Chapter Two
I strolled up the steps leading to my apartment and stretched. A car rolled by. A brilliant display of May's blue skies greeted me. Birds chattered, joining me perhaps, in thinking that midwestern small towns like Central City may be equally dull to some. But I couldn't think of a better place to be on such a morning. I paused and enjoyed the glory of it all before walking to the back of the four-story building and my parking space.
I removed a 35 mm camera from the trunk of my car, and checked to make sure there was enough unexposed film. It occurred to me, as I drove to the corner of Grove and Davenport, that routine detective stuff was as boring as the crap assignments I used to get as a newspaper reporter. The assignments weren't the reason I quit, however. I quit because newspapers had become more entertainment than hard news. I had principles, didn't I? Also, I bowled in tournaments and wanted my weekends free.
At my first stop I took pictures from different angles of the slab of sidewalk that had been pushed up by roots of an old elm tree. It was easy to see how the woman who was suing the city could have tripped over it. As a taxpayer I wondered why she didn't look where the hell she was going. I would gain a few bucks by taking the photos for her attorney. But, if he won the case, my taxes probably would go up.
A small boy in blue shorts and a white T-shirt came out of a clapboard house and said, "What are you doing to our tree?"
"The tree is on the street side of the sidewalk. It belongs to the city. I'll bet you don't even know what kind of tree it its."
Before he could answer a woman in pajamas appeared on the front porch and shouted, "Rodney, come in here this minute."
He started back toward the house, turned and said, "It's a elm, a Chinese elm."
I think he was right. At Tom's Auto Parts down by the tracks I got directions to a 1999 Ford Bronco from a white man who was mostly black from dirt and grease his body and clothes had accumulated. The car I sought had been demolished in a collision. The other driver had run a stoplight. Both drivers had survived, but, as my photos would show in court, the Bronco did not.
Mister Clean, after I finished shooting the photos, said, "She sure got busted up. That must be a good job, running around taking pictures of busted cars. Do you make a lot of money doing that?"
"Probably less than you do," I said.
He laughed, said, "Bullshit," and went back into a tin shed that served as an office.
I drove to Century Auto Body Shop clear out on the west end of town where I made pictures of a Cadillac damaged on the left back end. I didn't know the details of this accident. I didn't need to. All I needed was photos showing the damage.
It was nearly noon by the time I finished. Captain Andrew Brown, Central City's police detective, and my main source of information at the police department, would be out to lunch. I had time to practice bowling, something I hadn't done for a while. This particular practice didn't do much to improve my skills, but while I was going through the motions I thought about Maggie, how we met, and where we were going.
As I said, I inherited the detective agency. A guy I thought was my friend left it to me when his liver gave out. I guess he didn't have anyone else he wanted to punish. The office was in an old building on Commerce Street down by the tracks across from Otto's Tavern. Jimmy Johnson, the guy who left me the business, had hired me occasionally to do leg work for him.
I quit my job when I discovered he had paid the rent six months in advance. I didn't get the benefit of the entire six months, however, because the place was eaten by fire when an arsonist tried to keep me from investigating a murder.
When I quit the newspaper the editor, Richard Bowles said, "You need direction, Nick. You still act like a kid, playing your silly games, what is it, pool and bowling? You have this idea that news is all about investigating evil, like the Green Hornet, or something. The fact is we have to give the readers what they want. They want stuff that affects their lives, stuff that is entertaining."
"Graft in Central City doesn't affect their lives? We're as bad as television, and we could be so much better."
Bowles sighed, stood up and shook my hand.
"Good luck, Nick," he said as he dismissed me.
It was a little after one o'clock when I got to City Hall. Built just before World War II, it stood across from the Rock Island train depot. In those days the train ran from Chicago to St. Louis with many a stop in between. Now all that was left were a few freight runs. The depot had been turned into a popular restaurant.
I climbed worn cement steps to the police department. The offices of city officials were on the second and third floors. I entered a large room on the first floor. Phones rang, and policemen interrogated potential residents of the cells in the basement. I stood on the public's side of a long counter and informed the desk sergeant I was there to see Brown. I tried to remember the sergeant's name but failed.
"How ya doing, Nick," he said as he motioned toward the back. "He's at his desk sorting clues." The guy laughed, amused by his own words.
Brown's office, on the other side of squeaky swinging doors, was enclosed where the others, except for the chief's, were open. Brown was reading a report when I entered. He was about my height, a couple of inches under six feet, and my weight, around one hundred eighty pounds. He had angry dark eyes, a jutting chin and the ability to intimidate criminals and witnesses. He also intimidated reporters and other low types. However, I had learned to get past his tough exterior and was no longer awed by him.
He pushed the report aside, put his feet on the desk, leaned back in his swivel chair, rubbed his bald head with his left hand and said, "Been awhile since you came around. Must want something, right?"
"Naw, I just came down here to see you. Since you made captain you and all your authority make me nervous. Still, I like to see you every now and then."
He smiled, leaned forward and took a cigar out of a desk drawer, cut off the tip, and lit it. The slowly rotating ceiling fan gathered the smoke and breathed it out again, much like the smoker.
"I thought you quit," I said.
"I did. Cigarettes. But now I'm on these things. Only two a day though. Better than two packs of cigs. How about you?"
"Oh, I quit more than a year ago. I'm glad I did. It was a mess, carrying around a pipe and tobacco all the time."
"I suppose you don't even miss it, right?" Brown said.
"I miss it, but less and less. I'm not kidding myself. Quitting a pipe is much easier that quitting cigarettes. I just tossed all the tobacco pouches away, put the pipes in a sack and stored them where I don't see 'em. It isn't like cigarettes when all you have to do to get one is ask. Not many people carry extra pipes."
"So, you're here to discuss smoking?"
"I'm interested in this woman who was found dead with bee stings on her body. What have you found out so far?"
"Why don't you ask our esteemed midget sheriff? Or just read the paper? Everything I know was in the story the Press published. It's been all over Springfield television, too. That's all there is."
"Hey, I know you don't ignore a death like this one even if the body was found outside your jurisdiction."
"We want to know what's going on, sure, but that prick of a sheriff never shares info. He's going to have a news conference in about an hour. Why don't you attend, and then you can tell me what's what."
"Right, if he'll tell me anything. I'm probably still on his shit list. He says I'm a troublemaker. Can you believe that?"
I didn't wait for an answer.
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