Read Online Midnight Rain: A Detective Jack Dunning Novel by Arlette Lees - Free Book Online
Authors: Arlette Lees
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dog and climbs to the road.
His youngest daughter appears above the ditch. “Is something wrong, Daddy?”
“I want everyone back in the truck. We need to find a telephone.”
When her father uses his serious voice, she knows better than to ask why.
* * * *
Angel is curled in sleep, her golden hair fanned out across the pillow, her skin fever hot. The sheet has slipped from her shoulder and there’s a four-fingered bruise on her upper arm. I ease from the bed and walk to the closet. I slide the hangers quietly along the pole and find her raincoat. The fabric is torn around the missing button. It did not fall off. It was ripped off, adding to the credibility of Tom’s story. Angel is still asleep when I take the elevator to the lobby.
“Morning, Hank,” I say, pouring coffee from an urn at the desk.
“Morning, Jack. It’s going to be another windy one,” he says. “Someone dropped off Angel’s lost umbrella.”
“Do you know who?”
“I was back in the office, but whoever it was dropped a cigarette ash as long as Jimmie Durante’s nose on the counter.
I smile. “Would you please hold the calls to 210. Angel needs to sleep in this morning.”
“Sure nuff.”
I sit in the lounge with my coffee and cigarette and flip through the newspaper. There’s a brief notice about Lulu’s disappearance and a description of the car she was driving. When I finish my smoke I make rounds of the elderly tenants to make sure they’re still alive and kicking. When I check on Roland he asks if I’ve found his car yet. When I say no, he tells me not to come back until I have.
With the matchbook in my pocket, I drive to the station in the black Cadillac that once belonged to Axel Teague. Since dead men don’t drive, The Chief gave me the keys for my part in the gangster’s demise. After two years of bouncing over the back roads and splashing through creek beds, it’s picked up a ding or two since its glory days.
I tap on the door frame of the Chief’s office.
“Chief, you got a minute?”
“Come on in, Jack. Aren’t you off today?” he says. “If you’re here about Lulu Barker, I got nothing new to tell you. She could be anywhere depending on how much gas was in the tank.”
“I’ve got something else on my mind.”
Chief Dan Garvey is a rock-solid, good-looking man in his fifties with snow-white hair and denim blue eyes. He has six kids. All boys. He jokes that he married a Catholic girl with bad rhythm. Dan is that curious mixture of back-slapping affability and thinly disguised menace, the kind who’s a good drinking buddy, but someone you don’t want to cross. He’d find no contradiction in going to Mass on Sunday and beating a confession out of some poor slob on Monday.
“Whatcha got there?” he says.
I hand him the matchbook and smell whiskey on his breath. “It’s a license plate number. I thought you might check it out for me.” He gives it a cursory glance and hands it back.
“Don’t have to. It belongs to Leland Dietrich’s Straight-Eight Auburn Speedster. Custom yellow paint, red leather upholstery. The only thing flashier is Jose Garcia’s fighting cock.”
“Dietrich? Never heard of him.”
“You remember Red O’Hara though.”
“I liked him. He was a standup guy as far as bootleggers go.”
“Dietrich is married to his daughter Frances. Now that Prohibition is over she’s gone legit. I hear she’s worth even more than Red was in his hay day. Some people think Leland’s the one did her old man in, but nobody can connect the dots.”
“What does he do?”
The Chief laughs. “As little as possible from what I hear. A little gambling; a little whoring. He used to be tight with Axel Teague.”
“That’s quite a resume.”
“You want to tell me what’s going on?”
“I don’t know yet.” The Chief doesn’t press the issue.
“You know that colonial outside of town, the one with the mile of white fencing?” he says.
“On Hilliker Road? I haven’t
His youngest daughter appears above the ditch. “Is something wrong, Daddy?”
“I want everyone back in the truck. We need to find a telephone.”
When her father uses his serious voice, she knows better than to ask why.
* * * *
Angel is curled in sleep, her golden hair fanned out across the pillow, her skin fever hot. The sheet has slipped from her shoulder and there’s a four-fingered bruise on her upper arm. I ease from the bed and walk to the closet. I slide the hangers quietly along the pole and find her raincoat. The fabric is torn around the missing button. It did not fall off. It was ripped off, adding to the credibility of Tom’s story. Angel is still asleep when I take the elevator to the lobby.
“Morning, Hank,” I say, pouring coffee from an urn at the desk.
“Morning, Jack. It’s going to be another windy one,” he says. “Someone dropped off Angel’s lost umbrella.”
“Do you know who?”
“I was back in the office, but whoever it was dropped a cigarette ash as long as Jimmie Durante’s nose on the counter.
I smile. “Would you please hold the calls to 210. Angel needs to sleep in this morning.”
“Sure nuff.”
I sit in the lounge with my coffee and cigarette and flip through the newspaper. There’s a brief notice about Lulu’s disappearance and a description of the car she was driving. When I finish my smoke I make rounds of the elderly tenants to make sure they’re still alive and kicking. When I check on Roland he asks if I’ve found his car yet. When I say no, he tells me not to come back until I have.
With the matchbook in my pocket, I drive to the station in the black Cadillac that once belonged to Axel Teague. Since dead men don’t drive, The Chief gave me the keys for my part in the gangster’s demise. After two years of bouncing over the back roads and splashing through creek beds, it’s picked up a ding or two since its glory days.
I tap on the door frame of the Chief’s office.
“Chief, you got a minute?”
“Come on in, Jack. Aren’t you off today?” he says. “If you’re here about Lulu Barker, I got nothing new to tell you. She could be anywhere depending on how much gas was in the tank.”
“I’ve got something else on my mind.”
Chief Dan Garvey is a rock-solid, good-looking man in his fifties with snow-white hair and denim blue eyes. He has six kids. All boys. He jokes that he married a Catholic girl with bad rhythm. Dan is that curious mixture of back-slapping affability and thinly disguised menace, the kind who’s a good drinking buddy, but someone you don’t want to cross. He’d find no contradiction in going to Mass on Sunday and beating a confession out of some poor slob on Monday.
“Whatcha got there?” he says.
I hand him the matchbook and smell whiskey on his breath. “It’s a license plate number. I thought you might check it out for me.” He gives it a cursory glance and hands it back.
“Don’t have to. It belongs to Leland Dietrich’s Straight-Eight Auburn Speedster. Custom yellow paint, red leather upholstery. The only thing flashier is Jose Garcia’s fighting cock.”
“Dietrich? Never heard of him.”
“You remember Red O’Hara though.”
“I liked him. He was a standup guy as far as bootleggers go.”
“Dietrich is married to his daughter Frances. Now that Prohibition is over she’s gone legit. I hear she’s worth even more than Red was in his hay day. Some people think Leland’s the one did her old man in, but nobody can connect the dots.”
“What does he do?”
The Chief laughs. “As little as possible from what I hear. A little gambling; a little whoring. He used to be tight with Axel Teague.”
“That’s quite a resume.”
“You want to tell me what’s going on?”
“I don’t know yet.” The Chief doesn’t press the issue.
“You know that colonial outside of town, the one with the mile of white fencing?” he says.
“On Hilliker Road? I haven’t
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