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He sighed. “When a man joins the department, he gets fingerprinted partly so we can rule him out if he touches something on a crime scene. They go into his personnel jacket, and it’s locked up. Unless McGrath gives me permission, this will take a lot of time, and a lot of discretion.”
“That’s how you can help.”
* * *
After Don left, I arranged Carrie’s collection of love letters by date. The last one was dated two weeks before her death. It was typed.
C,
I’ve never begrudged you your freedom, your indiscretions. Our enterprise has made us all plenty of money. Me, your little friends, you most of all. All this has come thanks to my protection, don’t forget that.
But now your silence is killing me. I know I haven’t yet left my wife. It will happen I promise but I also have to think about our children. Your too young to understand how complicated these things are. They take time. I thought we had discussed this and you agreed to wait.
And have you been faithful to me, hardly. Yet I’ve stood by, knowing how you are. You and your older men. Trying to find father figures to make up for the drunk whose your real father. I get you baby girl. You tell me that your pregnant. How do I even know that the child is mine?
Now I hear nothing from you. Not one letter or call. Do you take me for a fool? I know your a little schemer, C. Don’t think I don’t. Don’t think you can cut me off and cut me out. Don’t say you weren’t warned. I’m watching you when you don’t know it. Write me. Call me at work tomorrow.
And this one had no signature. I couldn’t match the handwriting. It did contain misspellings like the “Admirer’s” note. But plenty of people spelled badly. One thing was sure: He was no longer her admirer. Something had radically changed in their relationship. What was the enterprise and who were the “little friends” involved? The note was a clear threat, even to murder. I carefully refolded it. My mind went to Navarre, of course. He was married. As a cop, he could offer protection. Now I needed to find a sample of his handwriting to compare with the love letters. If his fingerprints were on these notes, it would be compelling evidence that he was the killer.
But I would have to read more. I didn’t want my growing hatred of Frenchy to blind me to the possibility of other suspects. And the typed note used the term “baby girl,” which appeared in Carrie’s description of Big Cat, not Navarre.
If this was the trail that led to her murder, horrible as it was, it meant we weren’t dealing with a monster who would strike again. The man who had killed Carrie was monster enough.
Eighteen
I started to compare that final, nasty billet-doux with the last pages of Carrie’s diary. Skipping to the end of a book wasn’t usually my style, but I’d make an exception here. I could always go back through more methodically.
The intercom buzzed.
“A man is on the phone,” Gladys said. “He won’t give his name but said he needs to speak to you immediately.”
I told her to put it through and picked up.
“I’ve got your girl.” A gravelly tone. Someone disguising his voice. “If you want to see her again, go to the phone booth inside the Gold Spot Rexall at Third Avenue and Roosevelt. I’ll call you in ten minutes. Then I’m going to run you around, and I’ll tell you what I need for you to do to get the pretty photographer back. If I see any cops, she’ll be on the wrong end of my saw, just like Carrie. I’ll be watching you. Not all the time, but you won’t know when. Get moving.”
Then the line went dead. A cold spike of dread went into my gut as I checked my wristwatch. I fumbled Victoria’s number. It rang and rang. Fifteen times. No answer.
I grabbed my suit coat and fedora, checked the magazine in my pistol, and ran out of the office. Down on Washington Street, I turned north and sprinted. No car today. No time to wait for the Kenilworth streetcar. Dodging honking cars at Adams, Monroe, and Van Buren streets, then I was out of downtown pounding the sidewalk as hard as I could. Seven blocks and a half mile to go. My watch told me I had five
minutes. I was sweating by the time I threw open the door to the drugstore. The pay phone in back was ringing.
“Don’t touch that,” I commanded the old lady about to answer. She backed away and huffed off.
The same voice: “You got a workout, Hammons.”
“What do you want?” I said.
“So impatient,” he said. “Good things come to those who wait. Get over to the phone booth outside the Bayless market at Central and Moreland. I’ll give you five minutes.”
I said, “If you hurt her, I’ll kill you.”
“You wasted thirty seconds.” Then the line went dead.
This was an easier run, a long block along the narrow Portland Parkway, past my apartment. Then I crossed Central, again holding out my arm and causing angry motorists to stop. I worried that one might not see me—or wouldn’t care—and send me to the hospital or the morgue.
Bayless was busy. The phone booth was empty. I stepped inside, closed the door, and checked my watch. A minute to go. I pulled off my suit coat. Between the run and the sunny day, I was plenty warm. I checked my surroundings. Only shoppers, all women, coming and going with their groceries. They paid me no mind. No parked cars I could see through the windows, much less four-door Chevys.
Five minutes went by, and the phone was silent.
