Max Collins - Chicago Lightning

Still, Miller (and his two-day companion) would bet every race and cheer the horses on with a fist-shaking desperation that spoke of more at stake than just a fun day at the races. Smalltime bettor though he was, Miller was an every-day-at-the-track kind of sick gambler-the friend only showed twice, remember-and I came to the conclusion that his hard-on was for horses, and if anybody was riding Rose Vinicky to the finish line when her hubby wasn’t home, this joker wasn’t the jockey.

“That’s why,” Mullaney said, nodding, “you decided to stake out the Vinicky home, this morning.”

“Yeah.”

Mullaney’s huge chest heaved a sigh. “Why don’t we talk to the girl, together. Little Sally.”

Little Sally had a build like Veronica Lake, but I chose not to point that out.

“Sure,” I said.

We did it outside, under a shade tree. A light breeze riffled leaves, the world at peace. Of course, so is a corpse.

Sally Vinicky wasn’t crying now-partly cried out, partly in shock, and as she stood with her hands figleafed before her, she answered questions as politely and completely as she no doubt did when the nuns questioned her in class.

“I went in the back way,” she said. “Used my key.”

Which explained why I hadn’t seen the girl go in.

“I always come home for lunch at eleven, and Mom always has it ready for me-but when I didn’t see anything waiting in the kitchen…sometimes soup, sometimes a sandwich, sometimes both, today, nothing…I went looking for her. I thought for a minute she’d left early.”

“Left early for where?” I asked.

“She had errands to do, downtown, this afternoon.”

Mullaney asked, “What sort of mood was your mother in this morning, when you left for school?”

“I didn’t see her-Mom sleeps in till nine or sometimes ten. Does some household chores, fixes my lunch and….”

“How about your father?”

“He was just getting up as I was leaving-that was maybe a quarter to eight? He said he had to go to the court at ten thirty. Somebody suing us again.”

I asked, “Again?”

“Well, Mom’s real strict-if a guy doesn’t work a full hour, he doesn’t get paid. That starts arguments, and some of the men who work for Mom and Dad sometimes say they’ve been shorted…. Oh!”

Mullaney frowned. “What is it?”

“We should check Mom’s money!”

The blanketed body had already been carted out, and the crowd of neighbors milling around the house had thinned. So we walked the girl in through the front. Sally made a point of not looking into the living room where a tape outline on the floor provided a ghost of her mother.

In her parents’ room, where the bed-a beautiful walnut Victorian antique as beautiful as it was wrong for this house and this neighborhood-was neatly made, a pale brown leather wallet lay on the mismatched but also antique dresser. Before anyone could tell the girl not to touch it, she grabbed the wallet and folded it open.

No moths flew out, but they might have: it was that empty.

“Mother had a lot of money in here,” Sally said, eyes searching the yawning flaps, as if bills were hiding from her.

I asked, “How much is a lot, Sally?”

“Almost twelve hundred dollars. I’d say that’s a lot!”

“So would I. Why would your mother have that kind of money in her wallet?”

“We were going for a trip to California, as soon as my school got out-me, Mother, and my aunt Doris. That was the errand Mother had to do downtown-buy railroad tickets.”

Mullaney, eyes tight, said, “Who knew about this money?”

“My dad, of course. My aunt.”

“Nobody else?”

“Not that I can think of. Not that I know of. I wish I could be of more help….”

I smiled at her. “You’re doing fine, Sally.”

A uniformed officer stuck his head in. “Inspector, Captain Cullen says Mr. Vinicky is here.”

Sally pushed past Mullaney and me, and the uniformed man, and the girl went rattling down the stairs calling, “Daddy, Daddy!”

When caught up with her, she was in her father’s arms in the yellow-and-white kitchen. He held her close. They both cried and patted each other’s backs. Cullen, seated at the kitchen table, regarded this with surprising humanity.

“I want you to stay with your aunt tonight,” Vinicky said to his daughter.

“Okay. That’s okay. I don’t want to sleep in this house ever again.”

He found a smile. “Well, not tonight, anyway, sweetheart. They let me call your aunt-she’s on her way. Do you want to wait in your room?”

“No. No, I’ll wait outside, if that’s all right.”

Vinicky, the girl still in his arms, looked past her for permission, his pudgy face streaked with tears, his eyes webbed red.

Mullaney and Cullen nodded, and a uniformed man walked her out. The father took at seat at the kitchen table. So did Mullaney. So did I.

Seeming to notice me for the first time, Vinicky looked at me, confusion finding its way past the heartbreak. “What…what’re you doing here, Mr. Heller?”

“I was watching the house, Mr. Vinicky,” I said, and told him the circumstances as delicately as possible.

“I take it…I take it you told these gentleman why I hired you.”

“I did.”

“Did you see anyone go in, Mr. Heller? Did you see that bastard Miller?”

“I didn’t.” I hadn’t reported to him yet. “Mr. Vinicky, I spent four days watching Miller, and he always went to the track-that’s why I came here. I don’t believe he was seeing your wife.”

But Vinicky was shaking his head, emphatically. “He did it. I know he did it. You people have to find him!”

Cullen said, “We’re already on that, Mr. Vinicky.”

I asked the captain, “Do you need his address? He’s in a residential hotel over on-”

“We know. We sent a detective over there, already-next-door neighbor says this guy Miller used to hang around here a lot. Only now Miller’s nowhere to be seen-his flop is empty. Ran out on a week’s rent.”

Vinicky slammed a fist on the table. “I told you! I told you!”

Mullaney said, “We need you to calm down, sir, and tell us about your day.”

“My day! Tell you about, what… this ? The worst day of my life! Worst goddamn day of my life. I loved Rose. She was the best wife any man ever had.”

Neither cop was nasty enough to mention that the bedroom dick this weeping husband had hired was sitting at the table with them.

Vinicky’s story was unremarkable: he’d got up around eight, dressed for the court appearance, stopped at the office first (where he was seen by various employees) and then took breakfast at a restaurant on Halsted. From there he’d gone to the post office, picked up a parcel, and headd downtown by car to Municipal Court. He had littered the South Side and the Loop alike with witnesses who could support his alibi.

“You’re being sued, we understand,” Mullaney said.

“Yeah-but that’s nothing. Kind of standard with us. Rose is…was…a hardnosed businesswoman, God love her. She insisted on a full day’s work for a full day’s pay.”

Mullaney was making notes again. “Did Miller ever complain about getting shorted?”

“Yeah. That’s probably why he was…so friendly with Rose. Trying to get on her good side. Sweet-talk her into giving him the benefit of the doubt on his hours. I was a son of a bitch to ever suspect-”

Cullen asked, “Could you give us a list of employees who’ve made these complaints, over the last two years?”

“Sure. No problem. I can give you some off the top of my head, then check the records at the office tomorrow for any I missed.”

Mullaney wrote down the names.

When that was done, I asked, “Did your wife have a wedding ring?”