Max Collins - Target Lancer

“Doesn’t surprise me. There hasn’t been a more obviously staged crime scene since Basil Rathbone last made a monkey out of Nigel Bruce.”

Lou smiled at that. He appreciated it when I made an effort.

“Dick say whether the latent print guys found anything useful?”

“No.” He smirked. “It’s a hotel room. There’s gonna be all kinds of prints-recent guests, hotel employees, not to mention cops.”

I frowned. “Not that tough an exercise-the hotel knows who stayed in the room lately. You print the hotel staff for elimination, or to see if anybody working there pops up with a prior.”

My indignation amused Lou. “Listen to yourself, Nate. The homicide boys already have their theory, and that’s what they’ll try to prove-they’ll compare whatever prints do turn up to known hookers, and known hookers only. Some poor schmuck is probably flipping through ten-print file cards on that hopeless mission right now.”

Two glazed doughnuts were staring at me. I started eating one of them.

Lou was saying, “The fingerprint aspect of what we’ll call a police investigation, just to have something to call it, will begin and end there.”

I knew he was right. I got up and got myself a glass of orange juice. My second of the day.

But Lou wasn’t through: “I also heard from Doc Owens. Nice guy, Clarence. Surprised you haven’t run into him before. Anyway, he confirms the weapon was likely an ice pick. He said to tell you that the killer was probably five nine or ten, due to the angle and depth of the wound.”

“Five nine or ten,” I said, sitting back down with the glass of juice in hand. “Probably a man but still possibly a woman. Did salt-of-the-earth Clarence comment on whether a woman might be capable of a blow with that kind of force?”

Lou shrugged. “Wasn’t part of Doc’s message for ya. I have his number, if you want to follow up.”

I waved him off. “No. No need. The cops will just say it’s a big strong gal that did it. Let’s not waste our time on that.”

He nodded-that was fine with him. “So what about our investigation of the Ellison death? Since it will be the only real one.”

I sipped juice, flipped a hand. “You don’t need me to outline it for you.”

“Do, anyway. You’re the boss, after all.”

I chewed. Swallowed. “Okay, let’s put two agents, male and female, on the Milwaukee end. Have the female deal with Mrs. Ellison, whenever contact with her is necessary. Both ops need to dig through the Ellisons’ lives-neighbors, friends. We want to know if Tom had any skeletons in the closet.”

“Particularly skeletons in skirts.”

“Or if any of Jean’s friends wear trousers. I don’t suspect her but that has to be looked at. And let’s see if Tom’s murder grew out of his PR business.”

“Associates and clients?”

“Yeah. Short of the Teamsters-related ones.”

Lou took the other glazed doughnut. “I’d suggest we put three agents on the business end. Reynolds has an accounting background. Might come in handy.”

“Good. Use him. Then locally, we want to hit that hotel. Put one guy on that, somebody good-Donaldson, maybe.”

Lou had a free hand; he gestured with it. “How about I do that myself?”

“Perfect. See if any B-girls are known to be working the Pick-Congress bar. Talk to the staff, from janitor to desk. Find out what phone calls Tom made, if he had any meals in his room, anything you can.”

“All right.” Lou sipped his coffee. “So how did your meeting with your pal Jim go?”

Even at this late date, the son of a bitch could surprise me. I hadn’t mentioned anything last night other than I needed to talk to somebody. He just put it together. He just knew .

“Finish your breakfast,” I said, “and we’ll continue this in my office. A little too public here.”

He nodded, and I left him-he had half a doughnut to go. I’d finished mine.

I crossed the bullpen-maybe half our agents were out in the field, which pleased me, because that meant income-and Gladys stopped me just outside my office. She was in a blue and white print dress and that body, even in her fifties, even with a few pounds on it, was worth hating Lou over.

“I took the liberty of making an appointment for you,” she said.

“Imagine that.” As if she hadn’t done that thousands of times.

“Two o’clock. It’s an old friend of ours-Eben Boldt.”

“Really. Did he say what about?”

“He asked if you had the entire afternoon clear, and I said yes.”

“Anything else?”

“No. Very closemouthed, our Eben. I always found him a little humorless. Didn’t you?”

That was like Jefferson on Mount Rushmore saying that Washington character seemed kind of stoic.

“Hadn’t noticed,” I said.

A few minutes later, Lou stepped into my private office, shut the door behind him, and settled into the client’s chair. I was already behind my desk.

“Where were we?” he asked.

With no further preamble, I gave him a straight report on the conversation with Hoffa.

Lou sat blank-faced throughout. When I’d wrapped it up, he said, “Do you believe him?”

“I don’t not believe him. That he didn’t deny the possibility one of his people did it, on their own initiative, says something.”

He considered that, then asked, “Are you satisfied that he’s satisfied?”

“That I’m not a loose end? Well, I don’t think I am to him. But if one of his guys did take it upon himself to remove Tom, it’s possible they might try the same with me.”

Behind the lenses, his eyes were almost gone, just cuts in his face. “Doesn’t have to be one of his guys, you know.”

“True. Could be the Outfit, on their own, or even…”

I didn’t say it, but Lou just nodded, slowly. The word we both skipped was CIA. Operation Mongoose cast a long fucking shadow.

I said, “Make a discreet call down to Dallas to see if Jack Ruby is back. His club’s called the Carousel. Nothing direct-if there’s some agency we work with down there who can check this out without getting Ruby’s attention, that would be perfect.”

“We do have a guy down there.”

“Good. If Ruby isn’t deep in the heart of Texas yet, check our local hotels and see if you come up with him. He might be staying under Jake Rubinstein.”

“Okay. Figure to have a chat with your old West Side compadre?”

“If he’s in town. If he’s back home … we’ll see.”

Neither of us said anything for a few seconds.

“If you are a loose end,” Lou said, “that means somebody’s weaving something goddamn serious. How the hell could a small-change payoff to a nobody like Jake Rubinstein get Tom Ellison killed? And put you on the spot?”

I laughed softly. “‘On the spot.’ There’s an old Chicago term for you. Going back to Capone days.…”

“What kind of steps can you take?”

“Well, I slept downstairs with Sally last night,” I said, shrugging one shoulder, “as a kind of half-ass precaution.”

Nobody called Sally “Helen” except me, and maybe her mother, so I stuck with the familiar.

“You got her moved in okay?” he asked, his turn to pose a question he knew the answer to but asked anyway.

I nodded. “I love having her around, but this is a lousy time. If I’m reading Hoffa wrong, I’m putting her at serious risk.”

“She’s a big girl, Nate.”

“Actually, she’s a little wisp of a tough-as-nails thing.”

Lou smiled a little. “She take those meetings you lined up at the Chez Paree and Empire Room?”

“Yeah,” I said, relieved to have the subject changed. “Nice response, some apparent interest, particularly from Mike Satariano. But no bookings yet. I set her up with meets with the managers at the Ivanhoe Club, this morning, and the Gaslight, this afternoon.”