At first we couldn't figure out what she was doing with the guy. Put him in a jail jumpsuit and he was just another cheap crook."
Mace Bartel, chief investigator for the Calista County Sheriff's Department, is talking as we walk together down the long driveway toward The Elms. At my request, we've met at the ruined gates so that Mace can show me the remnants of the club. Twenty-six years ago when Barbara Fulraine and Tom Jessup were murdered at the Flamingo Court, Mace, then a young detective working County Homicide, was primary investigator on the case.
"She was such an elegant lady and Cody was such a low-rent creep, we couldn't figure the relationship out. Then we learned she was steered to him because someone told her he could help her find her missing girl."
As we approach the house, I'm struck by its facade: fine stonework, magnificent arrays of windows and eight turned brick chimneys rising symmetrically out of a complex of intersecting pitched slate roofs.
"Cody strung her along," Mace continues. "Uncovered all these ‘rumors’ and ‘sightings,’ a tale about a pretty little white girl spotted with blacks in the bowels of the Gunktown ghetto. He told her he had ‘operatives’ working on it, ‘informants’ who'd been well paid and would sooner or later come up with solid info. It was bullshit, but she was vulnerable so she believed him. After that it wasn't long before he got into her pants."
Mace sighs. "She must have liked that too, the way she kept coming back for more. Maybe she found Cody attractive because he seemed so dangerous. You know, the old hood glamour bit. And of course he liked her because she was unlike any woman he'd ever had: rich, classy, educated, superbly groomed, even – what's the word?"
Demure?"
Mace shrugs. "Whatever. Point is she wasn't a floozy. Barbara Fulraine was the real thing. Sure, The Elms was a gold mine, Cody was raking in money, but he recognized class when he saw it. Class was what he lacked and what he craved."
Mace is rail thin. With his granny glasses and carefully tended goatee, he looks more like a professor than a cop. He's also, I'm discovering, a shrewd street-smart psychologist. That he'd struggled to reason out the attraction between this unlikely pair tells me he's probably good at his job.
We're at the end of the drive, the turnabout area, heading toward the broad steps that lead to the front door.
"We were sure Cody did it," Mace tells me. "He was vicious and he was jealous. Two years before the Flamingo killings, he found out his girlfriend, a singer, was two-timing him. He used the broken end of a gin bottle to rip her face, and, though there wasn't any proof, we were pretty sure he had her lover whacked. His body turned up in a ravine in Lucinda Heights. No family. Nobody cared. Cody's lawyers settled with the girl. She refused to press charges and left the state. It was common knowledge he was capable of whacking people who crossed him or people he thought had done so. So why not Mrs. Fulraine and Jessup? She was his mistress after all, then he found out she was spending dirty afternoons with this nothing schoolteacher. That made him murderously furious so he killed them. Least that's how we had it figured."
The Elms house, unlike the gates, appears to be in good repair. When I mention this, Mace tells me a syndicate acquired the property last year with a plan to divide it into high-end condos.
When Mace opens the front door, we're hit by a blast of over-heated air.
"Closed up this time of year, it gets like a furnace. Of course Cody had it air-conditioned. They'll redo that, heating, wiring, plumbing. Some snazzy downtown firm's got it figured out. The top unit'll be a duplex enclosing the old gaming room, an upstairs suite, and the terrace and garden area off the back. I hear they'll be asking a million four for that one." Mace mops his brow. "Come on, I'll show you around…"
He takes me first into the Cub Room where the torch singers performed. Even thought it's daytime and the room's been stripped of furniture, I can sense what it must have been like. Thick, plush carpeting, tufted white leather banquettes, tables arranged on tiers, and a sweeping, curving staircase like the one in the fabulous Buenos Aires nightclub in Gilda that Rita Hayworth descends while singing "Put the Blame on Mame."
"The singers made their entrances down those steps," Mace tells me. "The musicians worked against the back wall. The dining banquettes were on the upper level, the smaller tables for drinkers below. There was a small dance floor for customer dancing between sets."
He leads me into an adjoining room. Quieter dining in here." He points toward the glassed-in kitchen. "The partition's triple glazed so you could watch the chefs but not hear the noise."
He shows me a small private dining room reserved for Cody's mob pals.
"They'd start all-night poker games in here after the swells went home."
"Swells?"
"Mace laughs. "Don't you love it? Right out of the twenties. Even back twenty-six years, this scene was from another era. I tell you, this was one swanky joint."
We retrace our steps to the entrance hall, pass through a small room with an intimate curved bar where people waited for friends or gamblers retired to take a break, then enter the long gaming room in the back, which extends the length of the building. It's a magnificent space with three sets of French doors leading to a terrace overlooking a garden, now gone to seed.
Mace gestures. "This was the heart of The Elms. The Cub Room, bar and entertainers – they were just bait to lure the suckers. I'll say this for Cody, he ran an honest club. No fixed roulette wheel or loaded dice. Wasn't necessary. This room was a money machine. ‘Course he had his costs including payoffs to the local law enforcement. Every so often the complaints would pile up, forcing the sheriff to stage a raid. They never found anything. No craps tables, roulette wheels, or blackjack stands. Cody was always tipped with enough time to truck his stuff out. All they'd find when they got here would be a couple of old geezers shooting pool."
Mace leans against the wall, lights a cigarette, and smokes it while I start a quick sketch of the gaming room. Later, I'll insert Jack Cody, Barbara Fulraine, and perhaps Jurgen the maitre d', if I can find a photo of him.
"They used each other," Mace says. "She slept with him so he'd keep looking for her daughter, and he told her he was getting closer to finding the kid so she'd continue to sleep with him. The part I could never figure was her stealing off to sleep with Jessup. Was she turned on by the notion of crossing Cody or did it just turn her on to sleep with different guys?"
"Oh, there'd been plenty of lovers over the years – we found that out soon enough. Even when she was married to Fulraine, she had lovers on the side. She may have been classy, but she liked sex, so there was a carload of secondary suspects. Including Fulraine, who had a private investigator tailing her butt. He wanted custody of his boys and was looking for evidence to have her ruled unfit."
I tell him about the Fesse photograph.
"Doesn't surprise me," he says, stroking his goatee. "She was a complicated woman."
He suggests we go upstairs to look at Cody's office. It turns out to be a handsome room paneled in fine mahogany. Mace feels around, then slides open a panel to reveal a concealed wall safe.