Gus pondered it. “According to the reports, when the police first came to see you, you said, ‘Well, what kept you? I’ve been expecting you boys.’”
She nodded. “Yeah. I said that. See, I had no idea McAdams was dead. I just always figured sooner or later the local cops would somehow find out about me and pay a visit. Maybe ask me to get out of town.” Now she smiled. “Or maybe shake me down for some of the millions I’m sitting on.”
“What about this money the New York police say you have?” Gus asked.
She snorted with her answer. “Damn, Gus, you think I’d be ringing up groceries and selling girdles if I had a pile of dough? I never once held a legit job until I kissed the old life goodbye and moved out to these sticks to grow old and die. Hell, I’ve made more money on my back than any ten women you know ever made standing on their feet. And I spent every dime as fast as I made it.”
“That’s it? That’s your answer?”
“Look. After my husband got murdered by the Brooklyn mob, they took over everything, every one of his rackets. And Big Dom Cosenza didn’t believe in stocks and bonds, Gus. Every cent he had was cold, hard cash. You wanna know where that dough is? Go ask Tommy Boy Alfredo in Brooklyn. He’ll tell you where it is: In his back pocket, that’s where. If he thought I was holding out on him, he’da beat the truth out of me and then tossed me in the river.”
Gus thought for a moment. “What about the guns?”
“Twenty-two was a gift,” she said with a shrug. “For my thirtieth birthday from that jackass I was married to. The thirty-eight was his. What should I have done with ’em, tossed them in the trash? Given ’em to the cops? When I walked away from everything, I just put them in my suitcase.”
“How do you explain McAdams moving out here? Did you tell him where you were?”
“No. Last thing I wanted was a man around.” She gave Gus a wink. “But, since I’m being honest, that’s a fairly recent concept for me. See, back in the day, I’d always be stringing two, maybe three guys along. I had a big appetite. Francis McAdams was just one of those men. After Dom was killed, Francis started coming around again, but I short-circuited any idea of picking up our affair. So, he gets divorced and starts thinking about me. I was the kind of dame a guy tends to remember. He tracks me down and moves out here. Stupid bastard brought me roses the first night he knocked on my door.” She shook her head. “I might have been happy to see him if it was a quart of Wild Turkey.” She curled her lips. “Roses,” she said dismissively.
Gus stood up. “Okay, Lily. I’ll be in touch. Or may Andrew will be.”
She smiled up at him, her grey eyes twinkling. “Well, now, ain’t that the smoothest brush-off I ever got.”
“Not sure yet, Lily,” Gus said. “I need to nose around some, make a few calls. We’ll see.”
“Maybe you believe me?”
“Lily,” he said, his voice cold, “I figure I’m standing in the shoes of a whole bunch of men who maybe believed you. And that might not be the smartest place to be standin’.”
She laughed out loud. “Damn, Gus, I like you. Refreshing change from the morons I spent most of my life around.” She let her smile fade, and her eyes grew sad. “I understand, Gus,” she said. “Whichever way it goes, I’ll understand.”
Late that same afternoon, Gus sat in Andrew Saks’s office.
“So, Gus,” the lawyer asked. “What have you learned with all your phone calls?”
Gus kept his face neutral with his reply.
“General Motors’ legal department told me almost eight hundred thousand nineteen fifty-five Bel Airs were sold new. All with the exact same track measurements. Plus, well over a million more GMs, Fords, Chryslers, Ramblers, and Studebakers had the same or damn near same measurements. The NYPD Internal Affairs tell me Francis McAdams was always known as a shady policeman. Nothing ever proven, but he seemed to have mob ties dating back to that long-ago shooting at The Alimony Prison.”
“I know that,” Saks replied.
“Seems to me,” Gus went on, “this is one hell of a circumstantial case against Lily.”
“Yes, it is. But it’s perfectly legal to convict on circumstantial evidence. And as you know, Suffolk County juries consist of farmers, fishermen, housewives, tradesmen, and small-business owners. How do you think they’ll react to a lurid tale involving a gun moll and brothel madam who came out here from New York City and murdered a crooked cop and God knows what else?”
“Well, now, one of my two sons is a lawyer. I assume you tried to suppress Lily’s past from being heard by a jury?”
“Of course. But her relationship with McAdams goes back at least thirty-three years. The judge agreed with the prosecutor — it’s all very relevant to motive and, therefore, admissible.”
“Andrew, you may be up against it here. Tell you the truth, I’m not sure why you’re so convinced she’s innocent.”
“Gus, I’ve met thousands of people in trouble. My hunches are rarely wrong.” Here he gave Gus a smile. “That jury you were screened for, the drug case. Those two boys hadn’t been in this office two full minutes before I knew they were guilty. I believe you came to the same conclusion simply by looking around the courtroom.”
Gus nodded. “Yes. But that sort of thing can be a two-edged sword. I bet the police are convinced, based on their gut feeling, that Lily is guilty. That could lead to a little ‘creative’ testimony from them at the trial. That’s one reason the law requires more than gut feelings. The law requires proof. And, to tell the truth, I need a little myself. Proof she’s not a murderer.”
“I understand, Gus. Have you learned anything else?”
“Weather Bureau says there was a lot of rain in late September and early October. The body was found October seventh and had been there five to ten days. The crime-scene photos show tire tracks made in very muddy ground, so sloppy muddy the treads couldn’t be effectively cast. What I’m thinkin’ is, why would someone drive off a nice solid gravel road and risk getting stuck in the mud with a dead body in their trunk? Why not just dump the body at the side of the road and drive away? The police think it was because Lily wanted the body hidden in the woods and wasn’t strong enough to wrestle it outta the car and drag it thirty yards to where it was found, so she drove her Chevy in closer.”
“Or,” Saks offered, “as I intend to argue, those muddy tracks were made before or even after the body was left. By a hunter or a couple of teenage lovers. Made by one of those two million or so other vehicles with the same front and rear track measurements.”
“Yeah,” Gus said. “Maybe. And maybe the real killer did leave his car on the gravel road and did drag the body into the woods, with all telltale signs of it washed away by rain.”
“Exactly.”
Gus sat silently, thinking. After a moment, he raised his eyes back to Saks. “Can you call Suffolk PD? Arrange for me to have access to both Lily’s and McAdams’ places? I’d like to nose around some.”
Saks reached to his intercom. “Agnes,” he said when his secretary responded. “Get me Inspector Clarelli, Suffolk County Police.”
“Yes, Mr. Saks.”
Saks smiled at Gus. “I’ve got a good feeling here, Gus. Very good.”
The next morning, Saturday, March fifth, was crisp and clear, the moist, salty Long Island air stirring the senses. Gus Oliver slowly drove his powder-blue 1959 Edsel north on Central Islin’s Main Street. Just past Dominick’s Shoe Repair, he swung the long hood of the car into a perpendicular parking spot in front of the Optimo Tobacco and Candy Shop.