David A. Schwinghammer
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Detective Black is more concerned with winning his wife, Melanie, back than finding Dorie Bendix.
Chapter 10
A Mighty Huff
“In jealousy there is more self-love than love.”
–-La Rochefoucauld
Black had spent the weekend drinking at O’Leary’s Sports Bar. The knuckles on his left hand were swollen. Seems like he remembered a fistfight.
He sat back in his chair with his boots up on the desk, dated his letter to Melanie, thinking about what he should say. Remorse, she’d like that. He braced the clipboard against his knee and wrote, ‟Melanie, I hate myself for what I did to you; I’ll kill myself if you don’t take me back.” Nah, she’d never buy that. He crushed the paper and banked it off the wall into in the trash, alongside the other crumpled yellow balls of paper.
His phone buzzed. ‟Detective Black. Tom Bluster on the phone.”
He punched a button, and Bluster, his voice blurred by static, came on the speaker phone. ‟Detective Black, I’ve been following Zelnick. Friday night, he parked his VW in the lot at Cedar Grove and didn’t come out until this morning.”
“What was he doing in there, searching Bendix’s apartment?”
“Looked like a shack job. Came out with this big brunette, who kissed him goodbye.”
Black lit a cigar, his fourth of the day. “Did you get her name?”
“I called the manager, described the woman. He said it sounded like Shirley Anders, Dorie’s next-door neighbor.”
Black coughed, his throat raw from all the smoking. “I think I talked to her. That’s a whole lot of woman for Charlie Zelnick. Reminds me of when Lisa Marie married Michael Jackson. Stay with him.” He punched a button, turning off the speaker phone.
Maybe he could appeal to Melanie’s sense of nostalgia. They’d had some good times in college, before the baby came. The phone buzzed again. ‟Detective Black. Freddie Lopez is here. He has a report on Dorie Bendix’s boyfriend.”
‟Send him in.”
Freddie Lopez was temporary plain clothes, just got his sergeant’s stripes. Very small head, used a lot of mousse, the usual goatee. Black moved over to the door, shook hands with Lopez, and they both took a seat on Black’s ratty couch.
‟Mrs. Bendix was able to give me two names,” Lopez said, with a trace of barrio accent. ‟Roger Dunfee; he’s a basketball player at St. Cloud State University. You know where that is?”
‟Yeah, I scored two touchdowns on them my freshman year. Selke Field, that’s the name of their stadium.”
Lopez flipped a page in his notebook. ‟They went together for six months. I called him. He can see you Friday, if you want.”
‟Shit, that must be at least a three hour drive. Okay, maybe. Who’s the other guy?”
Lopez scratched the angry welts on his chin and cheek. “A boy she knew in high school,” he said. ‟Mike Turner. He lives in California. An engineer for Boeing. I’ll bet he makes big bucks. I think we can safely eliminate him.”
‟Yeah, probably. I’ll handle it from here. Thanks Fred.” Black shook Lopez’s thin, feminine hand, and the junior detective left.
Black would call this Roger Dodger first and see if he had an alibi. Not yet though; he’d go for a little ride first. Take the old Intrepid for a cruise; she needed exercise. Lila had come up with an address for Bertram M. Cooper, one of the grounds keepers at Cedar Grove apartments.
As he was about to hit the pavement, the phone burped again. ‟Detective Black,” Lila said, his name sounding like something that oozed filth. ‟We have an anonymous caller with some information on the Bendix kidnapping. Want me to run a trace?”
‟Lila, you know better than to bother me with this.”
“This guy sounds like the real deal. He saw your name in the paper, and he’ll only talk to you. He says you won’t regret it. You want that trace? He won’t give his name.”
‟Do that, Lila. Stall him first. Tell him I’m in a meeting, but you’ll get me. I’ll pick up in about a minute.”
Probably another crazy, but what the hell, all he really had was the name Marv. Probably wasn’t even a real tree pro. Black lit another cigar and took a drag. God his throat was raw. Finally, he picked up the phone. ‟Detective Black here. You have some information on the Bendix kidnapping?”
“I need to know about the reward first.”
Traffic in the background. Lots of it. The caller was near the freeway. ‟Well, sir, there’s a five thousand dollar reward for information leading to the capture of the man who took Dorie Bendix.”
‟How do I get my money? How do I know I’ll even get any money?”
“I get your name. You make a statement. We have the dispatcher notarize it. If we catch the man, you get your money.”
“I don’t know. This is a really good friend of mine. Hey, what’s that clicking sound? You’re trying to trace me, aren’t you?”
‟Nah, we’d need the telephone company to do that. Just stay on the line. I need your name.”
“I’ll call you back.” The guy hung up.
Black buzzed Lila. ‟Did you get the guy, Lila?”
‟We think so. We’ve got a patrol car heading in that direction.”
‟Good work, Lila.” Conceivably Black wouldn’t be making any trip to Minnesota after all.
#
The call had come from a 7-11 pay phone, and the patrolman had assured Black there were no suspicious characters hanging about. What the hell, the guy would call back–-if he wanted the reward money.
Black got his leather coat from the coat tree in the corner.
Would Melanie be home at this hour? He had to give her credit. After the divorce, she’d started her own little mentoring service. She had a master’s degree from South Dakota State in creative writing, and she’d even published a romance novel. It hadn’t done too well, but at least it gave her something to put on her résumé. She could work at home and take care of the baby.
Rather than trying to find Bertram Cooper, Black drove the Intrepid over to Melanie’s apartment complex, and sat in his car listening to Booker T. and the M.G.’s on his stereo.
A BMW was parked on the street in front of the apartment building. After only a few minutes, a man wearing a Green Bay Packer starter jacket went in the building. No reason to get upset. There were plenty of other women in the building. Must be. Black dialed Melanie’s number. A man answered. ‟Wrong number,” Black said, and hung up. It was the guy in the starter jacket. Must be.
His cell phone beeped. It was Lila.
‟We have a call from a Rory Treblinka, the apartment manager at Dorie Bendix’s building. Says he’s been trying to get in touch with you all weekend. He says he saw that Marv person again. Parked in front of the building staring at the front door.”
Black didn’t know what to say for a moment.
‟Are you there, Detective Black?” she said.
“Ah, just thinking. Did he get the license number?”
“No, he didn’t say anything about that. He sounded pretty scared, though. Do you want his number?”
“I’ve got it here someplace in my book. I’ll call him. Thanks, Lila.” Anybody with a grain of sense would have gotten that license number.
He studied the BMW. Numbnuts in the Packer starter jacket could never afford a car like that. But who was the clown in Melanie’s apartment?
Maybe he’d wait here until the bastard came out and ask him. He changed the cassette on the stereo. He was in the mood for a little Miles Davis. Just as he was about to doze off, Melanie came out of the building, holding the arm of a man in a mocha-colored topcoat. The sidewalk was glazed, slippery. She must have been afraid she’d fall; she’d never been the type to wear proper footwear in this kind of weather. Once she’d broken her arm from a fall on the church steps. He’d wanted to sue; she’d talked him out of it since it was the Church and all.
Black jumped out of the car, flung the door shut, the sound booming like two wrecks colliding in a demolition derby, and stomped toward the apartment building. Melanie saw him almost immediately. Her eyes grew wide, and she froze. The doofus she was with was a little shit with slicked back hair, wearing an expensive-looking topcoat, mohair or something.
They stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, waiting for him. The shrimp smiled as Black drew closer.
‟What are you doing here, Jim? The judge said . . .”
Now Pat Riley Jr. spooked, his mouth gaping like a dental patient. She’d told him about the court order. Black had an acid taste in his mouth and his stomach hurt.
Apparently Melanie decided not to make a big thing about it because she said, ‟Jim, this is my agent Harvey Vance.”
Shortstuff offered his hand and said, ‟Heard a lot about you, Mr. Black.”
Black shook the guy’s hand. He had a handshake like a fish. ‟Call me Jim,” Black said.
“Mel tells me you’re investigating the Bendix case.” Nobody ever called Melanie Mel, except Jim Black.
Black wished the midget would shut up. He gave Melanie the once over. She’d cut her hair. Another slap in the face. He’d told her he loved her long hair.
‟Yeah, we just got a lead,” Black said. ‟We should find her one way or another within the next week.”
‟You don’t think she’s dead, do you Jim?” She had such beautiful brown eyes.
‟So, Harvey . . . how much you get for helping my wife get published?” Harvey was carrying a little briefcase, couldn’t have been more than a few inches wide.
‟That’s none of your business,” Melanie said.
Harvey touched her arm. ‟That’s okay, Mel. I don’t mind. We get fifteen percent usually, twenty if we need to hire a co-agent. Nothing up front. It all comes out of the advance and the royalties.”
‟So then fifteen percent of nothing is nothing, right? You know what? I think you guys are the biggest bunch of leeches I’ve ever seen. When I was at South Dakota State this damn agent almost got me suspended.”
‟Jim used to be a football player. He was really quite good. Could have gone pro if he hadn’t hurt his knee. Look, Jim, we have an appointment. We really have to go . . . ”
“I’ll bet you do, an appointment between the sheets. Have you been sleeping with my wife, Harvey?”
Melanie blanched, then moved between them, placed her hand on his chest, and shoved him backwards. Something else new. She had long fingernails, painted bright red; she’d always bitten them when she’d been with him.
‟My personal life is none of your business,” she said. ‟I’ll sleep with anyone I please.”
A veil of crimson washed over Black’s eyes. He grabbed Melanie’s arm and pitched her into a snowbank. Black swung from the heels, nailing Harvey right in the mouth. A tooth plinked onto the sidewalk. Black bent over and picked it up. Melanie had managed to get her head out of the snowbank and was now raising a ruckus. It wasn’t exactly a scream; it was more like the sound a dog would make who’d just been kicked. Black tried to help her out of the snow, but she slapped his hand away.
Harvey stood there bleeding from the mouth. Black was no longer angry. He remembered once he’d been thrown out of a game in high school for leveling a linebacker who hit him in the knee. The coach had told him to use the anger the next time. Well, he’d certainly botched it this time.
He reached over, put the tooth in Harvey’s hand, and walked away. His hand hurt; it was already swelling pretty bad; with his luck, it was probably broken.
#
When Angela got to the bus station, Mrs. Billmeyer, her two sisters and their husbands were already there, along with Dottie and Babe, and a group of sympathetic townspeople from Hydrangea. They were standing in the parking lot, gathered around a man wearing a black hat with a red feather in the band. ‟Name’s Detective Black,” he said, addressing the entire group. “I can only stay a minute. Officer Bluster will take care of you folks.”
Only eleven o’clock and Detective Black already needed a shave. When she got closer she thought she smelled scotch.
‟We’ve tried to come up with some possible spots the kidnapper might hide Miss Bendix if the worst were to happen,” Black said, distributing what looked like a map, “places where no one would accidentally stumble over the body. Stands of trees, open meadows, rock piles.”
Angela got a copy of the map. She herded Babe and Dottie off to the side, away from Mrs. Billmeyer and her entourage. ‟He’s giving us the runaround; they’ve already searched those places or he wouldn’t be mentioning them. I want to meet with that girl who gave Dorie her wake-up call the day of the kidnapping. Then we can drive out to her apartment and talk to her next-door neighbor. Those walls are thin; she may’ve heard something. You two can interview people in the townhouses across the street; Charlie and I were there before, but we didn’t do a very thorough job canvassing the neighborhood.”
When they arrived at the TV station, the receptionist arranged for them to see the producer, while Angela, Babe, and Dottie paced among the potted plants in the lobby. The girls were drawn to the pictures lining the entryway. Football players, politicians, the occasional Iowa celebrity. Herbert Hoover. Radar O’Riley. Harry Reasoner. Dottie and Babe fussed over Ann Landers and Abigail Van Buren as if the twins were relatives.
Minutes later, Marcie Ventura, a freckle-faced redhead ushered them into a small office off the lobby.
Angela shook hands, introducing herself and the girls. ‟We’re here with the Billmeyer group from Hydrangea. I’m a reporter for a local newspaper.”
“Dorie’s never coming back,” Marcie moaned, offering them a plate of banana-nut muffins. Her right eye began to twitch. “I don’t see why they can’t hire somebody else. I hate coming to work these days. Slippery roads and now this. I was born in California, thought I wanted to experience the four seasons.”
There was a nasal quality to Marcie’s voice. Angela had heard this lady on the radio recommend that women with girlish voices should practice speaking from their diaphragms. ‟Perhaps the higher-ups don’t want their viewers to think they’re pessimistic about Dorie’s return,” Angela said.
Dottie licked her fingers; she’d consumed her muffin in two bites. ‟Oh, I can see what you mean, Marcie. If I had to go on television, I’d wet my pants.”
Babe was even stupider. ‟Have you met James Arness? I love James Arness. I’ve seen every episode of Gunsmoke and all of the TV movies he’s made since. He’s from Minnesota, you know.”
Marcie did a double take, as if she didn’t know how to respond. ‟Ignore them,” Angela said, “they’re idiots. Perhaps you have someone who could show them around the station?” Dottie and Babe clapped their hands. Marci buzzed Bobbi Layne, and the smiling public relations lady escorted Babe and Dottie out of the room.
Angela took one of the muffins, along with a cup of tea. The muffin tasted dry, and she didn’t particularly like anything that had nuts. ‟Glad they’re gone,” Angela said. “I was about to lose my temper. Marcie, what sort of girl was Dorie? Don’t be afraid to speak your mind.”
Marcie took a sip of tea, seemingly considering what she was about to say. She put the cup down, evidently deciding she could trust Angela. ‟Very fussy,” she said. ‟No man was good enough for her. I introduced her to my brother Evan; brought him to the station to meet her. She was downright rude.”
“Can you tell me how Dorie sounded when you called her that day? Was she scared?”
Marcie worried a little gold ring she had on her pinky finger. ‟Grumpy as usual.”
‟So you didn’t get the impression that there was someone in the room with her?”
‟No, same as always. I’d had to call her before. She wasn’t a morning person, always staying up watching late movies when she knew she had to get up at four.” Flecks of saliva accumulated on the edges of Marcie’s mouth as she spoke. Angela hoped that didn’t happen when she went on the air.
Out of questions, Angela was getting ready to leave, when out of nowhere, Marcie said, ‟You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say that detective did this. There’s something awfully strange about that man. The whole time he talked to me he was ogling my bod.”
Angela jotted this down in her notebook. She’d check and see if there’d been any ties between Detective Black and Dorie Bendix.
#
Angela gave the cab driver Dorie’s address as the girls gushed about their tour. ‟The studio’s so different than it appears on TV,” Babe said.
‟They’ve got these artificial sets and there are cables scattered everywhere,” Dottie said.
‟The news set was laid out on one of those risers like we had in the chorus room in high school,” Babe said. ‟Bobbi showed us the control room.”
‟There was a cooking show on. ‛Stop mumbling,’ the director yelled into his microphone.”
‟She was making blackened fish,” Babe said. “I got the recipe.”
Angela checked her watch. They had another couple hours or so before they had to meet Mrs. Billmeyer and the search group. If she knew them, they were probably ready to go home by now.
When they got to Dorie’s apartment building, Angela paid the cab driver, and Dottie and Babe crossed the street to the town houses, where they began ringing door bells.
“I’m Angela Martin,” she said to Rory Treblinka, the manager when he answered the buzzer. “I was with Charles Zelnick, the reporter from Hydrangea the other day. I’d like to speak to Dorie’s immediate neighbors if I could.”
“Do you have any identification?” he said. She showed him the press pass Mrs. Zelnick had given her.
“Terrible thing about Dorie,” he said as they climbed the stairs. She was a reliable tenant. Always on time with her rent.” He rang the bell next to what he said was Dorie’s apartment. “Only one neighbor,” he said. “Corner room.” When the woman answered, he introduced Angela as a newspaperwoman and left. The woman wore self-satisfied smirk and not much else. She was a blowzy type with long, Dolly Parton hair, only brunette, and she smelled like the perfume counter at J.C. Penney’s.
“I hope I didn’t wake you,” Angela said.
“Don’t let it worry you,” the woman said. “I have very flexible hours. I’m a saleswoman.”
‟I’m with the Hydrangea Shopper. We’re here with the Billmeyer group. Dorie Bendix’s mother and her neighbors and relatives. I’d like to interview you if I could.”
‟You’re with the Hydrangea Shopper? This is all very strange. You see, I know a reporter from the Hydrangea Shopper.”
Angela perched on an ugly, plum-colored, Naugahyde loveseat the woman had directed her towards. ‟That would be Charles Zelnick.”
“I’m sorry. I’m being very rude. Would you like a coffee or some tea?”
‟No. No. I’ve got to meet the group in a few minutes.”
‟How well do you know Charlie, Ms. Martin?”
‟We grew up together, more or less. Attended the same high school anyway. Otherwise, we’re more acquaintances than anything else.”
‟That’s good to hear. You see, Charlie and I, we have kind of thing going on.”
“I don’t doubt it. Some women find him very attractive. Look, Ms. Anders, can you tell me anything that may help me find Dorie?”
‟All I know is what I told Charlie. He seems to think Marv kidnapped Dorie. But Marv wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s kind of a caretaker around here. He prunes trees and that sort of thing. Charlie claims he fits a description of the kidnapper.”
“Do you know Marv’s last name, Shirley?”
“I’m terrible with last names . . . I told Charlie it was an Irish sounding name . . . Wait . . . She slapped her forehead. “Charlie’s going to kill me if . . .” She went to a closet, took a box down from the top shelf, set it on the coffee table, and began poking through it. “Here it is,” she said. “So sweet; he sent me a birthday card. Darn, he signed it Marv; no last name.”
“Any return address on the envelope?”
“Sorry.”
Angela shook Shirley’s hand vigorously. “This still might help if you let me have that envelope. Detective Black may be able to find some fingerpints.”
Dottie and Babe had had no luck: one lady accused them of being Jehovah Witnesses, an especially undaunted group who kept coming back like the measles no matter how often she told them to go away. Another lady was running a day care center. ‟There must have been fifteen little kids in there, and she was the only one there,” Dottie said.
Babe said she’d talked to a couple where the woman constantly interrupted her husband, called him ‟stupid”, and punched him in the arm when he’d speculated that the kidnapper was probably one of those devil worshippers.
‟She really tattooed the guy; I didn’t know whether I should be calling 911 or what. I tell you I thought those cops had a racket, driving around, getting free meals, scarfing doughnuts. Not any more. I’m going to think from now on before I criticize.” Dottie looked at her and started cackling. Angela laughed so hard it brought tears to her eyes.
Angela recovered first. She had to get them out of there before they were arrested. They were embarrassing, but she’d known them since high school P.E. class, so she was stuck with them, she guessed.
Dottie dialed the number for the cab on her cell phone and five minutes later they were on their way to the bus station and the rendezvous with the Billmeyers. She hoped Detective Black was with the search group; she needed to give him the birthday card. He might not think much of it because the Marv Kleinschmidt lead hadn’t turned out. Maybe she could quiz Black about his previous relationship with Dorie Bendix, if what Marcie Ventura had said about the man’s voyeuristic inclinations had any merit.
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Mystery Writer
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I can only speculate, but Detective Jim Black seems to be not only pursuing the case, but becoming a possible suspect. At first, I thought he was a private eye, but finding out that he was on the police force investigating the case, and then abruptly knocking the tooth out of a suspected paramour of his estranged wife without fear of assault charges, leads me to believe that there is a dark side to him. And, the incident he couldn't remember the weekend before.
You cover quite a bit of territory in this chapter and that's good. Would love to read more here, because, as you know, I don't ever seem to have time to get to books.
Ron