Chapter 16
I stopped by the Doghouse and had a cup of coffee after I dropped Carstogi at the hotel. I talked with the waitresses, the cashier, the bartender. I asked them all the same thing. Did they know of a gum- chewing cabbie who might be involved in a prostitution ring? No one mentioned anybody right off, but then I didn’t expect them to. I had at least gotten the word out. That was worth something.
The apartment was close by. I went up just in case Anne was there. She wasn’t, although the subtle fragrance of her perfume lingered in the room. I lingered too, drinking it in. Anne Corley secondhand was better than no Anne Corley at all.
I went back to the department. There was a message on my desk saying that Peters, Watkins, and Powell were having a meeting in Powell’s office. I was expected to join them as soon as I returned. I looked at my watch. It was four-forty on Wednesday afternoon. It didn’t take a Philadelphia lawyer to figure out what the topic of discussion might be. If we arrested Carstogi right then, he wouldn’t stand a chance of getting out before Monday. By the time his seventy-two hours were up, it would be right in the middle of the weekend.
“Where’ve you been?” Powell growled as I came into the room.
“With Carstogi. We were looking for the place he went night before last.”
“I’ve checked with vice, Beau,” Peters said. “Gloria seems to be a popular professional name these days. At least ten have been booked for soliciting in the past three months. How about bringing Carstogi in to look at our pinup collection? Of course, all of them will just jump at the chance to have the book thrown at them one more time.”
“I’ll bet they will,” I said.
“Look,” Watkins interjected. “This Gloria story won’t hold water and you know it. Why’re you so dead set against Carstogi being our suspect?”
“He didn’t do it,” I insisted.
“Oh, for Chrissakes!” Powell was exasperated. “Whose side are you on, Beaumont? He’s got motive, no alibi, physical proximity. What more do you want? I say book him. We’ll never get a confession out of him while he’s down at the Warwick living in the fucking lap of luxury. What if he blows town while we’re standing around arguing about it? Let’s get him in here and ask him some bare bones questions.”
“What about Brother Benjamin?” I countered. “He lives nearby. Did we get anything back from Illinois on him? What if he had the same kind of beef with Brodie that Carstogi did?”
Watkins shuffled through a sheaf of papers. “Benjamin Mason alias Clinton Jason. Wonderful guy. Ex-junkie, ex-small-time hood. According to this, he stopped being in trouble about the time he hooked up with Brodie. At least there haven’t been any arrests since then.”
“Is that when he stopped renewing his driver’s license?” Peters asked.
Watkins consulted the paper. “Looks that way. How’d you know that?”
Peters shrugged. “Lucky guess,” he said.
Powell had been sitting quietly. “Now wait a minute. What’s all this about Brother Benjamin? You got anything solid that points to him?”
“We’ve got as much on him as we do on Carstogi,” I said.
“Brother Benjamin didn’t have a plane reservation to leave town yesterday. Carstogi did. I want him in here for questioning. Is that clear?” Powell was in no mood for argument.
“It’s clear, all right.” I could see I was out-gunned. “But I think you’re making a hell of a mistake.”
A newspaper had been lying open on Powell’s desk. He picked it up. “Talk about mistakes. Since when do investigators become personally involved with someone from a current case? Maxwell Cole is having a field day. Who is this broad anyway?”
“She’s an author,” I said maybe a tad too quickly. “She’s collecting material for a book. That’s why she was at the funeral. It has nothing to do with the investigation.”
“Right,” Powell said, dragging the word out sarcastically. “If you’re going to have a little roll in the hay, I’d suggest you do it a little less publicly.”
Peters rose to his feet, placing himself between Powell’s words and my flaring temper. “All right, we’ll go down and bring him in,” he said.
We waited for an elevator. I was still fuming. “You know, Powell does have a point,” Peters said. “Maybe you should cool it for a while.”
“Mind your own fucking business,” I muttered.
We started for the Warwick in silence. In my fifteen years on homicide, I’ve developed a gut instinct. I know when it’s right, and when it isn’t. This wasn’t. Carstogi wasn’t a killer. He didn’t have the killer instinct, the solid steel core it takes to pull the trigger. I knew I did. I had done it once. Maybe it takes one to know one.
“Wait,” I said. “I want to go see Jeremiah. Before we pick up Carstogi.”
Peters clicked his tongue. “You are one stubborn son-of-a-bitch, Beaumont. I’ll say that for you.” But he headed for Ballard.
The traffic was snarled on Fifteenth. We had to wait for the drawbridge. “You almost blew it on the driver’s license thing,” I said. “The only way you could have put that together was from the sermon on the tape.”
“Sorry,” Peters said.
I had written Jeremiah’s address in my notebook. We found it without difficulty. Jeremiah was sitting on the front steps of a tiny bungalow. He watched us get out of the car.
“Your folks in there?” I asked, approaching the steps where he was sitting.
He shook his head without getting up. I sat down beside him. “I’m here alone,” he said.
“How are things?”
He shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”
“You been in any more hot water?”
“Probably am now,” he said. I knew he meant for talking to us.
“Were your folks both home Monday night?”
“You mean after we left the church?”
I nodded. He continued. “Someone asked me that yesterday. I already told him.”
“Tell me, Jeremiah.”
“We were maybe the last ones to leave. Mom and I waited in the car for a long time.”
“Was your stepfather upset when he came to the car?”
Jeremiah nodded gravely. “He and Mom had a big fight. They yelled at each other.”
“What did they fight about?”
“Someone at church.”
“What did they say?”
He called one of the ladies a…“ He groped for the word.
“A whore.”
“Which one, do you know?”
“Sister Suzanne.”
“Do you know if he left the house again? Later?”
“I don’t know. I went to sleep.”
Peters had been listening to this exchange. Now he became a part of it. “Does anyone call Benjamin Uncle Charlie? Have you ever heard that?”
Jeremiah shook his head.
“You ever hear of an Uncle Charlie?”
“Only Angel’s.”
“Does he belong to Faith Tabernacle? Is he a member?”
“No. I never saw him. Angel said he lived far away from here. She said he was nice, that he promised sometime he’d take her for a ride in his van. Some of the other kids thought she made him up.”
We asked Jeremiah for more details, but he clammed up. He kept watching the street nervously, as though afraid his folks might drive up any minute. We beat a hasty retreat so they wouldn’t see us talking to him. I didn’t want them to know we had been there. I didn’t want Jeremiah to have to suffer any consequences.
