jake stepped into cold water from the shower and as it
splashed over his head and shoulders he braced himself against the wall. His
whole body was screaming to lie down but he had a deadline on his column. He
stood under the shower till he shivered from the cold. Toweling himself off
Jake looked into the bloodshot eyes reflected in the mirror above the sink.
"Nobody to blame but yourself old Buddy, the buck stops here, as the old
saying goes. "he growled. Jake scraped his razor at the black stubble of
his beard with shaking hands. Several nicks and a few off color words later,
Jake was shaved, dressed and slowly descending the stairs to the street
below. The glare of the winter sunlight struck him savagely when he stepped
onto the street. Sunshades helped, but not enough.
Around the corner on 78th was the High Hat diner where he ate breakfast most
mornings. Pearl was bussing tables as he eased himself into a booth letting
his head drop back onto the seat. When she approached he ordered "coffee",
black. "Rough night Jake? She asked, and turned to get his order. There were
only three other customers. An old man sat at the counter, and a woman and
young girl with a sullen face were at the booth near the front window. While
his coffee cooled enough to drink, Jake stared at the faded cardboard poster
on the opposite wall, trying to remember where he'd heard the quote that was
printed on it. Ask not what your country can do for you, but ask what you
can do for your country? Kennedy! JFK! Jake had been a cub reporter during
the Kennedy years, and had been on assignment with Hart Dolan when Kennedy
had given that much quoted speech. Maybe he was jaded now for he hadn't felt
that sense of country and patriotism for a long time now. He'd once been
one of the Yankee Doodle boys. Always following the political current. It
had become his career. He'd eventually discovered that it was easier to find
a gold nugget on top of the Empire state building than to find an honest
politician. Sure there were a few good guys left; but far too few. Too much
ambition, and too few scruples plagued the political world. They all seemed
to have an angle.
Pearl slipped her thin angular form into the opposite seat, brushed back a
limp strand of blond hair, and gave him a searching look. "Jake," she began,
"when are you going to find a good woman to keep you off the streets?" "Your
not doing yourself any good with this kind of junk". "Keep on and you'll
ruin your health, and we've been friends too long for me to keep my mouth
shut, so don't tell me to keep my opinions to myself". I worry about you.
She stood again as a customer entered the Diner. " Want something to go with
the coffee?"
Jake offered a weak smile as he shook his head. "I think your right Pearl, I
feel as old as Stonehenge today. I guess I can't party like I used to huh?
My life's not conducive to a steady woman Pearl, you know that. I'm not the
nine to five type, or the 'be home at six or supper will be cold,' type. He
slumped back wearily. Pearl shook her head with a resigned and slightly sad
smile as she returned to the counter. There was a hint of regret in her
eyes.
Jake had another cup of coffee and some aspirin before he managed to head
for the Courier. The third floor where he had his desk was busy, though with
a subdued quality. Due no doubt to more than one hangover as big as his own.
Amid the hustle, Jim Pollard was busily pecking at his computer. Jim covered
the crime beat. He had hit the bottle pretty hard last night, and if he was
working hard this morning, it must be a good story.
"Got a good un Jim"? He asked as he passed the reporter. "Yeah Jake, there
was a murder after the party last night." "That woman you were talking to
for awhile, Lacy Manahan." "She's Old man Caruthers 'niece'. Seems like
someone bashed her pretty face in down in the parking garage when she was
getting into her car. I've got to put together a story that the old man won'
t gag on. " Tough on him I bet", Jim mumbled and turned to his keyboard
again.
The image of the pretty hands holding the wine glass drifted into his mind.
This time the green eyes and drop dead gorgeous face of Lacy Manahan came
into focus behind them. There was a worried expression on her face though,
and the lips trembled as they spoke. But what were they saying? He'd been
pretty drunk when Lacy had pulled him into the corner to talk. He couldn't
remember what she had said.
Bill's voice brought him back to the present. What did you say? He asked.
Jim repeated himself. I said, "It was supposed to look like robbery." " They
took her purse, but left her jewelry, " Plus, they broke into her Jag and
rifled the glove compartment. Police didn't find any prints." Jim turned
back to his keyboard. " Oh, the cops said her housekeeper reported a break
in at Lacey's apartment this morning. She didn't know if anything was
missing but there was a lot of stuff rifled and strewed around the place.
Looks like somebody's after something.
Jake sat at his desk trying to get his thoughts together for his column. He
'd started the article of the interview with Charles Morgan the day before.
It had all of the usual guff that Morgan was used to giving out. The
interview had all the earmarks of being a rehearsed speech. Jake was looking
for something more. There were rumors about possible gangland association in
Morgan's background, but nothing had been substantiated. His political
machine was well funded, but who knew where the money came from? Morgan was
keeping this information quiet. There was a bad taste to this one. Jake had
asked Morgan about his reputed gang affiliation, and Morgan had declared,
Hey, I am not a crook. Just because some people don't like the way I get
things done they slander me. You can't believe everything your hear! Morgan
chuckled as he spoke, but Jake had noticed there was no mirth in his eyes.
Jake grunted as he finished the piece and printed out the hard copy. He'd
love to tie into this guy, but Morgan was as slick as an eel and nothing
stuck to him that he didn't want sticking. Money, power, and a ruthless
mindset made Morgan a dangerous enemy. Jake read over his article with
dissatisfaction, but handed it in at the Editors desk anyway.
The mid December sunlight was peering weakly into the skyscraper canyons as
Jake drove his car from the parking garage at the Courier Building. He had
seen the police tape around an area on the East end of the parking garage
and had gone there to find dark stains on the concrete. Man! What a shame,
he said to himself; she sure was some fine woman. He brooded silently as he
drove toward his apartment, making a quick stop at Hall's Deli for a
sandwich and beer before he climbed his stairs and closed out the noisy
world.
Jake dropped onto the couch and flipped the TV. on. The newscaster was
interviewing the managing editor of the Courier, Jared Caruthers. Jared was
into his seventies, but still a force to be reckoned with in the publishing
business. But that force wasn't evident today. His pinched face just looked
old and incredibly tired. The newscaster was asking about the party at the
Courier the night before. Old man Caruthers wiped his hand across his face
and stared at the reporter before he answered. " We always have a big
blowout Christmas party, Mostly its for employees and their wives or
husbands, but guests aren't unusual and there have been more than a few
crashers. Lacy came to last years party too. She said she made some
important business contacts there. She was into investing and finance.
Pretty smart girl to have been from a small town. I don't know who'd want to
hurt her; maybe we better leave the case to the police. Jake turned the
television off and ate the ham on rye that he'd gotten at Hall's. He was
surprised that he was hungry and washed the sandwich down with the cold
beer.
"One thing's for sure, you're definitely a messy drunk," Jake muttered to
himself. He assessed his apartment. A trail of clothes, discarded as he
undressed for bed the night before led from the living room to his bed. Jake
picked up the sport coat he'd thrown over the back of the couch, and as he
did, a cassette tape fell out of the pocket. Where had that come from? He
picked it up and saw that one word was written on the label. Morgan? Jake
turned and jammed the cassette into his stereo system. It was several
seconds before he heard anything. The sound was muffled but still audible.
There was a whacking sound and then a woman's muffled gasp and sob. A loud
voice stabbed out in venomous anger. Jake recognized the voice. It was
Charles Morgan. He was shouting from the tape, "You will do it! I own you
Lacy, you'll be mine as long as I want you, do you get that? And you will do
what your told or you'll be very, very sorry!" there was a chilling threat
in his voice. Lacy's reply was very faint, as if she had something over her
face. "All right Charley, I'll do it, but you got to give me lots of cover.
I won't do time in jail for anybody, not even you." Jake heard Morgan snarl,
"If I had anyone else I could use you'd be dead now." But Blanchard has a
penchant for pretty blonds and seems to have grown quite fond of you
recently. You stay away from him until your told, if he calls make up an
excuse. Never hurts to dangle a little bait in front of a big fish. Jake
heard a rustling sound and then the recorder shut off. There was nothing
else. So Lacy had been involved with Morgan. It sounded shady, but who could
they have been talking about. He wished he could remember what they had
talked about last night. The only thing he recalled was that she was
extremely nervous.
Jake's sleep that night was restless. There were several disturbing dreams.
One in particular was gruesome. He dreamed of a baseball game where Charles
Morgan was the pitcher. Jake was up to bat, but when the pitch came, it was
Lacy Manahan's head that came hurling toward him. Jake sat bolt upright
gasping for breath and reaching for the light. It took awhile for his racing
heart rate to slow. The thing was, in the dream, she was mouthing words he
couldn't hear.
Unable to sleep, Jake grabbed a beer from the fridge and settled onto the
sofa.
At four a.m. the only thing on television were re-runs, and surfing through
the channels he paused at a rebroadcast of a speech given by the President.
He was saying " Read My Lips". Blah blah blah. Jake never heard another
word. " Read my lips." All Jake's concentration turned to the inner vision
of Lacy Manahan, talking in whispers to him at the party. Stock Broker! She
was saying stockbroker. She called him Carl. Sure! Carl Blanchard, the
playboy of Wall Street! She said that Charles Morgan was involved in a
securities fraud, and was using "Carl" as a patsy and had a powerful backer
in on it. Lacy was going to bail on Morgan, so he wasted her. Pity she didn'
t make it. A real pity. When push came to shove, Lacy's small town morals
had won out over her desire for money made the easy way, or maybe it was
just a fear of doing jail time.
How had she become involved with Morgan? He'd talk to Jared Caruthers this
morning. Maybe he had some insight into his niece's activities. There was
the maid that had made the police report too. And people at the Christmas
party may have seen something. Nothing that the police hadn't already done,
but he had a gut feeling about this. Maybe someone saw something that didn't
seem connected with Lacy's murder.
Jake was dressed and out the door by six o'clock. There was a slow drizzle
falling out of the cold December sky, and snow was forecast by as early as
tonight. Jake pulled his collar up around his neck, and dug his car key from
his pocket.
Jake drove down the row of brownstones where Lacy Manahan's apartment was
located. He had called the desk at the Courier, and gotten the address from
Laurie. All that he could see were darkened windows on the second floor.
Jake pulled his car around the corner and parked. It was the scene of a
burglary, so the police might be watching it. Jake left his car and headed
away from the corner looking for an alleyway that would run behind the
brownstone. It had been fourth from the corner. There wasn't an alley, but
over a board fence he could see the roof of the building. There was a gate
in the fence, but it was padlocked. Jake returned to his car, got out a tire
tool from the trunk and returned to the gate. Looking carefully around to be
sure that there were no witnesses, Jake used the tool as a lever and pried
the chain free from the post it was screwed onto. It was still quite dark in
these narrow back yards so Jake felt pretty confident as he went over the
next fence and then the next. When he tried the door into the building, it
gave with a slight groan, as if it wasn't used often. In fact there was
something blocking it from opening. Jake gave a cautious push and heard the
scuffing of something sliding. When he could get his head into the opening,
he discovered there was a stack of boxes against the door. He pushed harder
until he could enter.
A long hallway ran the length of the building to the front, where he could
see morning light coming through the glass fronted door. Somewhere he heard
water running through noisy pipes, and could smell coffee brewing. A door
near the front of the hall opened, and Jake quickly stepped under the stairs
to his left. There was a door here too, but he heard no sounds from inside.
The man from the apartment opened the front door, stepped out then in again,
holding a folded newspaper. Jake sighed as the man's apartment door closed
behind him. Lacey's apartment was on the second floor, but Jake wasn't sure
which side. He cautiously tiptoed toward the front of the staircase, and
paused to look at the mailboxes just inside the front door. Manahan,
Apartment 4.
It was with relief that Jake was able to jimmy the lock on the apartment
with a credit card. He slipped inside and stood listening. Didn't seem to be
anyone else here, but he still moved cautiously around the apartment, until
he was sure that he was alone. All of the shades were drawn, so Jake turned
the lights on and began searching for clues. He found the bedroom and Lacey'
s desk with papers and folders haphazardly dumped on top. There were a few
lying on the floor, and Jake moved some of them with his foot, to see what
they were. He had left his gloves on, when he entered the building, and
began to look through the stack of papers. Most of them were investment
charts, finance calculations, and two or three of what appeared to be
short-term investment contracts. All of them had been from several months
ago. In fact he could find nothing dated later than early July. Jake wrote
down the names of the people who were listed on the contracts. They might
know something about Lacey's investment business.
If I were Lacey, where would I hide something I didn't want found? Jake
stood in the center of the living room and looked slowly around the
apartment. It was decorated in a very expensive, understated style. Lacey
had good taste in her furniture. The colors were warm and quiet, with just
the right amount of bright accent to keep it from being dull.
It was obvious that some of the furniture was still out of its usual
position. The maid had probably picked up the papers and stacked them on
the desk. But the rest of the apartment was in disarray. Jake wandered into
the kitchen from the dining room and stopped when he saw the drawers and
counters still in a cluttered mess. Whoever had done this had not found what
they were looking for. Jake was about to back out of the room, when he
noticed the vent cover under the refrigerator. There was a light layer of
dust down most of its length, but on either end, just about where someone
would grasp it to remove it, there were smudges. Jake squatted down and
pulled on the metal grid. It came out easily, and Jake reached back under
the fridge until he heard the crackle of plastic. Carefully he drew the
large zip-top plastic bag from its hiding place. There were a lot of papers
in the bag, and the one on top had Charles Morgan's signature at the bottom.
Jake rolled the package into a tube, and slipped it into his overcoat
pocket.
Before he replaced the vent grill on the refrigerator, Jake wiped it free of
dust. Just to make sure that no one would know someone else had been
searching. Quietly he closed the door to number four, and stood at the top
of the stairs for a moment until he was sure no one was in the hall. One of
the stairs creaked as he put his weight on it, but apparently the man
downstairs was gone or didn't hear it. He slipped back out the rear door;
reaching inside with one arm he pulled the boxes as near the door as he
could get them. Maybe it would not draw much attention any time soon. Jake
retraced his steps to his car. He used the tire tool that he'd laid just
inside the wooden gate to hammer a nail loosely back into the board to hold
the chain with the padlock. Maybe it wouldn't draw attention from some
burglar.
He could hardly wait to get to his apartment and look over the papers he
had found under Lacey's refrigerator. As he parked in front of his building,
he noticed a man and woman get out of a car and come toward him. He
recognized Paul Hurley, a police detective from the 9th precinct, and
assumed that the woman was police also.
"Hi Jake, long time no-see," said Hurley. "Mind if we talk to you about the
Manahan woman?" Jake frowned, and corrected the policeman. "Her name was
Lacy, Paul." You ought to be more respectful of the dead. "O.K., come on
up." Said Jake as he led the way up the narrow stairs to his apartment.
Entering the apartment he hung his coat in the hall closet, careful to turn
the roll of papers toward the back, where they would not be noticed. He was
annoyed at having to delay reading them. Hurley introduced the woman as
Homicide Inspector Joyce Gifford, and said they were working this case
together. She was stocky, short, approaching middle age and had tight curls
of blond hair circling around her squarish face. Her hazel eyes were hard.
Jake thought she was probably very good at her job. She didn't say much, but
listened closely and wrote down his answers.
The questions Hurley asked of Jake were easily answered, and didn't delve
too deeply into the night of the party. Mainly about what time Jake left the
party, if he'd seen anyone in the parking garage, what time he had talked to
Lacy, and if he had noticed her talking to anyone else. Jake answered
truthfully, adding his observation that Lacy seemed very nervous when she
was talking to him. He tried to remember any details, but had to confess
that he was pretty drunk at the time he'd been talking to her, and his
memory of it was hazy at best. Jake did manage to get several subtle
questions about the case answered before Hurley rose to leave. Jake had
learned that Hurley hadn't initially been at the crime scene, but had been
called in the next day. Gifford was there the night that Lacy was found.
Jake could feel in his bones that Gifford thought there was more to the
story than Jake had admitted.
"Thanks Jake," Hurley said as he paused at the door, "if you think of
anything else, call me". He placed a business card on top of the stereo as
he went out the door. Lieutenant Gifford looked searchingly at him as she
closed the door behind her. One tough woman Jake thought, as he retrieved
the roll of papers from the closet.
Two hours later, Jake placed the last of the papers in the stack of those
he had read. A low buzzing of nervous energy strung up and down his limbs,
as he began to pace the floor.
It was all there, all the information about the phony company with its
artificially inflated stocks. The financial reports for an investment firm
that didn't exist except on paper were quite thoroughly detailed. Everything
except the name of the man supplying the front money was included. He was
mentioned only as U.J. Jake searched through the papers again, but found no
hint of a name. He called Frank Lehman at home to ask him about names on
Wall Street. Frank was the financial columnist for the Courier, and though
he was getting old he still had a thorough grasp of the workings of the
stock market, and the players involved in its game. He had no names to
match the initials that Jake had found in the papers Lacy had hidden. But
his interest was aroused, and Jake had to skirt around the reason he needed
the information.
A light snow was falling as Jake walked around the corner to the High Hat
Diner. It was almost dark, and up and down the street he could see the
Christmas lights strung in business windows. There were a lot of businesses
in the area, but they were small, and rarely stayed open beyond five o'
clock. The one exception was the Town Crier bookstore. Tiny blinking lights
that reflected off of the glossy dust jackets of several children's
Christmas books lighted its windows. Fake snow was spread between the books,
and green garland was tied to the backdrop by red ribbon. He had almost
forgotten that Christmas was only two days away.
Usually Jake spent Christmas with his brother and his family. Books would
make a descent gift wouldn't they? Sure they would. He entered the shop and
began to browse the shelves in the children's section.
There must be hundreds of titles he thought. Picking out random books, Jake
glanced at the contents. What would be appropriate for six-year-old twin
girls? Noticing Jake tarrying in the children's section, the clerk made her
way to his side. Can I help you find what are you looking for sir? Her
voice was as smooth as silk when she spoke.
"Uh, something for my six year old twin nieces", Jake stammered when he
finally looked away from the bright blue eyes of the clerk. She pulled
several books from a lower shelf, commenting that they were age appropriate
for first graders. Jake looked through them and picked one about the 'Prissy
Frog' for Patty, and one about ' I can Paint a Picture' for Katy. While
waiting for the books to be wrapped, Jake looked over the finance and
investment section and picked two books that promised to inform him of the
basic terminology and structure of investing in the stock market. It looked
like heavy reading.
The clerk rang his purchase up, and Jake paid for it with his credit card.
Jake noticed the nametag of the clerk's dress. Jeannette. That's a pretty
name he thought, and gave the pretty dark haired woman what he thought was a
dazzling grin. Merry Christmas she called as he left the shop. She watched
him through the window as he walked around the corner toward the diner.
|
