Part 16 (1/2)
”Because the victims were found around the train tracks?”
”I have no idea why he said it, he just did. You should go to bed, honey. You look tired.”
”Were you going to make turnovers?”
Her mother smiled. ”Not tonight. This weekend, at the restaurant. Come for dinner and for two forty-nine you can buy one.”
”Highway robbery.” Theresa stood up and said good night.
”And don't forget about Friday.”
”Aw, Mom!”
”We always have birthday parties with the family. Especially a big one like this.”
A small house crowded with aunts upon aunts and cousins upon cousins. Theresa loved them all, but not when they were trying to convince her that the irretrievable loss of her youth was something to be happy about. ”Why should I celebrate turning forty?”
”Every birthday is one to celebrate,” her mother said in a way that made Theresa feel ungrateful, which, of course, had been the idea. Mothers were good at that.
Theresa said good night and trooped through the rain, now faded to a heavy mist, to her home. The trees whispered above her and tossed a few cold drops down her neck while she ordered herself to get into the habit of leaving lights on, now that Rachael would not be there before her with every bulb blazing, the TV going, and the stereo bulging the walls. But Harry, her dead fiance's dog, stood guard with tail wagging to let her know the perimeter had been secured, so lights did not seem that important.
A truck drove by, the name of a roofing company emblazoned on the side. No other cars, with or without missing headlights.
She tucked herself into bed with James Miller's notes and a business card. She dialed the phone before glancing at the clock and then debated whether she should hang up. She was still debating when he answered. ”Mr. Corliss? It's Theresa MacLean. I'm sorry to call so late.”
”Not at all, young lady. I'm something of a night owl. What can I do for you?”
Helpful hint for women of a certain age, Theresa thought: Hang out with people at least twenty years your senior and they will make you feel youthful. ”I need to learn about trains.”
”Then you've come to the right place,” he said, chuckling. ”So to speak.”
CHAPTER 20.
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 24.
1935.
James Miller dallied with his partner only long enough to drink a cup of coffee before he left Walter to the tender ministrations of a middle-aged waitress and moved out into the bustle of the Terminal Tower. His stomach growled, but he told himself he was too interested in the investigation to eat. It didn't work.
He carried the coat, in its paper bag, after Walter refused responsibility for that particular piece of evidence. ”I'm not eating my lunch with something that pervert touched on my lap. Now either sit down with me or scram.”
James scrammed. There were no less than three drugstores scattered throughout the two floors of shops. All three were popular, but at two P.M. he did not have to deal with the lunchtime or after-work throngs. He headed for one on the lower level, marveling at whoever had come up with the idea of planting retail shops squarely in the path of travelers. People waiting for trains with time to kill and commuters who rushed from tracks to office and needed convenience were provided with the perfect outlet for their hard-earned funds. From inside this bubble of commerce, one could barely tell the Depression existed. Strolling along the gleaming marble walkways, a man felt prosperous even on an empty stomach.
The drugstore counters thronged with kids on their way home from school. James wondered where these children got the dimes for an ice cream soda when there were grown men outside on the streets begging for those same dimes. He didn't begrudge them; indeed, it seemed a hopeful sign that at least some of the nation's offspring were having a happy childhood.
He had to wait to speak to the druggist while a portly lady with a small dog described her nightly tossing and turning. James thought of telling her to spend some time in a trench in Europe and she'd learn to sleep through mortar attacks, but thought better of it. It wasn't her fault that he'd probably never sleep through the night again.
The man in the white coat listened with great sympathy, gave her a packet of powder, and sent her on her way before turning to James. ”If I had a nickel for every whiny dame who comes in here I would own the place. What can I do for you? Anemia?”
”Uh, no.”
”You sure? You look a little pasty. Just a cold, then?”
James identified himself and pulled out the blue coat, which the druggist, unsurprisingly, did not recognize. The pills from the pocket were another story. He picked up a magnifying gla.s.s and examined each pill, holding them one at a time in the palm of his hand. ”Nothing bad. No kind of ma.s.s-produced barbiturate or narcotic-that's why you're asking, right? You think this is something that can dope somebody up?”
”I need to know what it is, even if it's harmless.”
”Well, that would be my guess. Harmless. This one is probably a vitamin-vitamin A, see the A stamped on it? People are nuts about vitamins these days, think that all the alphabet minerals can cure everything that ails. Not that there's anything wrong with vitamins, of course, they're important, but they're not the bee's knees. But the customers don't listen. I guess any sense of security is better than none.”
”Is the other one a vitamin, too?”
”I don't know. It might be a custom job, one that some guy like me brewed up special. I can't tell without sending it for chemical testing. You want me to do that?”
”No.” James took the pill back before the man could think about it. ”No, I need to hang on to that.”
”Besides, don't you guys have your own lab that can do all that fancy stuff? I read about it in the paper. You've got Ness in charge now, after all. The reporters seem to think he's going to turn the police force into a bunch of angels.”
James ignored this last sentence, thanked the man, and walked out past the kids. He found another drugstore and received the same information, this time from a dour old man who left out the speculation regarding the future of the Cleveland police force. Then James put the pills in his pocket and trotted down the steps to the train platforms.
Forty-five minutes later he found Walter window-shopping outside a tobacconist's shop. The older cop now carried a parcel wrapped in brown paper and an unlit cigar-both, no doubt, ”gifts” from a grateful citizen. ”I found a baseball suit for Walter Junior's birthday,” he told James, eyeing his partner with a piercing glance. ”Where have you been?”
”Haunting the platforms. Why, did you think I was informing on you to the Untouchables?” James joked, nodding at the parcel.
He realized his mistake a split second later when Walter's face darkened and he stepped closer to hiss, ”Don't razz me about that, Jimmy! It ain't funny!”
James flushed, more from the stares of the shoppers within earshot than from having the same argument one more time. ”Nothing's funny about being a cop these days. Look around. The people we're supposed to work for expect nothing but a shakedown. They don't look to us for help. n.o.body thinks we're heroes.”
”Is that what you need, Jimmy? To be a hero? Then go find a war somewhere and leave us mere mortals to the business of making a living.”
This was pointless. ”Look, Walter-I checked out the pills and asked around to see if anyone recognized the blue coat. That's all.”
Walter's shoulders relaxed a bit. He tucked the parcel under his arm and the unlit cigar between his lips, though his face retained its tense lines. ”And did they?”
”Maybe. I got a bunch of maybes. The strongest one is almost positive they saw a man wearing a similar coat loitering by the loading platform about two and a half weeks ago. They couldn't pin it down to a day.”