Dead Street Page 6

  “You giving up?”

  “Nope. I’m just going to make do with the best that I have.”

  “And what is that?”

  She thought about that, patting Taco’s head until he rubbed his big muzzle against her leg, then she said softly, “I don’t remember my past, so my present is always like living in a paper sack, and the future is all blank space.”

  “That’s what you think?”

  “Come on, neighbor Jack, what kind of future would I have if I hadn’t had a benefactor like my old veterinarian?” She gave me a sudden big smile and added, “How old are you, Jack?”

  “I’ll never see fifty again.”

  “I’m almost forty-three.”

  “You’re a kid,” I said. “An infant, in this place.”

  And it was as if something had stabbed her. Her head jerked in my direction and my eyes were suddenly locked into the black lenses shielding her sightless ones and a shudder touched her shoulders.

  Then she took a deep breath and released what she was thinking. “What did you say?”

  “I said you were a kid.”

  There was a tautness to her expression, and her eyes seemed to search for me, then whatever she was looking for disappeared from her mental image and she whispered, “Strange.”

  “What is?”

  “Being called a kid,” she told me. “Why would I remember that?”

  And then I remembered it. I used to call her “kid.” I’d hold her tight and kiss her, tasting all the sweetness that she had and we’d talk about what we’d do when she grew up.

  No way would I have recounted any of those conversations to the guys at the station house. Career cops are funny people with the tightest association between partners and other cops, bonds nobody could break. But, hell, I couldn’t tell them I was wildly in love with a kid. The old-timers would have run me ragged. When Bettie disappeared in that wild abduction, the ranks closed behind me. I never let them open again.

  And now here I was.

  And who remembered anymore?

  Somebody remembered. I could feel it! Damn it, the years were only a hiatus, a period of waiting, and now it was almost over!

  Bettie said, “I have to feed Tacos. Would you like to help me?”

  “You need help to feed your dog?”

  “I need help to talk to my new neighbor. Your house has been empty ever since I’ve been here.”

  I said “Okay, young lady....”

  “You did it again.”

  “What?”

  “Called me a ‘young lady.’ That’s worse than ‘kid.’”

  “You’re younger than me,” I said.

  “Okay, no woman’s going to argue with that.”

  And once again I took her hand in mine and, without realizing it, our fingers intertwined and started speaking a silent language that only special people can understand, and at the top of the stairs Bettie said, “Jack....”

  “What?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “About what?”

  Her face turned toward me and she reached up and took off her sunglasses. And there were those eyes. Hazel. Pure hazel. The brown and the green swirled in them. How she found the line of vision to mine was something I didn’t know. She was looking at me, watching me, then she let a smile touch her lips.

  I snapped my fingers at the greyhound and damned if that dog didn’t smile at me. No tail-wagging, just a daggone smile.

  Back in New York City my street was nearly ready for the macadam medical examiner. Nobody had to tell me. I knew the progression of the gravediggers that tore up the entrails of a city and spit them out in some abandoned area that developers would discover and build upon. What was strange was that I didn’t care any more. The city was in a state of flux, blowing up like a fat man who had once been skinny and raunchy and enterprising but now was dropping into the mire of his own wealth. He was fat now. He was going to get fatter.

  Bettie said, “What are you thinking?”

  “You wouldn’t want to know, doll.”

  “Jack... you did it again.”

  “What?”

  “You... you called me ‘doll.’ “

  “That’s you all over, baby,” I said.

  Creases showed at the edges of her eyes and she told me, “It’s like hearing an echo. And echoes aren’t real.... Are they?”

  “Something else was there first,” I said quietly. “Something real generates echoes... kid.”

  She gave one of those girl shakes of the head that sent hair spilling across her face and her laugh had that Tinkerbell ring to it.

  “Well, let’s give my big mutt two cans of his favorite dish and a big bowl of biscuits.”

  I almost asked her what would come next but she beat me to the answer first. “Then you can tell me all about your past, since I don’t seem to have any.”

  “Police officers are sworn to secrecy,” I growled.

  “Baloney. They’re all writing books about it now. Some of them even made movies about their exploits. You ever know any of those cops, Jack?”

  “Eddie Egan,” I fired back. “He was a great cop.”

  “The French Connection episode?”

  I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me do it. “Among a lot of others.”

  “What did you do, Jack?”

  “Routine stuff,” I said. “Everything’s based on established routine in police work. That’s why we almost always nail the bad guy.”

  “And how was it when you had to leave your job?”

  “Until now, it’s been lousy.”

  She let out a little-girl giggle. “What’s happened to improve it?”

  “I suddenly got a new neighbor. In New York City you never have a new neighbor. They’re always the ‘people next door’ or the person you nod to in the elevator every morning when you leave for work.”

  She turned around and looked into my eyes. There was no identity recognition, just the crinkly movements at the corner of her mouth so that I knew she was intent upon every word I spoke when she told me, “I don’t want to be just... the person next door, Jack.”

  “Bettie... you’re the very special person next door.”

  Very lightly, her tongue touched her lips and they gleamed with a gentle wetness.

  She filled Tacos’ bowl with a big helping of his favorite supper and put it on the floor next to the water dish. The dog never moved. There was a peculiarity in his stance that was hard to define. His eyes seemed to be nailed to mine and the tip of his tail gave a minute twitch.

  I said, “Bettie, if I don’t kiss you I’m going to blow up like I swallowed a grenade.”

  “Tacos will kill you if you touch me.”

  “The hell he will,” I said and reached out for her, but not too far because she came right into my arms the way she used to and when our mouths touched it was like being smothered in fire of the most pleasurable pain possible. It wasn’t a long kiss. It only lasted for the years that had already gone by and absolutely made up for all the wild, crazy wait I’d had to sweat out, never knowing that this would happen.

  You can’t sustain moments like that for too long. We just stood there, and even when I closed my eyes I knew whom I had kissed, but it was not to be told. Not yet. And Bettie was seeing that same invisible thing too and squeezed my hands gently.

  I said, “Tacos didn’t try to bite me, kitten.”

  I looked down at the dog’s head, which came up to my hip, and damned if that big old animal wasn’t wearing a grin as wide as a mile. His heavy tail gave two mighty thumps against the floor and he let out another of those pleased yips.

  Very softly, Bettie said, “You’ve made another very good neighbor, Jack.”

  I let her words hang in the air, then said, “I’m sorry.”

  She answered, “Don’t be.”

  “I’ve just gotten here. One day and look at what has happened. You know what I suddenly feel like? A heel is what I feel like, taking advantage of—”

 
With her forefinger she touched my lips and said, “Do you know what I suddenly feel like?”

  There was no way I could answer that question logically.

  “I have no memory at all of my younger days. I’ve been told that I was very pretty and bright and had young men constantly try to get... how do you say it?... next to me.”

  And as suddenly as she mentioned it, she scowled, a brief flare of memory tugging up some hidden twist of recollection.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  For a good ten seconds she stood staring off into empty space. It was like a machine grinding away without sound. Wheels were spinning, but not propelling any energy to any of its memory banks.

  Blankly, she asked me, “Jack... Jack, what just happened?”

  “Something was coming back to you.”

  She shook her head and wiped her hand across her eyes.

  “From before your accident?” I suggested.

  The shake of her head was final. “It was nothing. I can’t remember any of it. Every once in a while it happens like that.”

  “Bettie... did that old vet ever get you in to see a psychiatrist when you were with him?”

  A shadow of a frown touched her face again and she nodded. “Several times. Why do you ask?”

  “Any conclusions on your case?”

  “Yes. There has been some sort of brain damage. Nothing life-threatening, but critical enough to cause memory lapse.” She stopped abruptly and took her lower lip between her teeth. “Do we have to talk about that?”

  Brain damage — two chilling words. The few amnesia cases I’d encountered over my cop years had been psychosomatic. Yet she seemed to be reacting to bits and scraps as I unintentionally jogged those brain cells, damaged or not....

  I ran my hand up her forearm and gave her a gentle squeeze. “Of course not, doll. I was just being curious... and stupid.”

  “No... it’s all right. I understand what sort of a curiosity I must be.” She smiled again and I wanted to kiss her again but didn’t push it.

  Then she added, “You’re just being a cop, aren’t you? Always asking questions.” She raised her palm and held it to my cheek. “You’re smiling,” she told me.

  “You’re pretty,” I told her.

  This time she took my hand and drew me into the living room. No one would have ever have thought she was blind. She led me to a large leather-covered chair and eased me into it, then clicked on the TV without any difficulty and sat down on the couch opposite me. The Weather Station came on and we sat watching, or in her case listening, a while. She leaned back against the cushions, stretched her legs out until her toes touched mine and said, “Jack... you are the first real visitor I’ve ever had in my house.”

  “That’s what neighbors are for.”

  Even if I had had my eyes closed I would have known she was grinning at me. “What’s so funny?” I asked gently.

  “It feels so natural, you and me.”

  “Why do you suppose?”

  “I don’t know.” She paused, then asked, “Do you?”

  She couldn’t see what I did, but I nodded. And she knew it, too.

  “And you’re not going to tell me, right?”

  I said, “Right. And now it’s time to leave. Until tomorrow, anyway.”

  But she knew I was hiding something. How do women always seem to know these things?

  Chapter Five

  New York newspapers do a heavy business in Florida. With a big percentage of the population wintering there, visiting another big chunk of their citizens who have already moved to the Sunshine State, the papers keep them well supplied with news from home. On page four of the issue I picked up was a two-column article that I could have skipped over if the name Credentials hadn’t popped right out of the text.

  Ray Burnwald, the owner of the business, had been shot twice and his personal office and adjacent files had been ransacked along with others that went back some twenty-five years. Others were pulled out of the racks, but hadn’t been opened because someone had heard the shots and notified the police. No computers had been taken, possibly because approaching sirens had warned the intruder off. No one seemed to know what he was after. Ray Burnwald was expected to be hospitalized for some time.

  Crimes like this are committed for one reason only: money, or some other type of financial gain. Those files were full of paperwork, not valuable artifacts of gold or jewelry that can be cashed out anywhere, but hard copy that dated to when computers were backed up on paper. All those files contained was information and the data couldn’t be too critical because it was stored in an easily accessed area.

  But was it worth enough to chance getting a murder charge wrapped around someone’s neck? That shooting was meant to be a killing one.

  I got hold of Sergeant Davy Ross at his new precinct number and asked him to look into the hit on Credentials and find out if Burnwald would be able to talk to me shortly. I sat by the phone for three hours, saw Bettie get picked up by a Sunset Lodge station wagon filled with a half dozen older women, had two pots of coffee and watched an old movie on TV before the call came in.

  Davy Ross had worked through the investigating officers on the case and all they had for evidence were the slugs they took out of Ray Burnwald’s body. Luckily, he was not in critical condition and would be glad to talk to me at any time. So would the investigating officers. They smelled something interesting going on, even though they had no fingerprints or incidental evidence from the crime scene. Two of Burnwald’s current employees, one of whom was in charge of the filing system, had no idea what the intruder was after, though he did mention that three of the folders seemed to have been more thoroughly perused than all the others. But on a check with duplicate information, nothing was missing.

  I asked Davy if he had the dates covered by those three folders and when he checked his notes he gave me the year, month and weeks of my requests.

  Over the phone Davy asked, “Watcha got on this deal, Jack?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  “But you’re thinking something.”

  “Damn right, Davy, but let me check it out a little further. I don’t want to drop any problems on the guys processing this. Let me know if you get a make on those slugs they took out of Burnwald.”

  “You got it, buddy. Anything else I can do?”

  “Not yet. Soon, maybe.”

  “The guys want to know how you’re doing.”

  “I’m hanging in there. How’s the street?”

  “The old lady’s still hanging out the window on her pillow.”

  “She was supposed to go to Elizabeth.”

  “Her daughter got sick. She’s due to come today, they tell me.”

  “Won’t they ever let that street die a decent death?”

  “Crazy. You take care, Jack. By the way, you need any mo... .45 ammo?”

  “We get it all for free down here. Besides, nobody’s around to shoot.”

  Davy let out a chuckle, said so long and hung up.

  I looked at the notes I had scratched on my lap pad. The dates of the most “perused” files were right before Bettie had been abducted.

  And there was that word again. Abducted. Killing her would have been easier.

  And what were they looking for in the old Credentials files? Nothing seemed to be missing.

  Three folders had been given more than a casual inspection.

  And those three folders were dated just before the hit on Bettie.

  Had something alerted Bettie to information in those files?

  Had Bettie removed the pertinent items herself, most likely to give to me?

  If so, Bettie had no memory at all about the event.

  Damn!

  Psychiatrists probe minds. They don’t operate. They don’t give physical therapy. They probe minds and try to make sense out of what’s there. Sometimes it works. They say bartenders are great at that too because their “patients” get bent out of shape with booze and hand the guy behind the bar a
ll kinds of gibberish he has to sort out to keep the gibberish from turning into a bar brawl. Cops have to play the same game to keep a lot of loudmouths from doing jail time and for being able to recognize the little mental slips and omissions the bad guys fabricate to ease out of an arrest.

  This job was not something we really studied at the Academy. It was strictly street smarts.

  I heard back from Davy Ross a few hours later. I recognized his voice, said, “Hi, buddy. What do you have?”

  “Forget any ID on those Burnwald slugs. They didn’t match any in the ID files, but photos of them are at hand. Most likely the shooter has already dropped the gun in the river and there are no witnesses who saw anyone make an entrance into the Credentials offices.”

  I nodded into the phone. “Thought it would be that way.”

  “What have you got in your mind, Jack?”

  “Nothing I can put into words, pal. I’ll be in touch when I can.”

  “Roger and out, Captain,” he said, then added with a laugh. “That’s G.I. talk, remember?”

  “How could I forget?” I told him.

  Before I could hang up, he said, “Hey, Jack!”

  “Yeah?”

  “Damn near forgot to tell you. I just saw old Bessie O’Brian, when her daughter picked her up. She told me something funny.”

  “Like what?”

  “She said she saw a guy wandering around that dead old street... reminded her of Bucky Mohler, who used to live down from her. You remember that piece of work, don’t you?”

  “Sure, Davy — and I remember the Blue Uptowners nailing Bucky with a stolen car. Mashed the hell out of him.”

  “Well, you know old Bessie. Whatever happened on that street, she’d know about.”

  “Yeah, she always was a reliable old bird, only this time she has to be off the track.”

  “You so sure?”

  “Bucky’s wallet and a dry cleaner’s ticket were in his pocket. Bloodstained, but readable.”

  “Maybe, Jack. But even his family couldn’t identify Bucky, at the morgue. And old Bessie says she saw him.”

  “Bessie’s older than dirt, Davy.”

  “So are we, Jack. So are we....”

  She knew I’d be coming over there.