City of Fear, page 6
There was a span of roughly five seconds where it appeared George was actually thinking about an answer. But then, without bothering to sit up in his chair, he fired off the same sort of indignation they’d received in the hall from Betty and James Duvall.
“That has absolutely nothing to do with what happened to Penny! That is a private, family matter that I will not allow to be scrutinized by the police.”
“Mr. Pickett, you have to look beyond your friendships here,” Ava said. “There was an argument about your daughter in your home last night, and this morning she is found dead. You can’t just look past the coincidence of that.”
Now he did sit up and when he did, he slammed a fist down on his desk. “It is absolutely preposterous to think that anyone in this family or among my guests would have done anything like this. It’s abhorrent and offensive.”
“But in that argument,” Frank said, again injecting some bass into his voice, “you did take her side, right?”
“Yes, I did,” he said right away. “A child is not like a business decision. I love my children and would give my life for them. Over the past year or so, I have watched Penny mature into this bright and capable young woman. She was exceptionally smart and…” he stopped here, taking in a large, hitching breath as he fought off a wave of tears. “And I would have stood by her decision. The argument last night was about that and nothing more.”
Ava didn’t buy it for a minute, thinking there was something more going on between Mack Duvall and George Pickett than was being revealed. “Mack said the two of you mended your fences this morning. No harm, no foul. Is that correct?”
George seemed surprised by this for a moment, but nodded all the same. “Yes. We’ve been friends for a very long time. You have an argument, you talk it out afterwards, and you move on. Now, instead of grilling me about friends and acquaintances, why don’t you do me a favor and do your jobs? Start by telling me if there are any suspects or leads.”
“None,” Frank said. “But we are lo—”
“In that case, I’d like you to leave my home. We are all exhausted and, as I’m sure you can imagine, devastated.”
This struck Ava as very odd. He wasn’t even asking them to search the house over, to do whatever they needed to find any clues. Instead, it seemed like he was dismissing them altogether.
“Very well,” Frank said. “We’ll leave you to your sorrows. Thank you for your time, Mr. Pickett.”
Ava looked to Frank, shocked. But he turned his head away just as she regarded him, already heading for the door. Ava took one last look back to George and nearly started asking him more questions despite Frank’s decision to leave. In the end, though, she decided to trust Frank though, for the life of her, she could not understand why the hell he was giving into these people. She followed him out of the front door with a fresh batch of wails from Millie Pickett weaving through to usher them out.
CHAPTER NINE
“Just when I start warming up to you, it turns out you bow to the wealthy and stubborn.”
The comment from Ava stung Frank, but he didn’t let it show. He had to remind himself that despite her keen eye and attention to detail, she was still very new to this. She didn’t know when to stop pushing and when to let something rest, when it was clear further pushing would only make things worse.
“I did not bow to anyone,” he said. “That family is in the middle of grieving. As bothersome and irritating as they may be, losing a child is something that hurts in all classes of society. That deep in their grief, we wouldn’t get much out of them. Staying any longer than we did would have been rude.”
He could see that it helped to ease her anger a bit, but she was still fuming. He understood it. He usually left fuming anytime he had to speak more than two sentences to men with the stature of George Pickett and Mack Duvall.
“So what do we do now, then?” Ava demanded. “We have no leads, no clues, and two angry families…and we just breezed off. I don’t get it.”
“I know you don’t,” he said. “At the risk of sounding like a teacher here—which is the absolute last thing I want—it’s all about trying to read the people you’re dealing with. George Pickett was riding the line between being sad and being angry. Either side of that line he falls on, he’s not going to be much help to us.”
“You really buy that there was nothing more to that argument last night?”
“I honestly don’t know. I do get the feeling that there’s something fishy going on there. But if they want to chisel each other, that’s none of my concern. I have to trust, though, that George meant what he said—that he’d do anything for his children. That leads me to believe that he’d let us know if there was something worth looking into, even if it did involve Mack Duvall.”
“Okay, so I suppose I can buy that. But it takes me back to my original question. What do we do now?”
“Nothing. We both checked that room over. There was nothing.”
“There was that smear of grease.”
“That’s true,” Frank said, thoughtfully. “But it was nowhere else in the house and you said yourself that the windows did not look as if anyone had tried breaking in. The most we can do now is wait for the coroner’s report…maybe see if there were any prints or telltale markings on the body.”
Ava nodded. Frank could see something like embarrassment on her face. He wondered if she was beginning to feel very inexperienced. He figured that when she’d jumped into the role of detective, she had not counted on having to rely on her patience or to deal with doing nothing more than waiting while a killer was loose on the streets somewhere. He also felt pretty sure that Clarence had never entertained her with tales of sitting around the station, waiting on someone to call or update them while the hands of the police were literally tied.
“You okay, Gold? Seems like something’s eating at you. I’ve noticed it ever since we stopped by to see your old man this morning.”
He thought she looked to be on the verge of saying something but shook her head after a few seconds. “No. I’m fine.”
They were about two blocks away from the station at that point and Frank didn’t see the point in pushing any further. Just like with any criminal suspect, he knew better than to push too hard. Ava had some real talents, and the last thing he wanted to do was to unintentionally close her off.
Yet even as they neared the station, he noticed her looking to the sidewalk, deep in thought. He hated to see her like that, so clearly struggling. And on the heels of it was something else—something he was not quite ready to admit.
Lord help him, he thought he might be falling for her.
***
To get her mind off of the day’s frustrations, Ava decided she would go home and shower, slip by her dad’s favorite café and order some food to go, and then surprise him and Jeffrey at his apartment. Maybe putting smiles on their faces would make up for the anger and sorrow she’d been confronted with for the majority of the day. As she entered her apartment building, her mind slowly turned back to the immigrant that had been accosted on the street. While most cops and detectives would likely not consider it a crime, it certainly felt like one to her. She’d never had to experience the lifestyles and attitudes of the wealthy in any real way until today and as far as she was concerned, they were almost like some different species. What was the point in belittling those less fortunate than you? What was the point of—
Her thoughts came to a screeching halt when she came to her door. The first thing she noticed was that her door was just barely opened. The lock did not seem busted and there were no clear signs that anyone had recently attempted to break in, but it was open all the same.
Sitting in front of the door was a wadded-up bundle of newspaper. It was obvious something was wrapped up inside and whatever it was appeared to be bleeding. Ava’s mind went to the darkest of places first, fearing the mob had gotten to Jeffrey or her father. But even as she started to lift her foot towards the covered shape, she could see a portion of it sticking out of the back. Still, she had to see; she used the toe of her shoe to pull the curled paper down.
There was a very large, very dead rat inside the newspaper. It had been cut from neck to groin and its neck had been broken, its head nearly turned all the way around.
There seemed to be no message on the paper or the rat, though the morbid gift served as enough of a message, she supposed. It was a safe assumption that this, too, was from the mob. A dead rat. Really, did threats get any more obvious that that?
Ava kicked the rat and its wrappings to the side as she drew her gun. With her free hand, she pushed the door open. She stepped inside quickly, her gun drawn. Entering through the kitchen, she could not see where anything had been disturbed. It was far from tidy, but that was only because she did not keep a tidy kitchen. She found nothing out of sorts, nothing out of place.
It was more of the same in the living room. It was just a little messy because she’d not straightened up for several days. She stood in the center of the room and tried to get a feel for the place. It was hard to understand the feeling that came through her, but she was certain no one had been in here recently. She’d lived in this place for nearly six years now and knew the way it felt. Still, she continued her search. The hallway was empty, as was the bedroom. She did have a slight moment of panic when she thought of the small cigar box Clarence had always kept stashed in their closet. She opened the closet and pulled the box out from behind the pair of boots he would never wear again.
Seeing the boots, she nearly started crying. The grief came out of nowhere, like some big dumb whale breaking the surface of a raging sea. He’ll never put his feet in these again. They’re only taking up space in this closet.
She shoved the boots aside with a gasp of emotion and focused back on the box. She opened it and was relieved to find that it had not been touched. The seven hundred spare dollars Clarence had slowly been setting aside as an emergency fund was all there. She slid the cigar box back into the closet and then, after a bit of thought, went ahead and placed the boots back as well.
She sat there for a moment, gun still in hand, and tried to remain calm. She still felt quite certain this was nothing more than a message from the mob. She simply didn’t understand why the dead rat hadn’t been enough. Why also break into her apartment if they weren’t going to steal anything or wreck the place?
To her surprise, it was Clarence’s voice that spoke up in her head. It was level and very conversational, as if he were sitting on the edge of the bed behind her. Because they want you to know they can do whatever they want. It’s not enough to leave a grisly message like a dead rat at your door. They want you to know they’ve been into your apartment, into your life, into your private spaces.
She was terribly afraid this was very much the case. And if that was true, how much longer could she keep it from Frank or anyone else on the force for that matter? But beyond those questions was another one: even if she did tell Minard or Frank, what could be done? This was the mob, after all, a group that had spent the last handful of years proving that they were basically untouchable. They had dirty cops and even some judges in their pockets, and their reach went far beyond simple laws and regulations.
Slowly, Ava got to her feet and took a small suitcase out of the closet. She took the time to pack up two outfits and then grabbed some pajamas and a change of clothes for Jeffrey. She figured they could just stay at her dad’s place tonight. She’d figure something out tomorrow, hopefully.
She took a bundle of washrags out of the apartment with her and properly disposed of the dead rat in the waste basket at the end of her block. She walked along the dusk-tinged streets to her father’s gym and couldn’t help but feel as if she were being watched.
CHAPTER TEN
Ava got to the gym just as her father was locking the door. He glanced at her through the window with a smile. When he opened the door to let her in, she smelled a very strong smell—the scent of something that had been cleaned. A little over-cleaned from the smell of it. There was a hint of bleach and soap hanging in the air, just enough to make her recoil.
“Did you clean?” she asked as he closed and locked the door behind her.
“Hell no. That would be Jeffrey. When’s the last time you saw me clean?”
“Good point. So…you have my son cleaning for you now?”
“Yes. But it’s okay. I paid him. And he did a pretty good job.”
“Where is he now?” she asked as they started walking through the back of the gym towards the rickety stairs that led to the second floor apartment her father had been calling home for the last ten years or so.
“He’s upstairs, reading something for sch—um, Ava?”
“Yes?”
“Why are you carrying a suitcase?”
She’d honestly thought she’d be able to get all the way upstairs without him noticing. She loved her father dearly, but he was not exactly the most detail-oriented man. She sighed and stopped directly in front of the stairs.
“Because Jeffrey and I need to stay here tonight.”
Roosevelt said nothing for several seconds, his face slowly inching towards a look of worry. “Is it the mob?”
“I think so, yes.”
“What is it this time?”
Even as she started to answer him, she decided to leave out the part about her door being opened. Somehow, she was sure he’d find that more troublesome than the dead rat. And even as she told him about the rat, she found herself downplaying it, leaving out the bloody details.
“Ava, this is serious.”
“I know, Dad. And I’m going to figure it out, somehow.”
“Are you—”
“I really want to just head up to Jeffrey right now.”
She could tell that it was killing him to just drop the matter but he managed to do so. He gave her a smile that was clearly forced and then gestured for her to continue up the stairs.
It had been at least six months since she’d last stepped foot in her father’s apartment. It wasn’t exactly messy, but there was no real order to anything. It wasn’t too bad of a place, so long as you could get over the fact that it was sitting over a boxing gym. The floors were very creaky, the single window looking out onto the street was in desperate need of a washing, and the hallway was thin, but it wasn’t awful. She found Jeffrey sitting in the old chair her father sometimes dubbed “the throne,” reading from his grammar textbook.
“Hey, Mom,” he said, barely looking up from his book.
“Hey, kiddo I hear Grandpa put you to work.”
“Yeah,” he said with a hurtful tone. “Cleaning. But he paid me a whole quarter!”
“That’s the way to do it! With that sort of pay, maybe I should quit the police and come work for Grandpa, what do you think?”
“No way in hell!” Roosevelt said as he made his way into the small, cramped kitchen. “A gym is no place for a dame!”
“I’m not a dame, I’m your daughter.”
Roosevelt growled at her and then shot Jeffrey a look that seemed to say: Can you believe this?
This comic moment set the tone for the rest of the evening. It seemed to even salvage it when Jeffrey appeared less than thrilled that they’d have to stay over for the night. Roosevelt willingly gave up the bedroom, stating he would sleep in the throne. Ava knew it would mess his back up but said nothing; he was making a big deal about being excited over it as a way to get Jeffrey to not feel bad about displacing his grandfather.
It was nice to have dinner in her father’s small kitchen. In the face of the luxuries and wealthy families she’d encountered today, it was comforting to be back in a place so small and close to her heart. Plus, it seemed to make her father incredibly proud to be hosting them for once and not the other way around. Dinner was occupied with typical small talk, mostly talking to Jeffrey about school and his friends. Ava could tell that her dad was still a little uneasy about the revelations she’d made about the mob. It seemed he was on the verge of bringing it up a few times during dinner but opted to keep it quiet around Jeffrey.
After dinner, she helped Jeffrey get ready for bed. He’d come more and more around to the idea of staying here for the night and by the time he was in his grandpa’s bed, under the sheets, he seemed very comfortable. He went to sleep without an issue, without a complaint. When Ava ventured back out into the little living room space, she found her father sitting in the throne, working at the laces on an old pair of boxing gloves.
“Thanks again for this,” she said, sitting down in the only other chair in the room—a small kitchen chair.
“Sure. You need to stay a few days longer?”
“I don’t think so.” She waited a moment and when the ridicule and questions she was expecting did not come, she gave her father a curious look. “You think I’ve gotten in over my head, don’t you?”
“Not at all. I do think you might have jumped into a very deep lake without any real idea of how to swim, though. Aside from this whole mob thing…what else is going on? There’s a lot of weight on your shoulders. I’m not the smartest man—just an old, bruised up Bruno—but even I can see that.”
“You’re plenty smart, Dad. And yes…today, there was this case. A murder but up on Fifth Avenue. Somehow, dealing with rich people was worse than dealing with the murder and that’s got me all mixed up. The whole mob thing is just an added trouble. It feels like too much but it’s also sort of motivating.”
“That’s because you’re a fighter. You’ve never been one to back down, to give up. Having to raise you by myself, I always tried to bring you up so you’d never feel left out or less than in this world that is run by men.” He set the boxing glove aside and seem to think hard about something for a moment. “So, being that father, I feel that I need to tell you not to back down. But at the same time, we’re talking about the mob…so just make sure you’re careful. Don’t think you can take on the world by yourself when you have an entire police force to help you.”
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