The Storm Killer Read online

  I read a passage here and a passage there, continuing on for several pages a couple of times. I had to admit Hemingway had a crisp, clean style I liked. I had often considered writing a novel myself--what reporter hadn’t? Unfortunately, I’d done more considering than writing.

  Before putting the book away, I turned to the title page. Written across the top of the page in an uneven scrawl was a brief dedication. It read:

  My dearest Helen--I cannot express the depths of despair I felt when you told me you could no longer see me. I beg of you, please reconsider. I am sending you this novel written by my good friend Ernest Hemingway. It is a love story, pure and simple. Please don’t let our love flounder, for I am your Jake Barnes and you are my Brett, Lady Ashley. To you I pledge my undying love, Hank.

  Hank had to be the man Mary had told me about. I paged through the book one more time, but there was no further indication of Hank’s identity. I wondered if he’d given Helen the book early on in their relationship, or after Charles killed himself. Was this man capable of murder? How the hell was I going to find Hank? I’d been out of Helen’s life for far too long.

  I needed to call Mary and ask if Helen had ever mentioned someone named Hank. It would have to wait though. With my luck Tom would try calling while I was on the phone. I got up and I began to pace back and forth across the tiny room, three steps in one direction, three back.

  As a reporter I always loved the chase. There was nothing as exciting as tracking down a story. It was the waiting that drove me crazy. That’s when I would turn to drink. Opening the bottom drawer of the desk I stared again at the bottle sitting there, taunting me. If Tom hadn’t called right then I might have given in to the urge. The excitement in his voice helped me close the bottle away.

  “Jesus, Jim. This girl was butchered. They never found the guy. If there’s a story here I want in.”

  Despite our friendship, I knew he’d double-cross me in a short minute if he thought he could get a scoop out of it. I should have considered that before calling him. I didn’t need Tom thinking we were on to something grand.

  “This isn’t about a story, Tom. This is about Helen’s murder. I heard about this other case and I wanted to make sure they weren’t connected. I figure I owe it to Helen.”

  “If you’re not looking for a story, can I count on you to call me if you come across anything about this Bloomberg dame’s death?” he asked.

  “Sure.” I had no problem lying to Tom. My first loyalty belonged to the Post, and if he was half the reporter I thought he was, he’d know how things stood. In the newspaper business, friendship went only so far. Besides, I knew that if he discovered something important, he’d hold it back from me.

  “You want the whole article, or just the basics?”

  “You read it?” I asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Give me a quick breakdown.”

  “The body was discovered by another actress. Bloomberg was supposed to be at a rehearsal and when she didn’t show the other girl, Ruth Curtis, went to get her. Bloomberg lived by herself in a brownstone just a few blocks from the theater. The door was unlocked and when Curtis walked into the apartment the first thing she saw was a pool of blood on the floor. She discovered Bloomberg’s naked body in the bedroom. There was blood everywhere and the girl was stabbed seventy-eight times.”

  “That in the story?”

  “No. I talked to the reporter who wrote it. He got the information from the investigator. The police didn’t want that information out. They were holding it back in case they got any nut cases confessing to the murder.”

  “Any suspects?”

  “Not a one,” Tom said.

  “The local fuzz competent?” I asked.

  “Same as New York. Some are good, some are bad, and some are just plain crooked.”

  I needed the copper’s name but I didn’t want to come right out and ask him. I wanted Tom to believe there was no link between Ethel Bloomberg’s and Helen’s murders, but my own instincts were on high alert, screaming at me that there was a definite connection. I knew I would need to talk to the investigator.

  “What category does the one handling the Bloomberg case fit into?”

  “He’s one of the good ones,” Tom said.

  “No chance of a screw-up?”

  “None. Slater thrives on solving cases.”

  I smiled when I heard the name. “Slater?”

  “Joe Slater. He’s young and ambitious. From what I hear, he’s bragged he’s gonna be chief some day.”

  “I don’t see how there could be a connection,” I said. “The coppers think Helen walked in on a burglar. Sounds like the Bloomberg girl was a passion thing.”

  “You’re not bullshitting me, are you Jim?”

  “No, Tom, and I appreciate the help. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, don’t hesitate to call.”

  “Just give me a heads-up if you come across anything concerning Ethel Bloomberg.”

  I didn’t respond. Too much denial would only send his suspicions into overdrive. Instead, I wished him well, accepted his condolences again, and hung up the phone.

  I lit a Lucky, and leaned back in my chair. I suspected that the same man who killed Helen had killed Ethel Bloomberg, but the evidence didn’t have any more substance than the wisps of smoke drifting upward from my cigarette. I had a first name, Hank, but no more reason to blame him than Boyle had to blame me.

  If I went to Boyle with what I had, he’d either laugh me out of the station, or lock me up for interfering with a police investigation. Instead, I decided to call Belcher. He didn’t like me, but he seemed the more reasonable of the two detectives. I hoped he’d at least listen to what I had to say.

  My mind made up, I stubbed out my butt and picked up the phone. An operator connected me to the police station and a Sergeant Mahoney answered. I explained who I was looking for and Mahoney put me through to the detective bureau.

  Belcher answered.

  “Belcher? Jim Locke.”

  The man lowered his voice and hissed into the phone, “No more favors, Locke. If you’re trying to screw me over, I’ll get you. Granger too.”

  “I’ve come across some information.”

  This shut him up for all of ten seconds. “What, the great investigative reporter is going to show up the police now? What could you possibly have that would be of interest to us?”

  So I told him. About Hank. About what Mary had said about Helen being afraid of someone she was seeing, and finally about Ethel Bloomberg.

  “Seems like a stretch to me,” Belcher said.

  “Will you look into it?”

  “I don’t think there’s—hold on a second.” I heard voices in the background, and then he covered the mouthpiece of the phone. A few moments later he came back on the line. “Mike wants to talk to you.”

  I groaned when Mike Boyle’s voice boomed over the line. “What the hell you up to Locke?”

  “I wanted to share some information.”

  “We don’t need your help. We’ve got us a suspect.”

  “Who?”

  “Just keep out of this, Locke. It’s an active case and if you keep interfering I’ll throw you in a cell.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “Sure I can.” Boyle slammed the phone down before I could get in another objection.

  It seemed that if I wanted to stop being suspect number one in Helen’s murder, I was going to have to give Boyle another suspect on a golden platter. Probably along with a signed confession. My gut told me that the same person who killed Helen murdered Ethel Bloomberg. Now all I had to do was find him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I walked for twenty minutes before it dawned on me where I was headed. Helen’s apartment was located at Fifth Avenue off of Seventy-Ninth Street. Twenty-five years earlier when I was a teenager, my father drove Helen and me through the area. Then, most wealthy New Yorkers still lived in private houses along upper Fifth Avenue. Today, Park Avenue is t
he street of choice for the wealthiest New Yorkers while Fifth Avenue is reserved for the near rich. Even though Helen’s apartment now belonged to me, I doubted I’d keep it. I didn’t see myself fitting in with the people who called the area home.

  Helen’s apartment was on the third floor of a twelve story building. I took the stairs, and at each floor the steps seemed a little further apart, a little harder to climb. Mary had suggested I wait to visit the apartment until the police cleared me. If there was even a remote chance I’d find something, I couldn’t wait. I’d been a reporter for too long to ignore the instincts urging me forward.

  When I reached Helen’s apartment I looked across the hall. Before I left I was going to have to stop and have a talk with Ila Quinn. I didn’t understand why she’d fingered me. I just hoped she’d talk to me.

  Removing the key from my pocket, I slipped it into the lock. The grinding sound of the bolt sliding into the open position made me flinch. It took every ounce of willpower I possessed to force my hand to turn the knob and push the door open.

  I lingered in the hallway as my heart began to race. The drapes were drawn and the apartment was dark and unwelcome. I held back a shudder. The thought of stepping inside was about as appealing as the idea of walking through a cemetery at midnight. I could smell Helen’s blood. The odor was sweet and unpleasant, like the scent given off by a bag of old wet pennies. It took my breath away and curdled my stomach.

  A chill trailed along the back of my neck and I backed away from the door. I could feel Helen’s presence. Leaving the door ajar I edged forward and hit the light switch. The antique secretary-bookcase Helen inherited from my mother stood in the far corner of the room. I wondered if she still kept her liquor in the bottom drawer.

  I started toward the case and stopped when I noticed the glass doors of the bookshelf were hanging open with most of the books strewn about on the floor. I took a moment to visualize the crime scene photos I had gone through the night before.

  I was pretty sure the pictures showed the books on the shelf and the doors closed. I felt a slight pressure in my chest. It was the same feeling I got whenever a story began to come together. It pissed me off to think that Helen’s killer might have returned. What was he looking for? Had he found it? Was that something still around?

  I crept around the blood splatter in the middle of the carpet. As much as I tried not to look at the blood stains, my eyes kept drifting toward the floor. Helen had loved that carpet, and no amount of cleaning would ever restore it to its previous glory. The blood had not reached the blue and maroon trim, but a hideous brown-red stain blotted out most of the three dimensional rust and tan colored cubes that filled the center of the rug.

  When I reached the secretary I got down on my knees and began picking up the books. I knew Helen would never have tolerated the clutter, so I returned them one-by-one to the bookcase. I was pleased that she’d kept the signed copy of Topper by Thorne Smith I’d given her for Christmas several years earlier. The biggest surprise of going through her books came when I found several detective novels by Dashiell Hammett. I had trouble picturing Helen curling up to read something as dark and raw as Red Harvest and The Dain Curse. Maybe they belonged to Charles.

  When I finished I closed the glass doors and opened the bottom drawer of the secretary. The liquor had been replaced with envelopes, pads of paper, paper clips and pens. Everything was tossed about like someone had rifled through it. It wasn’t how Helen would have left things. She’d always insisted on finding the perfect place for everything.

  I was reaching for the next drawer when a high-pitched voice crackled from behind me. “I called the police.”

  I spun around and almost laughed at the tiny, gnome-like old lady standing in the doorway. Ila Quinn was in her late seventies and on a good day might have passed for five foot tall. She wore a blue quilt bathrobe, had her hair put up in large curlers, and was holding a big black revolver in her right hand. I was surprised at the steadiness with which she held the gun and a shudder of relief ran through me when she recognized me and lowered the pistol. “Jim, what are you doing here?”

  “Hello Ila,” I said. “I’m checking up on things. I want you to know that I would never hurt Helen.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t,” she said. “Whoever would think such a thing?”

  “The coppers said you saw me hanging around on the day Helen was murdered.”

  A confused look flashed across her face. “When the policeman asked me if you could have been the killer, I told him no. I didn’t get a very good look at the man, but I told him it couldn’t have been you. The guy in the trench coat was taller than you, and rail thin like my husband, God bless his soul. Detective Boyle treated me like a doddering old fool.”

  Now it was my turn to be confused. “Could we go over to your place and talk?” I asked. “You said you called the police, and I’d just as soon not have to explain why I’m here.”

  “Certainly.” She started off across the hall calling out over her shoulder, “I’ll put on some tea.”

  I was afraid that if I told the police I now owned the apartment, word would get back to Boyle. I figured I’d let him work for that piece of information.

  I closed the door, locked it, and I was sprinting across the hall to Ila’s apartment when I heard someone stomping up the stairway. I followed her inside.

  “Do you like sugar with your tea?” Ila asked.

  I whispered in her ear, “The police will be here any second, Ila. Maybe you should go answer the door. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell them I’m here.”

  As if to reinforce my thoughts there was a sharp rap followed by, “It’s Officer Murray, Ila. I understand we got another call from you.”

  “Perhaps you could go into the kitchen and start the water for the tea,” Ila said. She nodded toward the door behind her. “I’ll get rid of Officer Murray. And here, take this,” she added, holding out the gun.

  I took the pistol and ran to the kitchen. The door swung shut behind me, and instead of putting on a pot of water to boil, I leaned against the door frame and tried to hear what was being said in the other room. Pushing the door ajar with the toe of my shoe, I moved my ear to the opening and cringed when Ila asked the copper if he’d like a cup of tea.

  “You know I don’t have time for socializing, Ila. Now, why did you call the station?”

  “I thought I heard someone breaking into Helen Ballenger’s apartment. I was afraid for my life.”

  “Are you sure about this, Ila?”

  “I do not make things up, Officer Murray.”

  “You do, Ila, and the more often you call us out for nothing, the more likely the desk sergeant is to treat you like a nuisance. This is twice in twenty-four hours. You’re being a little too skittish.”

  “Of course I’m being skittish. My neighbor was murdered. I’m telling you I heard someone in Helen’s apartment.”

  “I checked the door, Ila. It’s locked.”

  “Well I heard something.”

  “I’ll check it one more time before I leave,” Officer Murray said. When I heard the door close I hurried over to the stove and started the water for our tea.

  Ila stomped into the kitchen. “They never take me seriously. I know I heard someone fiddling with Helen’s door last night. It wasn’t you was it?”

  “No,” I said. I didn’t tell her my suspicions that the killer had returned. She was scared enough.

  Ila pulled out one of the two chairs from the table and sat down. The furniture, like the cupboard, was painted mustard yellow.

  I joined her at the table, pulled the gun from my belt where I’d tucked it earlier, and opened the cylinder.

  “It’s loaded,” she said.

  “I see that. Would you really shoot someone with it?” I asked.

  “I would. Wyatt Earp himself gave me this gun. Taught me how to shoot it too.”

  I lifted an eyebrow and set the gun back down between us.

  “Don’t
give me that look,” she said. “My husband, Sam, made his fortune in the cattle business. We spent a lot of time out west. I’ve never killed a man, but it wasn’t because I couldn’t do it. I’ve just never found a good reason to shoot someone. I can take care of myself.”

  I believed her. Any other time I might have been willing to listen to her tales about the past. Not today. Instead, I told her what Boyle had written in his report.

  “None of that’s true,” she said. “I told him the same thing I told you about the man I saw leaving Helen’s apartment. And I never said I’d seen you outside. In fact, when Detective Boyle asked if you’d been around lately, I told him that as far as I knew you hadn’t been to see Helen in over a year.”

  “You ever see the guy before?” I asked.

  “Helen didn’t bring men up to her apartment, at least not that I saw. But she was an actress and worked late nights, so I can’t swear to it. I try to be in bed by nine or nine thirty, but sometimes I drift off while reading on the sofa. Of course that seems to happen more and more often the older I get. That’s what happened the night Helen was murdered. I heard a scream and it woke me up. I never would have seen anything otherwise.”

  The tea kettle whistled and Ila jumped up and rushed over to the stove. While she fixed us each a cup of tea, I tried to make sense of what she had told me. I couldn’t understand why Boyle was fixating on me.

  Ila carried the two steaming cups over to the table, set them down, and then scurried away. She returned with a small pitcher of milk and a sugar bowl. “Why do you think Detective Boyle lied in his report?” she asked.

  “I was just wondering the same thing myself,” I said. “For some reason he’s trying to make the facts fit his premise that I’m guilty.”

  “Well, it won’t stick,” Ila sat back down across from me. “You can call on me if they try to charge you with anything. I’ll tell them what I saw. I want Helen’s killer found. I won’t feel safe in my own home until he’s behind bars.”

  I thanked her and changed the subject. I sat with her for a half hour, drinking her tea and listening to stories about her days in the west. I would rather have been searching Helen’s apartment, but I figured I owed her a little time. As I was leaving, she reminded me that I could count on her testimony if Boyle decided to charge me with Helen’s murder.