‘Fortune,’ I said. ‘Walsh tipped you, right? I’m a private operator.’
‘Good for you,’ the man said. ‘Now tell me about the Driscoll woman.’
‘A case,’ I said. ‘The trail led here. Call Captain Gazzo at Homicide if you want to check, Lieutenant…?’
‘Sergeant Doucette,’ he said. ‘The girl wasn’t very important, Fortune.’
I heard the word. ‘Wasn’t?’
‘Yeh, she’s dead. I figured you could…’
The sergeant stopped and shrugged. I knew how he felt. He needed a break. I felt worse. I seemed to be moving fast backwards. Every lead turned into a new crime, and I was no closer to Jo-Jo Olsen. Except that this time I knew that Jo-Jo was connected to the Driscoll woman, and I now had a real reason for a man to run. It was not a happy thought.
‘When?’ I said.
‘I thought you could tell me,’ Sergeant Doucette said. ‘I guess we better go talk to the lieutenant.’
‘I’d rather talk to Captain Gazzo.’
Doucette shrugged again. ‘From here you go to the lieutenant. After that he’ll tell you.’
He walked behind me out of the apartment and down the stairs. I decided that Doucette had been a detective long enough. He believed nothing and no one. He took no chances. In his work that was a good rule.
Gazzo clasped his hands behind his head and looked up at the ceiling of his office. I sat and smoked. The captain again did not look as if he had slept. But then, he always looked like that. Why would a man bother to sleep when the clock in his brain never moved from midnight and it was hard to tell if the faces that passed before him were real or in a dream?
‘This is getting to be a habit,’ the captain said. ‘A bad penny. Nobody likes bad pennies. You sure there is a Jo-Jo Olsen?’
There was a faint edge to Gazzo’s voice. I knew that it did not mean anything. It was a reflex. I was not a visitor this time. I was a man picked up looking for a murder victim, at the scene of the crime, and the captain’s voice automatically took on the hard edge, the hint of suspicion. Gazzo could not help it, the way an old fighter cannot resist a bell.
‘How did the Driscoll girl die?’ I asked. ‘The lieutenant forgot to tell me.’
I was beginning to feel like a puppet on a string. No matter what I did I ended up asking questions like a straight man in a nightclub routine. All my efforts so far had only uncovered more possible mayhem to lay at Jo-Jo Olsen’s door.
‘Multiple bruises and contusions that led to fatal brain damage,’ Gazzo said. ‘In other words she was knocked around by someone with heavy hands.’
‘There seems a lot of knocking around in this,’ I said.
Gazzo was thoughtful. ‘No robbery, no forcible entry.’
‘When?’
‘Sometime last Saturday, the M.E. says. We found her on Monday. That manager, Walsh, found her. When she didn’t show for work he called her. He got no answer so went around. At least, that’s his story. He had a key.’
Now I knew what had been strange about Walsh. I also heard the first solid motive for murder and runout in this whole mess. One woman, two men. Classic. Only it had been the Driscoll girl after Jo-Jo, according to my reports, which made the motive fit Walsh a lot better than Jo-Jo.
‘Is Walsh clear?’
The captain stared at his ceiling. ‘Who’s ever clear? He was at home with his family in Port Washington on Friday night. Early Saturday he took his boat out alone. He was out all day. Says he was cruising eastward on the sound. No one saw him he can be sure of. Stayed overnight on the boat somewhere near Port Jefferson and got home about noon on Sunday.’
‘He could have cruised west into the river,’ I said. ‘There’s a marina at about Seventy-ninth Street.’
‘That there is. He didn’t dock there, not officially.’
‘Nothing to stop him dropping anchor near shore.’
‘Nothing at all.’
‘How come it took so long to discover the body?’
‘Miss Driscoll was an oddball. A lot of men, but no real friends. There’s one girl friend, a Peggy Brandt, who lives a few blocks away. The Brandt girl tells us that Driscoll had a yen for men, so no one was surprised if she did not answer her phone on a week-end. On top of that, the Brandt girl says she called Driscoll on Saturday afternoon and got the impression that a man was already there, so didn’t call back.’
‘Saturday afternoon?’ I said. Jo-Jo had gone on Friday. Or had he? He had left Chelsea, but had he left the city?
‘How does Olsen fit in this one?’ Gazzo said.
I explained the various leads to Driscoll. ‘Petey seemed to think she could know something. He wasn’t sure. The picture I get is that the girl was trying to marry Jo-Jo.’ I thought about it all. Pete had pretty much said that he thought Driscoll might know something. ‘Maybe someone else followed the same trail I did, Captain. Maybe they asked questions too hard.’
‘It has the look,’ Gazzo conceded. ‘Only someone was with her on Saturday who she knew. Guys have played hard to get before and then turned around and killed when the dame looked elsewhere.’
I had thought of that one minute after I ran into Sergeant Doucette. ‘How come you didn’t make Jo-Jo in this before me?’
Gazzo rubbed his stubble. ‘No names. We couldn’t find any address book or notes in her place. The Brandt girl says she never did hear the last names of most of Driscoll’s men, except Walsh. It seems that Driscoll was chasing a couple of guys with a ring in mind, but that they were ducking, so she took up with Walsh. Walsh had been after her for a while.’
‘No address book?’
‘Maybe she didn’t keep one,’ Gazzo said.
Gazzo did not believe that either. Who would steal her address book? Some guy who wanted his name out of it. Or maybe two hoods looking for clues to where a boy was?
‘I like Walsh for a killer,’ I said.
‘So do I, but the book says I need some proof.’
‘How about the two who beat up Vitanza? It’s the pattern, and she knew Olsen.’
‘I’ve got an open mind,’ Gazzo said.
‘But you like Jo-Jo best?’
The captain sighed. ‘I’ve got to like him. Motive, opportunity, and he’s on the run. You know that’s how it works most of the time. They hit, scare, and run. Maybe there’s even more to it, but it looks like he stopped on his way and belted the Driscoll girl out.’
‘Just because he’s on the run?’
‘That’s a good start, but I’ve got this too.’
The captain held up a tiny miniature red racing car. Even from where I sat I could see that it was almost perfect in detail. There was a loop at the rear end. The loop was broken. The car was battered and scratched as if carried in a pocket a long time. It looked like a Ferrari.
‘You said Olsen was a bug on racing,’ Gazzo said.
‘Especially on Ferraris,’ I said.
I looked at that miniature racing car. It was obviously some kind of good-luck piece. A charm, a talisman. Some luck.
‘It was under her body,’ Gazzo said. ‘There was also a handkerchief with bloodstains on it — and grease. Looks like he wiped her face before he knew she was dead. The handkerchief is too common to trace. A lot of cigarette butts. An empty bourbon bottle, wiped clean. Beer cans, also wiped.’
Jo-Jo had run. Jo-Jo was a fanatic on racing cars. Jo-Jo worked around a grease pit. Bottles and beer cans did not sound like two hoods asking questions. The address book, if there had been one, was missing. That sounded like someone who knew Driscoll.
Gazzo sighed. ‘It fits, Dan. I had no lead to Olsen, it happened way out of his neighbourhood.’
‘But I brought him to you,’ I said.
‘You’re helping him a lot,’ Gazzo said.