Private Eye 1: Private Eye Page 10

  He paced around the apartment, walked over to the wet bar. Nothing there. He had held off on buying a bottle, but now his resistance was weakening. He needed a drink.

  Then he heard a whimper and saw the neglected black Lab puppy eyeing him from the kitchenette. It hobbled over to its empty dish with difficulty and nudged it, then looked up at Cleary. "Jesus. Just what I need. Reproach from a dog."

  He walked over and picked up the pup. "Okay, you go out and do your business, and then you can eat." He carried the dog outside, then returned to the kitchenette. He reached into the cupboard for a can of dog food when something caught his eye. He hesitated a moment. Behind a box of Aunt Jemima pancake mix was a bottle of I.W. Harper he had overlooked the other night during his housecleaning.

  He hastily opened the dog food, dished some into the bowl, then reached for the bottle of Harper and a clean glass. He stared at the bottle until his vision blurred. It was a moment of decision, a split in the road of his future. His thirst nagged like an itchy spot on his back he couldn't reach. But at the same time he knew one drink would lead to another, and by morning he would have lost the thread of his investigation. Nick's killer would slip away. Nick's killer, he thought, might even be counting on his drinking.

  What the hell. He tilted the bottle toward him, opened it, then unceremoniously poured its contents down the drain. He turned on the faucet, washing away the alcohol smell, then filled the glass with water, and gulped it down. He picked up the dog's water bowl, refilled it, then walked over to the door. He opened it to call the pup.

  For an instant, what he was seeing didn't register. Then he realized it was a pair of legs in nylons and high heels. He looked up to see Lana standing in the doorway, looking gorgeous and half-drunk, the pup in her arms.

  "You know, it's rude to leave a party without saying good night, Detective."

  For the second time this evening, the sight of her left him at a loss for words. "Would you like to come in?" he finally said.

  "No, I'd like to stand on your doorstep all night holding a three-legged dog."

  Cleary smiled. "Get in here." The scent of her perfume wafted about him like an aphrodisiac. He stepped aside, and she strolled into the room, setting the dog down, looking slowly around the apartment. "What happened to your boyfriend?"

  "He's not my boyfriend. He was a friend of Buddy's. He asked me to the party. I went." She smiled. "Never told him I was going home with him, though."

  "Hope you didn't tell him you were coming here. I don't care for any more company tonight."

  Lana smiled. "Neither do I."

  "How about some coffee?" he asked.

  "That sounds good. I sure don't need anything more to drink." She followed him into the kitchenette and leaned against the counter as Cleary got down the can of coffee. She nodded toward the empty bottle of Harper. "You don't look that drunk."

  "Don't feel that drunk, either," he said, dropping the bottle in the trash. "'Cause I'm not."

  He wished he had cleaned the place up a little, and felt obligated to apologize for the clutter. She laughed. "Don't worry about it, Jack. I probably shouldn't have just dropped by without an invitation."

  "It's not like my social calendar's exactly crammed."

  She opened the fridge and brought out the milk. She set it on the table and sat down, kicking off her heels. The pup, who'd just gobbled down the food Cleary had dished into his bowl, now hobbled over to Lana and plopped at her feet with a sigh. The coffee started to perk, and Cleary pulled out the chair across from her and sat. He brought out his pack of Luckys, offered her one, lit it for her. She sighed and dropped her head back, blowing smoke into the air. "So what'd you think of the party?"

  "I coulda done without it."

  She laughed. "Yeah, me too. But it passed the time. I seem to be doing a lot of that lately. Killing time." Cleary realized he had neglected to get out mugs for their coffee and stood again and walked over to the cabinet. "Is this where you moved when you and your wife split?" she asked.

  "It's cheap. It'll do for a while." He set the mugs on the counter, lifted the lid to the sugar bowl. It was empty. "Hope you take it without sugar."

  "Fine. Whatever."

  He poured the coffee, and picked up the cups. Just as he reached the table, he faltered as he saw he was about to step on the pup. Coffee sloshed over the side of the cup, onto his hands. He quickly placed the cups on the table and as he did more coffee spilled, this time splashing over Lana's leg.

  "Oh, God, I'm sorry." He wiped his hands on his shirt, bent over, and helped her brush the coffee from her leg.

  "It's okay, really," she said.

  Then it happened suddenly, like the spilling of the coffee. Cleary's hand rested on Lana's leg, and she placed a hand over his. "What are we doing here, Jack?"

  "I don't know," he said, then suddenly leaned toward her, his hand caressing the side of her face, his mouth moving closer and closer to hers. Their lips brushed. Hers were soft, and tasted faintly of booze and smoke. Her hand came up and rested lightly at the back of his neck. It felt cool against his skin. Now her mouth opened against his, and his arms came around her and he raised her to her feet, crushing her against him.

  It had been so long since Cleary had held a woman, that a kind of fever gripped him as Lana pressed her body against his. She whispered his name. Her fingers slid through his hair. Jesus, but he wanted her. His mouth trailed down the side of her neck to her shoulder. He nudged the strap of her evening gown off her shoulder. Her skin smelled faintly of roses. His hands left her waist and slid upward along her ribs.

  Then he stopped, withdrew his hands. He stepped back from her a little, pointed a finger at her. "I think we should drink our coffee," he said.

  "Coffee? Oh. The coffee." Her glazed eyes danced with light.

  He stared at her as she straightened her dress, composed herself. "Look, Jack, if you don't like me, why didn't you say something?" Her voice was slurred as she talked.

  He walked over to the sink, turned on the faucet, and filled a glass with water. He drank half of it, his back to Lana, then turned to her. "I like you fine, Lana It's just that..."

  He watched as she sat down and sipped her coffee, her eyes lowered, her hair still mussed. Then she raised her gaze to meet his, and nodded. "I know. Some other time."

  "Look, you take the bed and I'll bunk here on the couch, okay?"

  She sniffled and looked up at him. Her mascara had smudged. Tears glistened on her cheeks. "I can't take your bed."

  "Don't worry about it. Really. You need a shirt or something to sleep in?"

  "Yes, thanks."

  "Be right back."

  He went into the bedroom, got a T-shirt out of the bureau, found an extra blanket and pillow in the closet, and returned to the living room. He dropped the bedding on the couch and passed Lana the T-shirt. "Here you go."

  Thanks," she said, and stood, clutching her evening dress against her. Then she rocked toward him, touching her mouth briefly to his. "You're a nice guy, Jack"

  Yeah, he thought. He was so nice that he watched her pad down the hall, her beautiful ass swaying inside that dress, and wanted to hurry after her and rip it away, and make love to her long and hard.

  Instead, he fixed up the couch, shucked his clothes, and stretched out. The pup hobbled over and Cleary reached down and brought him up onto the couch. The dog covered his face with wet, sloppy kisses. Wonderful. Is this my reward for not taking advantage of her?

  Cleary lay awake a long time, his thoughts drifting back and forth between Lana and Ellen. He had once thought Ellen would be the only woman he would ever need in his life. She would fulfill his every need. Sure, he had thought about other women. What guy didn't? But, hell, he wasn't like some of the cops he knew who would screw a prostitute, then arrest her.

  No, it wasn't infidelity that had caused their marriage to collapse. He had pushed her into it. Challenged her the same way he challenged the review board. And both times the results had
been the same. You're out old pal, on your own. Fend for yourself.

  Now Lana was a new start, filling the gap in his life. A new job, sure. He was working for her. But a new love? He could have had her so easily tonight. Yet he had stopped, because she was drunk and he was working for her. Simple as that. Except, it wasn't. He felt a deep compassion for her. She was like an expensive aged wine that was to be cherished until the right moment, rather than greedily gulped in a moment of selfish thirst. Maybe there would be a time for them. If he had anything to say about it, that time wasn't going to be too far in the future.

  Lana opened her eyes, looked around in confusion, momentary panic. It was early morning and a shaft of sunlight was streaming into the bedroom window. Then she realized where she had spent the night, and slowly wiped away the cobwebs of sleep and recalled what had happened.

  Oh, God. She felt embarrassed. She had to apologize to Cleary. At the same time she had a new admiration for him. Not many men would have taken her condition into consideration. She knew that from experience.

  She sat up, stretched her arms. She was about to call Cleary's name, but decided against it. Instead, she climbed out of bed, and, still wearing Cleary's T-shirt, walked into the living room. She saw the pillow and rumpled blanket where he had spent the night. She stared at the couch, not yet comprehending that he wasn't in the apartment.

  She walked into the kitchenette, and found a pitcher of orange juice resting on top of a note. She pulled it out, read it. Cleary apologized for leaving early, told her the coffee was ready, and to help herself to breakfast. He said he would call her at the beachhouse as soon as he knew something. She stood there reading the note a second and third time, thinking about Cleary's face. His mouth. She squeezed her eyes shut and hurried into the bedroom to get dressed.

  She moved about Cleary's apartment, looking through his things. The more she could find out about him, the better off she would be. She lingered over pictures, one of Cleary and his estranged wife, another of Cleary and Nick together, both in uniforms.

  She looked up over the picture to see the black Lab puppy staring at her. "Hi, cutie. Don't pay any attention to me, okay?"

  The pooch whined.

  She started opening a dresser drawer, glanced back again at the picture of the two brothers: the young, idealistic Cleary, and Nick beside him, grinning and proud. She pushed the dresser drawer closed.

  She felt bad about what she was doing. She realized she was falling for him. It didn't make sense. It wasn't like her, but it was happening, and she couldn't bring herself to parade through his things.

  Lana returned to the kitchen, where the pup whined as she approached. She patted the pooch on the head; he licked her hand. "Did he feed you, kid?" she asked.

  The pooch whined again. She found an open can of dog food in the refrigerator, dished some into his bowl. "See you soon, Three Legs," she said softly, and left.

  FIFTEEN

  The Suspect

  Cleary gazed out the second-floor window of a five-buck-a-night rattrap. It was a sparsely furnished single room where the air smelled faintly of mold and old socks, and you could hear the old guy upstairs taking a leak and coughing. But it had a view. The view was of a nondescript warehouse across the street, with an inconspicuous sign above the door that read: ROSEN ENTERPRISES. The early morning light spilled over the warehouse, washing it a dove gray, filling the row of windows just under the roof.

  He hoped there would be a lot more to hear than mere was to see. He placed a set of headphones over his ears, and began connecting a radio transmitter to a voice-activated Uher reel-to-reel tape recorder, which rested on a rickety desk next to him.

  Cleary hadn't waited until Rosen's party to find out more about him. He had spent several hours yesterday watching Rosen's house, waiting patiently, which was an art itself. He had learned to deal with the boredom of surveillance in his years as a detective, and he could do a nine- or ten-hour stretch without getting antsy or fatigued. Finally, after five and a half hours, it had paid off. Rosen had left the house, and he had followed him here.

  He knew his pursuit of Rosen as a suspect was largely based on a gut feeling that the man was linked to Nick's death. Now he had to find the hard evidence to prove it. Gut feelings were worthless in court, especially when the detective's emotions were spilling all over the place because the victim was his brother.

  But there was no way for him to remain emotionally uninvolved in this case. Sure, nothing would bring back Nick, but he wouldn't be satisfied until he found his killers. In order of priorities, it ranked considerably higher than his floundering efforts to clear his own name.

  The door opened, and Cleary turned to see Dottie breeze into the room. Her hair was disheveled and she looked beat, but she was carrying a take-out order of coffee and doughnuts, and a morning paper. She took one look around the room and wrinkled her nose. "Can't say much for the interior decorating," she remarked, closing the door.

  He looked at the walls as if seeing them for the first time. "Guess I didn't take that into consideration."

  "Remind me to get back to my pad in a couple hours. I'm expecting an eight A.M. wake-up call." She stabbed a thumb toward the window. "So what's the big deal with this Rosen guy, Jack? And it better be good, me gettin' up this early and all."

  He hit a switch on the Uher; the tape recorder started to spin. "That's what I'm going to find out."

  As Dottie set down his breakfast and paper, Cleary couldn't help but notice a couple of glaring hickeys on her neck, and Dottie didn't miss his scrutinizing look.

  "Hey, stop the presses. So I had a date last night. What of it?"

  "With what, a pit bull?"

  She readjusted her collar and made a face that would fell timber as Cleary opened the paper. "You know a guy named Betts, Dottie?" he asked without looking up.

  "Johnny Betts?" She reached for a doughnut " '49 Merc, kind of a delinquent?"

  "He was supposed to call me about something. I haven't heard from him." He was trying to ask her in a subtle way if Betts could be trusted.

  She hesitated a moment, searching for the right words. "Nick said the kid comes from some pretty tough times. He's rough and kinda crazy, but according to your brother, he ain't short of heart."

  Cleary nodded, filing it away for future reference, then, reacting to something in the paper, suddenly stood up. "Lock up for me, Dottie." He grabbed his coat and headed toward the door. "I've got some business downtown."

  "Hey, what's the hurry, Cleary?"

  "We'll talk later."

  As he left, Dottie picked up the discarded paper, folded open to the tenth page. The top headline read: SUSPECT HELD FOR QUESTIONING IN RECORD PROMOTER MURDER.

  Cleary arrived at the precinct house, mounted the familiar stairs he had climbed thousands of times over the years. Immediately a feeling of unease swept over him. He hadn't been here since the day he had been kicked off the force, suspended pending the review board hearing. From here, he had driven straight to the nearest joint that day and had drunk himself into a stupor. A couple of nights later, his marriage had ended. Nothing like cramming all your bad luck into seventy-two hours, he thought.

  As he reached the top of the stairs and turned down the hall toward the detectives' offices, he remembered how proud he had been when he received his promotion to a plainclothes detective. There'd been some jealousy from the older guys, because he had climbed the ranks so fast. But no one ever said he didn't deserve it. They knew he had been determined, and had worked long and hard for it.

  Nick was out of the service by then, and his agency was taking off. Jack wanted to help him out, but Nick insisted he never refer anyone from his own cases to him. It wouldn't look good for you, he had said. As it turned out, Nick didn't need his references. Right from the start, he had a knack for landing the big cases, the ones that paid Nick two or three times what he earned as a cop.

  But that was all over.

  He tried to shut off thoughts of the pa
st as he entered the detectives' offices, and concentrate on the reason he was here. But his memories were like a leaky faucet that wouldn't stop dripping, and each drop seemed to explode in his head.

  He found Fontana standing behind his desk in his cubbyhole office, staring out the window. More memories flashed through his mind: he and Fontana teaming up for the first time, working a fencing operation, and clicking together. The Wonder Boys, they had been called. Then Fontana turned about abruptly and looked stunned as he saw Cleary standing in the doorway.

  "Jack, I didn't think I'd ever..." He shrugged. "... see you here again."

  Cleary's eyes burned through him. "I read the paper this morning, Charlie. Thanks for keeping me informed. I sure appreciate it."

  Fontana shoved his hands in his pockets, looked glumly at him. "Same to you, old partner. You didn't even tell me that Nick was keeping an eye on Williams. Had to find out second-hand from Dibble."

  "Yeah. And did Dibble tell you that Nick was going up there expecting to hand over some tapes of Williams to you guys? Did he tell you that?"

  Fontana's face, a face whose nuances Cleary had once known so well, now became a mask, inscrutable. "How do you know that?"

  "I've got my sources. Besides, you think Nick was the type who would sell out to the mob? You think both of us were crooked? Is that it? C'mon, Charlie. You can tell me. Is that what you think?"

  "Jack, cut it out."

  "Give me five minutes with Castellano, and I'll tell you if he was in on the hit."

  "You know I can't do that." He rubbed his jaw. "Besides, he's been released."

  Cleary slammed his fist on the desktop, and glared at Fontana. "What? You kicked the bastard loose? What the hell is going on, Charlie?"

  "Castellano was a suspect, Jack," he answered, a grim look on his face. "They released him after questioning."