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Chapter 4

4

Wednesday, December 18, 1946

10:58 p.m.

Grabbing the receiver on the second ring, Lane pulled it to his ear and barked, “Hello.”

“Okay, Elrod, this is the payoff. Have your representative bring the woman with the cash to 1014 Elmwood at 1:15 tonight. Don’t be a minute late or a second early. Come to the front door. I’ll have what you are looking for there. If you mess this up, then kiss your representative good-bye. Got that?”

The cop considered what he’d heard but didn’t answer. Looking to Tiffany, he shrugged.

“Did you get that?” the male voice on the line demanded for the second time.

“1014 Elmwood,” the cop assured him.

“And the time?”

“1:15.”

“You’re putting your life on the line, Elrod,” the man warned, “but I’m risking even more than you.”

“And you’ve got everything I need?” Lane demanded.

“Everything,” came the quick explanation, “Just make sure you’ve got the girl and the money. That blonde’s testimony could lock someone up for a long time.”

“About the blonde,” Lane replied.

“What’s wrong with your voice, you don’t sound like yourself.”

The cop took a deep breath and then in a desperate action, coughed several times. After clearing his throat, he got back on the line, “I picked up a cold. Just this time of the year coupled with my health issues.”

“Forgot about your weak heart,” the caller replied, “and on the woman, don’t mess me around. You found her. Even though I’ve never met her, what she tells me will give me what I need to make sure she’s the real deal. If she’s not, then I don’t care if you are the DA—I promise that you will be fish food by Christmas. You savvy?”

Lane looked over at Tiffany. She had clearly heard everything that had been said, so he was hardly surprised when the reporter mouthed, “I’m your blonde.”

“Okay,” the cop announced into the receiver, “I fully understand.”

“One more thing. I know the last guy you had working for you was injured in a wreck. I want to make sure this new man is someone we can work with. Can he be trusted not to rat my boss out to the cops?”

“Yeah,” Lane barked, “you can trust him. Just so you know, he’s handsome, has dark wavy hair, is well-built, and about six feet tall. He kind of looks like Robert Taylor . . . the movie star.”

“Good to know, but I hope tonight’s the only night I ever see him.” A second later, the line went dead.

“Well, Skipper,” Tiffany noted, “this sounds interesting.”

“Let’s not go back to using old nicknames,” he snapped, “especially one that brings back a lot of bad memories.”

“Whatever. By working together we might be able to save Elrod’s investigation after all.”

She was right. Because the news of the man’s death had not been released to the press and had therefore not hit the papers or radio broadcasts, the caller figured the DA was still alive. That was fortuitous. They might actually be able to pull this charade off and get a line on what the district attorney was investigating. But what were they walking into? And why would Elrod agree to leave the mystery woman with this man? That thought led to a series of troubling questions. Was he wrong about Elrod? Was this man that everyone put on a pedestal in league with the very people he was supposed to be bringing to justice? Was he a part of this whole sinister mess? What better way to hide his guilt than by pretending to be the reformer and then taking payoffs?

“Why look at this,” the woman called out. Lane glanced up and found her holding a leather attaché.

“Where’d you get that?”

“Now, Skipper,” she teased, “while your brain was locked up, mine was working. I made a quick tour of the area and found that this had been slid behind a curtain in Elrod’s living room.” She popped the latch and pulled it open. “How did your people miss it? I have a few guesses.” She chuckled, and then her eyes grew as large as saucers. “Wow, Skipper, this thing is filled with money. I mean lots and lots of money. Looks to be all twenties.” She reached into the bag and pulled out a handful of cash.

“That’s probably the payoff,” he announced.

“And I’m the blonde,” she again noted. “So we have everything we need for tonight. I sense we’re about to blow the mob wide open.”

“Or we’re going to get blown wide open ourselves.” He countered. After crossing the room and looking in the attaché, Walker reached out and gently took the woman’s chin, lifting her face until their eyes met. “This is not a game. We’re playing with fire here. If something goes wrong, Santa might have two less places to visit next week.”

“I know,” she assured him. “This is no walk in the park. Delono and his boys keep the funeral homes and flower shops in business. But I liked Elrod, and I don’t want to see his work die with him.”

“Neither do I,” Lane acknowledged, while not voicing his sudden doubts about the district attorney. Crossing the room, he picked up the phone and dialed the morgue.

“Morelli’s place, where a corpse shows no remorse.”

“Mitch, that’s horrible.”

“Humor of my trade,” the ME replied.

“Keep it in house,” Lane suggested. “Mitch, have you told anyone that Elrod was murdered?”

“No,” Morelli said. “I’ve been up to my ears in accident victims. I called the chief and commissioner, but they were out. No one from the media knows either. So just you so far.”

“What about the guys I asked you to send down here to rework the crime scene?”

“Oh, gosh,” the ME quickly explained, his tone reflecting his embarrassment, “I got to working on an autopsy and just forgot. I’ll do it now.”

“No,” the cop shot back, “don’t tell anyone what you know. I don’t want the word getting out that Elrod has been murdered. It has to be kept quiet until in the morning. Call Doc Miller and the boys that worked it with me and tell them to keep a lid on it, and I don’t want anyone coming over here.”

“Mind if I ask why?”

“You can ask,” Lane answered, “but I can’t tell you. I’ll come back to secure the scene here, including the fruitcake, but I have to do something else first.”

“Is it tied to the case?” Morelli asked.

“Yeah. And if I turn up missing,” the investigator paused, “look in the Bible on the desk in Elrod’s office. I’ll write a note detailing what I know there. You can find that information where the second chapter of Luke begins. Got it?”

“Sure. This time of the year that’s easy to remember, but I don’t like the way this sounds. Be careful, Lane! I don’t want to have to determine what killed you.”

“I’ll do my best to not give you that assignment,” he assured the ME as he hung up the phone.

After considering what he knew, he went over to the desk, opened the Bible, and spent a couple of minutes jotting down what he’d learned. Tossing the pen down and closing the Bible, he turned back to face Tiffany. Her normal smug expression had been replaced by a softer, more concerned look. Her change in disposition caused him to offer the woman an out. “You don’t have to do this.”

She shook her head, “And if you go there without a blonde then you won’t live to explain what this is all about. I’ve got to know what Elrod uncovered. If he was taking down organized crime and I can report on it, I have to be there. It’s my job.”

“So your concern is for the story and not me?” he asked.

She forced a smile, “Maybe it’s for both. I know you’re tired of Delono and his ilk running this town. So am I. I’m also tired of seeing kids hooked on dope and women working the street to support their habits. I’m tired of the murders and the dirty cops. But as much as I want to break the story about the big man being sent to the big house, I don’t want to see a dumb homicide detective go down in the process. You’ve caused me a lot of grief, you don’t know a thing about tact and manners, but . . .” She stopped, her blue eyes looking as if they were suddenly a bit moist.

“But what, Tiff?”

“But nothing,” she shot back, “I just don’t want to have to figure out a way to make you sound good in an obituary. I’ve never been any good at writing fiction.”

“Don’t worry,” he quipped, almost relieved she hadn’t gone soft on him, “I’ll outlive you just so I don’t have to deal with your libelous prose.”

“Still,” she chimed in, “there’s something about this mess that doesn’t pass the smell test.”

“What are you talking about?” he quickly asked.

Her eyes locked onto Lane’s. “Delono would have had Elrod wiped out the professional way. He’d have either used some kind of drug that made it appear the DA died of a heart attack—I mean everyone knows he had a weak ticker—or he’d have had a hired gun shoot him. Hit men don’t use fruitcakes as weapons and then come back a half an hour later and stab their victims.”

“So,” the cop asked, “what’s your theory?”

“I don’t have one,” she admitted, “the money still being here means that it was likely not a robbery either. I just don’t see this as being connected to Delono.”

“Tiffany, other than your fake Santas, who else had a motive?”

“Maybe,” she suggested, “our visit to the address on Elmwood will give us some insight into that.” She smiled, reached over, and patted the attaché, “You got a plan, Skipper?”

“Of course,” he growled, “and don’t call me Skipper!”

“Hey,” Tiff laughed, “if you think I’m ever going to forget what you did to us in that rowboat you’re sadly mistaken.”

Lane shook his head, grabbed his hat, and walked toward the door. It was not the time to relive a past adventure that ended badly; instead it was time to play Santa and deliver a gift he hoped didn’t explode in their faces.