After another twenty minutes, the men finished their beers and stood up to leave. Will feared that she might leave with them, but she didn’t. One, a balding man quite a bit older than she, said, “Good night, Glenda.”
She remained alone in the booth, and Will walked over. “Mind if I join you?” he asked, holding up his beer. “There are no free tables.”
“All right,” she replied, barely glancing in his direction. Instead she took a cigarette from her purse and started to light it.
He slid into the booth. “There’s no smoking here,” he reminded her.
She looked up and studied his face, her eyes just a bit blurry from drink. “What are you, a cop?”
“That’s right.” He showed her the badge, carefully covering the “Auxiliary” part.
“Christ, I sure get all the winners! Am I under arrest?”
“Not as long as you don’t light that cigarette.”
She squinted at him. “Are you here for business or pleasure?”
“Business at the moment. You’re Glenda, right?”
“That’s me.”
“Got a last name? I’m Will Blackstone.”
“Glenda Briggs. What do you want, Will Blackstone?”
He shifted in the booth, thinking she’d have a nice smile if it wasn’t for a chipped tooth on the right side. “I’m looking for Samuel Gutman. I think you know him.”
She shook her head. “Never heard of him.”
“You have his cell phone in your purse.”
Her eyes widened with something like fear. “I don’t — ”
“Just tell me the truth, and nothing will happen to you.”
She considered the possibilities. Finally she said, “A man I was drinking with earlier gave it to me. It rang while he had it and he answered, but then he hung up and gave me the phone. He said I could make calls with it but couldn’t receive any.”
“What’s his name?”
“Gus something. I don’t know his last name.”
“You’re sure it was Gus and not Gut, short for Gutman?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted.
“What did he look like?”
“Ordinary-looking, nothing special.”
Will was suddenly aware that he had no idea what the dead or missing Samuel Gutman looked like. “Where can I reach you if I have more questions?”
“I can give you this cell phone number.”
“I already have that,” he said. “How about your home phone?”
“I . . . I’m staying with someone right now. You couldn’t call me there.”
“Can I meet you here tomorrow night? Around seven?”
“I guess so,” she conceded.
“Good. I’ll be looking for you, Glenda. Don’t let me down.”
ON SATURDAY MORNING, Sadie appeared at his place before ten o’clock, as she often did on weekends. They’d been a couple for nearly a year, and he knew she was good for him. But this Saturday, he saw at once that something was wrong. Her usual sunny face was clouded over, and she didn’t even have a morning kiss for him. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
She brushed the dark hair back from her eyes. “Will, one of my girlfriends called to say she saw you in Schuster’s last night with another woman.”
Talk about his Friday night luck! Now he’d have to tell her everything. “It’s just a misunderstanding. I didn’t even know the girl. I was just questioning her.”
“About what? How much she charges?”
“My God, what do you think I am? Don’t you trust me by now? I was questioning her about a murder.”
“You do detective work for Techno-Bio now?”
“No, it’s . . . Look, when I quit the police auxiliary, I never turned in my badge. I still have it. I’ve been following up on a supposed double murder.”
“You’re impersonating a police officer?”
“Not really. I just wanted to get some information out of this woman.”
“Will, that’s a criminal offense! Are you trying to get yourself arrested?”
He told her the whole story then, about how he’d found the overlooked address book while cleaning the bathroom at the loft. And ringing the missing man’s cell phone number only to hear Schuster’s familiar jazz combo. Then ringing it again to spot this woman, Glenda Briggs, with the phone. “I’m meeting her tonight, just for a few minutes,” he admitted. “I need to get a picture of Gutman that she might be able to identify.”
Sadie sighed in exasperation. “Look, call that detective you’re friendly with, Tim Press. Tell him the whole story. And turn in that badge before you get in real trouble!”
“Sadie — ”
“Will you do that for me?”
“I’ll call him Monday morning,” he promised.
“Not Monday. Today!”
“All right.” He went to the phone, figuring there was a better-than-even chance Press would be off duty on a Saturday morning.
But the familiar voice answered, “Detective Press, Homicide.”
“Tim, this is Will Blackstone. How are you doing?”
“Fine, Will. What can I do for you?” The words were friendly enough, but there might have been a certain coolness to his voice.
“Could I come see you this morning? It’s a long story, but I’ll make it short.”
“Come on down. I should be here till noon unless we get a call.”
He hung up and told Sadie he was on his way to meet Tim Press. She smiled and kissed him. “Now you’re being sensible.”
Will remembered Sadie’s words when he sat across the desk from Press in the squad room, but he also remembered the badge in his pocket and his scheduled meeting with Glenda Briggs that evening. He simply could not abandon the case when he might be on the verge of uncovering important information.
“What can I do for you, Will?” the detective asked.
“You know I work on cleanups at Techno-Bio. This week we’ve been cleaning up a loft following what appears to be a double homicide, only there was just one body found.”
Tim Press nodded. “Sergeant Rafferty’s case. We’ve talked about it.”
“He told me the DNA identified the second victim as a convicted felon named Samuel Gutman. I may have a lead on whether he’s dead or alive, but I need a mug shot for a witness to identify.”
Tim Press frowned. “You got any information, you should turn it over to Sergeant Rafferty.”
“I will as soon as I’m sure of it. I just need a mug shot of him.”
“Look, Will, I think you’ve got great potential if you don’t screw up.” He looked away and then back again. “Cranston tells me he fired your ass from the auxiliary for smoking pot on duty.”
“That was a terrible mistake. It’ll never happen again.”
Press sighed and went over to the next desk to rummage through a case folder. He found a mug shot and ran it through their copy machine. “You got one more chance, Will, that’s all. If you find out anything, you call me or Rafferty at once. Don’t go playing cop on your own.”
Will looked at the copy of the mug shot. It showed a white man with black hair and a beard. Without the hair, there was no telling what he looked like. “This is Gutman?”
“That’s what he looked like when he was arrested five years ago.”
Will put it in his pocket. “Thanks, Detective.” He left the squad room without mentioning the badge in his pocket. He could only hope that when Glenda Briggs saw the photo, it might trigger a memory.
That evening he arrived at Schuster’s at quarter to seven, to be certain of not missing her. The place was already filling up, with one group of diners waiting for a table. He ordered a beer and stood at the bar. By five after seven she hadn’t appeared, and he had a chilly feeling that she’d never intended to. But he had to give her a half hour, at least. It was ten after seven when he heard the ambulance siren approaching down the street. A customer came in to say that a woman had been hit by a car.
Will left hi
s beer and hurried outside. He could see the flashing red lights in the next block, where a crowd had already gathered. He fought his way through until a police officer stopped him. “What happened here?” he asked.
“Hit-and-run driver. Step back, please.”
He caught just a glimpse of her bloodied face before the ambulance technician shook his head and pulled the sheet over it. Her lips were pulled back in a final grimace of pain, and he could see that chipped tooth on the right side. Glenda Briggs wouldn’t be meeting him tonight.
ON SUNDAY HE told Sadie about it, because there was no concealing his state of agitation over the woman’s death. “I showed her the badge, let her think I was a detective, and now she’s dead because of it.”
“Don’t be foolish, Will. Traffic accidents happen in this city every day. Have you told Detective Press about it?”
“Not yet. I need a few more days. That woman — I dreamed about her last night.”
“Maybe if I went away, you’d start dreaming of me.”
“Sadie, please — ”
“Will, you’ve got to snap out of this. You’re not a real detective, and you never will be, at the rate you’re going. Forget about that woman, turn in the badge, and get on with your life.”
Sadie was right — traffic accidents happened every day. Glenda Briggs’s death rated only a couple of paragraphs on an inside page. She’d been thirty-one years old and a medical technician, and police were seeking leads on the vehicle that killed her. Something clicked in Will’s memory. The missing Samuel Gutman had gone to prison for stealing drugs from a nursing home where he worked. Was it possible that Glenda had worked at the same place and met him there?
On Monday after work, he decided to research Gutman’s past. He couldn’t go back to Tim Press for more information without revealing his connection with the dead woman, so he went instead to the public library, winding through microfilms of five-year-old daily papers until he found the article on Gutman’s conviction. He’d been employed at the Shady Lark Nursing Home in one of the suburbs. During Tuesday’s lunch hour, Will changed into a suit and tie, telling Santos he might be a bit late getting back.
He drove out to Shady Lark, a sprawling single-story building that housed about fifty patients. He showed his badge and asked to see the administrator. After a brief wait, he was ushered into an office, where a man in a white coat was going over some spreadsheets. “I’m Frank Caster. What can I do for you, Detective?” he asked.
“I’m working on a case involving Samuel Gutman, an employee of yours who was convicted five years ago of stealing drugs.”
The man nodded. “That was before my time here, but I know the details.”
“Right now we’re investigating the death of a medical technician named Glenda Briggs. I need to know if she was ever employed here by you, as a nurse, as a technician, or in any other capacity. Especially if she was employed while Samuel Gutman was working here.”
Caster went to a file drawer and flipped through a number of folders. “Well, she wasn’t here while he was. I’ll check before and after.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
Caster completed the computer search with a shake of his head. “No one named Glenda Briggs ever worked here. I even checked for any Glendas, thinking Briggs could be a married name. But we’ve had no Glendas at all here. I guess it’s not too common a name anymore.”
“Thanks for checking,” Will said, hiding his disappointment.
He always saw Sadie on Wednesdays, and against his better judgment, he again started talking about the investigation. “I thought that was over, Will. You promised me — ”
“I know. But I can’t help feeling I’m responsible for her death. I think Gutman is still alive. I think he answered the cell phone at Schuster’s when I called his number. Then he gave the phone to Glenda to get rid of it. Later, when I traced it to her and questioned her, she lied about it. She said she was staying with someone, and I’m betting that someone was Gutman. When she told him a detective had traced the phone to her, he panicked. She was on her way to meet me last Saturday when he ran her down with his car.”
“If he lost all that blood in the shooting, how could he be out drinking at Schuster’s just a few days later?”
It was a good question, and he didn’t have the answer. It’s just that nothing else seemed to make sense. He was sorry he’d brought it up, and glad when the conversation shifted to other topics. It was only when he took her home after midnight that she said, “Forget that badge, Will. You’re not a cop. Leave it to them.”
On Thursday afternoon, he and Santos were working together in a West Side garage that had been used by a religious cult for the ritual slaughter of animals. “I would prefer a good clean gunshot victim to this,” Santos complained. “Isn’t that right, Dick Tracy?”
“I don’t like it any better than you do.”
They were wearing gloves and biohazard suits, but somehow, in digging up the animal remains, a hidden razor blade sliced through the arm of Santos’s suit. It wasn’t a deep cut, but he was bleeding, and Will worried about an infection. “You’d better see a doctor,” he said. “I’ll finish up here.”
“Hell, leave it till tomorrow. We’re only a block from Dr. Soloman’s office. That might be easier than going to emergency for a little thing like this.”
“I’ll go with you,” Will said. It seemed the least he could do.
They waited in the office for nearly an hour before the doctor could squeeze Santos in between other patients. Finally he came out with a small bandage and some pills to fight possible infection. “How you feeling?” Will asked.
“I’m fine. Let’s go have a beer.”
“Can you drink with that medication?”
Santos snorted. “I’ll drink first, before I start taking it.”
Will didn’t want to go to Schuster’s, so he steered them to a nearby neighborhood bar. Over beers, he said, “We’ll have to finish that job tomorrow.”
“There’s not much left, so long as we avoid razor blades.” He touched the bandage on his arm. “That Soloman is pretty good.”
Will took a sip of beer. “I’ve never been to him.”
“You know that woman who was killed by the hit-and-run? She worked in his office. They’re all pretty broken up about it.”
“Really?” Will downed the rest of his beer and said, “I’ve got to get going. See you in the morning.”
But he didn’t go anywhere. He spent an hour walking alone. This time he knew he could break the case, if only he could fit all the pieces together.
THEY FINISHED THE garage job early Friday afternoon, and Santos went off to see what was on tap for Monday. Will phoned Sadie to tell her he couldn’t see her till later. “There’s something I have to do first.”
“Are you still trying to play detective, Will?”
“I’m not playing. I think I’ve solved this case. I have to go back up to the loft where Hashid was killed.”
“If you won’t stop this right now, I’m calling Detective Press,” she told him. “Maybe he can knock some sense into you.” She hung up before he could reply.
He made his way across town to the loft on Chestnut Street. From the road, he could see lights and assumed that Palmeto’s people were sprucing up the place for the next tenant. He made his way up the two flights of stairs to the apartment. A painter was just leaving with his brushes and cans, and Carlos Palmeto himself was giving the job a final inspection.
“Hello,” he said when he saw Will. “You’re one of Santos’s crew, aren’t you?”
“That’s right. Will Blackstone. I helped clean up after the murders.”
“Terrible thing! It might take me a year to rent this place again.”
Will moved a few steps closer. “I’ve taken a special interest in this case, especially since Glenda Briggs was killed.”
Palmeto frowned. “Is that a name I should know?”
“Let me tell you a story. A man named Samuel Gu
tman is convicted of stealing drugs from a nursing home and sent off to prison. When he gets out, he decides to start a new life and is quite successful at it, probably using a name off a cemetery tombstone to get a social security card and other false identification. But his former life still exists. He needs to kill off his former self, and he hits upon an ingenious method of doing just that. He wants Hashid out of here anyway because of his drug dealing, so he kills him and splashes around a couple of quarts of his own blood, knowing the police would have a DNA match to identify him. His Gutman identity vanishes completely, and the police are satisfied he’s dead even though they don’t have a body.”
“How would he get a couple of quarts of his own blood without killing himself?” Palmeto asked.
“Simple. He goes to the doctor’s office twice a week for a phlebotomy, removing a pint of blood each time because it contains too much iron. The procedure is performed by a nurse technician named Glenda Briggs, who gives him the blood instead of disposing of it in the usual manner. When I discovered she worked for your doctor, the whole thing fell into place.”
“You think you can prove a crazy story like that?”
“Of course I can. The blood at the murder scene will show a high concentration of iron, and your DNA will identify you as Samuel Gutman. You never looked Hispanic in the first place. The doctor’s record will show that Glenda Briggs performed your phlebotomy twice a week. And I suspect the police will find evidence on your car linking it to her hit-and-run death. Once she told you I’d traced the cell phone to her, you had to kill her before she talked to me again.”
“She said it was a detective who questioned her, and she was scared she’d be sent to prison.”
Will showed his badge. “I’m taking you in, Gutman. Maybe Hashid deserved to die, but not Glenda Briggs.”
He nodded. “I’ll get my jacket.”