realsorien (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
realsorien) wrote2011-11-06 11:14 pm
realsorien) wrote2011-11-06 11:14 pm
NaNoWriMo- Bare Bones 4
Well, not a bad day. Here's the latest section!
Hours later, Woody had a list to follow up on, and a better idea of what exactly Janette’s place of work was like. As Holloran had mentioned, the Sandwall was on the police raid-rotation for known speakeasys. Dobbs paid out enough money to not be shut down, but not enough to be totally ignored. He wasn’t involved in the shipping or production of hooch, as far as anyone could tell- just selling it. However, he was suspected of being a fence on the side.
As to the employees, none of them fit as the killer. None aside from Janette were preternatural, and aside from charges associated with the speakeasy all were clean. The Sandwall was a nightclub, and as such was only open in the evenings. Three bartenders, two cigarette girls, the stage manager, kitchen staff, Dobbs himself and the dancers were the only actual employees. Anyone else were either temporary hires or stage acts. The police figured that Janette had been killed not long before she’d been found- maybe only minutes before. Chances were good that the killer, whatever it was had still been inside the lounge.
Nick Parlowe was the man who’d found the body. He claimed that he’d let Janette into the club early when he arrived to open so that she could retrieve her purse. The night before she’d forgotten it in the dressing room. He’d left her to go down into the basement storage- no direct statement as to why he want down there- and had found her when he’d returned a short time later. Whatever had happened, happened fast.
The Sandwall was still closed. In all odds it would remain that way until the investigation ended, one way or another. Woodstock decided to take a closer look at the scene. A quick call to the precinct cleared him to go inside, and he took a cab over. Two uniforms, looking uncomfortable in the sweltering heat stood outside, next to their squad. “Hey fellas,” Woody said as he approached, “I need to get in. Did Holloran let you know?” One of the pair nodded. “Yeah, got the radio call a few minutes ago. Say... We ain’t been inside. Is it true about a lion gettin’ loose from the stage show and teraing her up?”
Woodstock blinked, then laughed. “Is that the fairy tale they’re spinnin’? Nah. But Damned if I didn’t wish it was something that simple.” The officer nodded, and opened the door for him.
Inside, it was blessedly, shockingly cool; Dobbs had spared no expense with his baby, so the lounge sported the recent miracle of air conditioning- a pricy luxury that until the murder must have had the place packed, booze or no. It hadn’t been on the day of the killing; some bright boy must have realized that things would be at least less horrible if kept cool.
Not much had changed from the night before. The blood was mostly dried, and the body had been removed. Woodstock hoped that the morgue-boys treated her with respect- she was due at least that. He started with the clawmarks on the bar-facing. They were wider spread than a human hand, but that wasn’t a surprise. Most weres were pretty damn big in their half-forms, and the more skilled ones could just change parts like hands and such; he’d have to ask her cousin John about that. In the lowest of the slashes, he spotted something- a sliver of something dark that wasn’t blood. He took out tweezers and carefully teased the tacky-seeming strip loose. Holding it to the light, it looked like rubber or some similar material. He placed it in a small enverlope and kept looking.
He stepped back and took a slow sweeping scan of the scene, trying to stay as clinical as possible. He’d seen a lot in his life, but not even the War had seemed this... Evil. The blood for the most part was dried in a thin layer across the floor, with the outline of where the body had lain revealed by the torn ridges where the partly-dried gore had reluctantly let loose when the coroners removed her. Where her right had had lain was a lump. Not a surprise it’d been missed- by the point they moved her Woodstock doubted anyone could see anything other than blood. Even cops have limits. He used his pocketknife to slit it loose of the gooey mess, and lifted it- a ribbon of something floppy and soft, maybe four inches long, had been balled up there.
Skin. But whose? Hers or the attackers? It had more of that odd rubberlike material stuck to it, so he guessed the latter. So she did get a piece of the bastard after all, literally. A grim smile crossed his face, but quickly faded. Standing, he placed the two combatants on the scene in his mind, then looked where he thought the results of the blow might have been- the blood spatter on the ceiling and on the bartop roughly matched the scene in his head- aha. They had a piece of the killer. Nothing had cut her in the fight, at least nothing so deep as to cause bloodspray.
Still, it wasn’t a lot. There should have been more. Undead were like that, some of them at least, but Woodstock had never heard of undead that could be moving on dayside- strictly in the dark, they were. He noticed that she’d not tried to run- the fight happened right here at the bar. Either she’d been surprised or... Just maybe she knew her attacker. Maybe.
A door opened and shut nearby. Woodstock looked towards the sound, which was just out of sight backstage. A well-dressed man stepped into sight- black hair going grey and thin featured, the man’s grey eyes watched Woodstock as if studying him. The standoff broke when the man spoke. “I assume you’re with the police. Have you discovered anything? My name is Charles Dobbs.”
Nodding at the introduction, he introduced himself as well. “Michael Woodstock, Mr. Dobbs. I’m a private investigator. I specialize in cases involving the oddball side of the world, so the police retained my services.” Dobbs stepped down from the stage and came closer, carefully avoiding the mess and straightening his suitcoat. “I am understandably anxious to learn what has been discovered; Miss Carlyle will be missed.”
Woodstock nodded. “I’m not at liberty to freely discuss the case, but I can tell you this: the killer was certainly not human, strictly speaking. We don’t know what as of yet, other than it was tough and very, very fast. Beyond that is strictly supposition. But... You might be able to help, Mr. Dobbs.” The taverner raised an eyebrow. “In what way? I’ve already spoken with the police, giving them a statement of what I know. I wasn’t at the Lounge when the tragedy occurred.”
Woodstock stepped over to a table, sitting down. He gestured that Dobbs do the same. “Thing is, there are lots of questions that don’t get asked, and a lot of things that never get brought up on-the-record. I honestly don’t give a damn what your business is, Mr. Dobbs. I enjoy a drink now and then myself. But a girl died here, horribly, and that I do care about.”
Dobbs took the offered seat, leaning back slightly. “So you wish to discuss matters that I am perhaps believed to be involved in. I must ask, why should I?” “Well sir,” Woodstock replied, I’m not a cop. I’ve no interest in shutting you down, just in finding the killer. And two important points should get your attention. First, as far as I can tell Miss Carlyle didn’t have an enemy in the entire world; so she may have been killed by accident... By someone looking for someone or something else. Second, the sooner this matter gets resolved, the sooner you get back to the job of makin’ money with your swank, air-conditioned Lounge.”
Dobbs blanched at the first point, just barely, but smiled at the second. “Ah, now that would be a benefit. Ask your questions, Mr. Woodstock, but I won’t guarantee I’ll answer them all.”
Woodstock took out a cigarette and snapped it glowing with his lighter. “Okay. Lets start with the basics. Was there anything unusual going on at the time of the murder? Any conflicts with staff, strange dealings or maybe problems with rivals?” Dobbs considered the question. “Are you looking for something in specific, Mr. Woodstock? “No, not really. But there’s the possibility a rival or enemy of yours was the killer, so I need to know.”
Dobbs went silent, mulling it over. “There was one event. I didn’t consider the possibility of it being related to the killing, but... Your putting matters into this perspective makes me wonder.” He sighed. “There was a theft from my office safe a few days ago- perhaps my own fault, as I’d failed to resecure it. I’d gone to fetch the daily receipts to place within, and in the interim someone removed a parcel of considerable value. I didn’t notify the police for several reasons, including the hope that the matter could be resolved without their intervention. The obvious suspects were my own people, of course.”
Jotting down notes, Woodstock asked, “What was taken?” Dobbs steepled his hands. “And we reach one of those uncomfortable things that I do not wish to discuss on the record. You will be circumspect?” Woodstock smiled. “Mum’s the word.” “Fine. In an envelope, there were five rubies. Identical in size, shape and cut, worth a fortune. They were each about the size of one of your shirt-buttons.” Woodstock whistled. “Yeah, I can see how you’d think it was maybe just a opportunity-theft. Gems are significant though, especially an unusual set like that. Lots of people would be interested if they knew about ‘em.”
Dobbs smiled. “You see the problem. A lot of people were.” Woodstock winced. “Yeah. My suspect-pool just got bigger. Any of those ‘interested’ parties from the spooky side of things?” “Yes. Several,” Dobbs said, losing the smile. “The gems were to be auctioned privately. I can provide you a list if, once again, our friends downtown do not see it.” “I’d appreciate that. Just a couple more questions. Did you have any hired acts that were to perform that night?”
“No, just the dancers and their accompanist. You should have gotten their names from the police.” Woodstock tapped ash from his smoke. “Last question for now, Mr. Dobbs, then I’ll get out of your hair. You said you suspected one of your employees. Did you have someone in mind?”
“Yes,” Dobbs responded. One of the dancers, in fact. Shirley Belham. Unfortunately, she’s disappeared, perhaps because of this,” he gestured to the crime scene, “or perhaps out of general fear. I and my associates have had no luck in locating her. If you can find her, Mr. Woodstock, A reward would be in order for the gems. And... No repercussions for the girl short of losing her position.” Closing his notebook, Woodstock nodded. “Yeah, given what’s happened she’ll be lucky if she gets off that easy. Thanks for your time, Mr. Dobbs. Oh- can I get that list of ‘interested’ parties?”
“Certainly.” Dobbs rose and went back the way he’d come in, returning shortly with a folded piece of paper. “Destroy this once this matter is resolved, if you would.” Woodstock pocketed it, then said, “On the assumption that you don’t want the cops tearin’ this place up, have your people check any crawlspaces or passages in here- I think the bastard that did her was still in the building when your boy found her. Here’s my card- just call and leave a message with my service if you find anything.”
Dobbs actually paled. “Thank you for the suggestion. Anything else?” Yeah. Some cops will be back in here for another look at the scene. I think that the blood on the ceiling and the bar is from the killer.”
Parting ways with Dobbs, Woodstock went back outside. From the chill of within, the heat and humidity of without was like a hammerblow to the face; he reeled a bit, one of the uniforms outside steadying him. “Geez, was it that bad in there?” Woodstock collected himself, saying, “Naah. Dobbs has air conditioning. From colder than hell to hotter than hell- just wasn’t ready for it. “Must be nice bein’ rich,” The other said as the door was once again locked.
Taking a cab back to the precinct, Woodstock considered the situation. He didn’t think that Janette was a purposeful killing; she’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. That really left it being an enemy of Dobbs or someone that was after the jewels, or both. Regardless, the rocks seemed to be the heart of the entire situation.
He nodded to Holloran as he came in, and went downstairs to the crime lab. Not surprisingly, several uniforms and a pair of detectives were hanging around down there, taking in the significantly cooler basement air. He checked in at the desk, and soon was in the small office of Ed Barrows, who was in charge of the lab. Ed offered his hand. “Nasty business, Mike. What do you need from us?” Woodsock took out the envelopes holding what he’d found at the scene. “A coupla things, really. First, these need to be checked out- that one was found in the claw marks on the bar face, and I have no idea what it is. The other thing... Well. You’ll see. It has some of the same gunk as from the clawmarks.”
Barrows opened a drawer and took out two petri-style containers, and shook the contents of the envelopes out. He grimaced at the second. “Skin. So he didn’t get it all?” “No. He didn’t get away clean- that’s from the killer as near as I can tell. I dunno what the other stuff is. And you wanna get the boys to take another look at the scene before giving the go-ahead to clean up- that blood spatter on the bar and ceiling was from the perp too.”
“Really?” Barrows looked intrigued. “I’ll see what I can determine. Maybe we can at least get a blood type... Or maybe species.” He peered at the strip of skin. “Looks... Where did you find this?” Woodstock said, “Under where her right hand had been.” “Hmm. Call me crazy, but this looks days dead. Decay somewhat in advance of what you’d expect. I’ll see what I can learn- God help us if we have some new undead that’s daylight-proof. This other material... I’ll have to look at it closer. But I think it’s jeweler’s wax.” Woodstock glanced at it. “That’s... Just weird.”
“I’ll get a crew over to the Lounge to see what else we’ve missed. Oh... Coroner’s report just came in. Dental confirmed she was Janette Carlyle. Death was due to bloodloss. She had a severe concussion, and both arms had defensive breaks. Someone massively strong beat her unconscious, then... Well.” Woodstock rubbed his head. “Yeah. Poor kid.” “Should I have the body held?” Barrows asked. “Naah... No. Nothin’ more for it. I’ll go tell her cousin.” Barrows raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that Billing’s duty?” “Yeah, but I’ll do it. I’ve talked to the guy already. I’ll swing by after I’m done for today. Thanks, Ed- keep me informed, willya?” Barrows nodded.
Woodstock had one more stop before talking with John Carlyle- the archives at the New York Times. He had a vague feeling that he’d seen or read something about them, and he needed to learn more about them anyway- the paper was a good starting point. With some assistance from the curator it only took a few hours to find the article. The gems were known as the Pentad Rubies, and were originally from India. The most recent owner had been a minor English Lord, who had loaned them for display to the Museum of Natural History. It had been a minor scandal and major embarrassment to the Museum when they’d turned up missing. And here they were, stolen again from Mr. Dobbs’ safe. Funny that.
He thanked the curator and left the Times with a copy of the article and the file photo of the gems. While he still didn’t know who had the gems, he now at least had the ability to see if there might be something spooky-side about them. Five perfect identical gems- it was inevitable, he thought. He looked around from the doorway, and flagged down a cab.
Somehow, even in the daylight there was a sadness to Janette’s former residence. Woodstock went up the short stairs and inside, stopping at John Carlyle’s door. Taking a deep breath, he knocked. “Who’s there?” Came Carlyle’s voice. “Its Woodstock, Mr. Carlyle. May I come in?” The sound of a lock being turned and the door opened, revealing John Carlyle, looking tired. “Yes?” “I just... I figured someone should let you know in person, Mr. Carlyle. You can claim Janette’s body for burial now. I’m sorry.”
Carlyle shook his head. “Nothin’ to be sorry for, Mr. Woodstock. Ah’ve talked to her momma. We’ll be buryin’ her here. Don’ seem right, shippin’ her like luggage. We’ll give her rest, and th’ family will be up to pay respects when they can. Have you learned anything?”
Woodstock shook his head slowly. “Only that she likely died for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. We’ll find the killer.” Carlyle offered his hand. “I know you will. Ah’ll let you know the time if’n you want to attend the service. Ain’t gonna be nothin’ big.” I’d like that. Please do. My number is on the card. I need to get going, but I thought it was the right thing to let you know in person.” Woodstock shook the offered hand, and left.
His day pretty much done and a pall on his mood, Woodstock realized that the last time he’d eaten was the danishes in the morning. Instead of heading home, he decided that dinner was in order.
Sam’s Diner was a regular hangout for the cops, and for Woodstock as well. It was your usual lunch counter, with a long curving countertop with stool-seating, plus booths along the walls. The decor was art deco in red, white and blue, and the scene became even more jarring when you saw Sam, the proprietor- he was the spitting image of Uncle Sam. He hailed Woodstock as he entered. “Hey, Woody. Anything interesting in the detective business?” Woodstock smiled wryly. “Yeah, but nothin’ I wanna talk about while I’m lookin’ for dinner. No offense. Can I get the usual with coffee and a slice of pie, Sam?” “Not a problem,” was the reply. “I’ll pester you about it some other time.” He hollered the order back to the cook, then poured coffee for Woodstock as he sat down.
For the moment, Woodstock was left with his thoughts. Too many angles made too many possibilities to resolve the situation quickly. He honestly didn’t give a damn about the gems, or Dobbs or anything else. A girl that had sought his help had died- that put a certain weight on him to solve the case. Everything else was secondary. He’d have to wait on the labwork on the odd substance from the crime scene and see what he could find on the gems tomorrow. At least Janette would be cared for.
Sam brought his meal over- a plain hamburger with hash browns, and a nice slab of apple pie. He dug in, still tossing the information he’d gained so far over in his head. “Looks like you’re in a deep one,” Sam observed. “Yeah, its a sleep-eater, alright. The Sandwall killing. I just haven’t got a focus to work from yet.” Sam winced at the reply. “Oof. That went front-page, Woody. Yer gonna get some ink if you crack this.” Woody grunted in response, fame being the furthest thing from his mind.
Hours later, Woody had a list to follow up on, and a better idea of what exactly Janette’s place of work was like. As Holloran had mentioned, the Sandwall was on the police raid-rotation for known speakeasys. Dobbs paid out enough money to not be shut down, but not enough to be totally ignored. He wasn’t involved in the shipping or production of hooch, as far as anyone could tell- just selling it. However, he was suspected of being a fence on the side.
As to the employees, none of them fit as the killer. None aside from Janette were preternatural, and aside from charges associated with the speakeasy all were clean. The Sandwall was a nightclub, and as such was only open in the evenings. Three bartenders, two cigarette girls, the stage manager, kitchen staff, Dobbs himself and the dancers were the only actual employees. Anyone else were either temporary hires or stage acts. The police figured that Janette had been killed not long before she’d been found- maybe only minutes before. Chances were good that the killer, whatever it was had still been inside the lounge.
Nick Parlowe was the man who’d found the body. He claimed that he’d let Janette into the club early when he arrived to open so that she could retrieve her purse. The night before she’d forgotten it in the dressing room. He’d left her to go down into the basement storage- no direct statement as to why he want down there- and had found her when he’d returned a short time later. Whatever had happened, happened fast.
The Sandwall was still closed. In all odds it would remain that way until the investigation ended, one way or another. Woodstock decided to take a closer look at the scene. A quick call to the precinct cleared him to go inside, and he took a cab over. Two uniforms, looking uncomfortable in the sweltering heat stood outside, next to their squad. “Hey fellas,” Woody said as he approached, “I need to get in. Did Holloran let you know?” One of the pair nodded. “Yeah, got the radio call a few minutes ago. Say... We ain’t been inside. Is it true about a lion gettin’ loose from the stage show and teraing her up?”
Woodstock blinked, then laughed. “Is that the fairy tale they’re spinnin’? Nah. But Damned if I didn’t wish it was something that simple.” The officer nodded, and opened the door for him.
Inside, it was blessedly, shockingly cool; Dobbs had spared no expense with his baby, so the lounge sported the recent miracle of air conditioning- a pricy luxury that until the murder must have had the place packed, booze or no. It hadn’t been on the day of the killing; some bright boy must have realized that things would be at least less horrible if kept cool.
Not much had changed from the night before. The blood was mostly dried, and the body had been removed. Woodstock hoped that the morgue-boys treated her with respect- she was due at least that. He started with the clawmarks on the bar-facing. They were wider spread than a human hand, but that wasn’t a surprise. Most weres were pretty damn big in their half-forms, and the more skilled ones could just change parts like hands and such; he’d have to ask her cousin John about that. In the lowest of the slashes, he spotted something- a sliver of something dark that wasn’t blood. He took out tweezers and carefully teased the tacky-seeming strip loose. Holding it to the light, it looked like rubber or some similar material. He placed it in a small enverlope and kept looking.
He stepped back and took a slow sweeping scan of the scene, trying to stay as clinical as possible. He’d seen a lot in his life, but not even the War had seemed this... Evil. The blood for the most part was dried in a thin layer across the floor, with the outline of where the body had lain revealed by the torn ridges where the partly-dried gore had reluctantly let loose when the coroners removed her. Where her right had had lain was a lump. Not a surprise it’d been missed- by the point they moved her Woodstock doubted anyone could see anything other than blood. Even cops have limits. He used his pocketknife to slit it loose of the gooey mess, and lifted it- a ribbon of something floppy and soft, maybe four inches long, had been balled up there.
Skin. But whose? Hers or the attackers? It had more of that odd rubberlike material stuck to it, so he guessed the latter. So she did get a piece of the bastard after all, literally. A grim smile crossed his face, but quickly faded. Standing, he placed the two combatants on the scene in his mind, then looked where he thought the results of the blow might have been- the blood spatter on the ceiling and on the bartop roughly matched the scene in his head- aha. They had a piece of the killer. Nothing had cut her in the fight, at least nothing so deep as to cause bloodspray.
Still, it wasn’t a lot. There should have been more. Undead were like that, some of them at least, but Woodstock had never heard of undead that could be moving on dayside- strictly in the dark, they were. He noticed that she’d not tried to run- the fight happened right here at the bar. Either she’d been surprised or... Just maybe she knew her attacker. Maybe.
A door opened and shut nearby. Woodstock looked towards the sound, which was just out of sight backstage. A well-dressed man stepped into sight- black hair going grey and thin featured, the man’s grey eyes watched Woodstock as if studying him. The standoff broke when the man spoke. “I assume you’re with the police. Have you discovered anything? My name is Charles Dobbs.”
Nodding at the introduction, he introduced himself as well. “Michael Woodstock, Mr. Dobbs. I’m a private investigator. I specialize in cases involving the oddball side of the world, so the police retained my services.” Dobbs stepped down from the stage and came closer, carefully avoiding the mess and straightening his suitcoat. “I am understandably anxious to learn what has been discovered; Miss Carlyle will be missed.”
Woodstock nodded. “I’m not at liberty to freely discuss the case, but I can tell you this: the killer was certainly not human, strictly speaking. We don’t know what as of yet, other than it was tough and very, very fast. Beyond that is strictly supposition. But... You might be able to help, Mr. Dobbs.” The taverner raised an eyebrow. “In what way? I’ve already spoken with the police, giving them a statement of what I know. I wasn’t at the Lounge when the tragedy occurred.”
Woodstock stepped over to a table, sitting down. He gestured that Dobbs do the same. “Thing is, there are lots of questions that don’t get asked, and a lot of things that never get brought up on-the-record. I honestly don’t give a damn what your business is, Mr. Dobbs. I enjoy a drink now and then myself. But a girl died here, horribly, and that I do care about.”
Dobbs took the offered seat, leaning back slightly. “So you wish to discuss matters that I am perhaps believed to be involved in. I must ask, why should I?” “Well sir,” Woodstock replied, I’m not a cop. I’ve no interest in shutting you down, just in finding the killer. And two important points should get your attention. First, as far as I can tell Miss Carlyle didn’t have an enemy in the entire world; so she may have been killed by accident... By someone looking for someone or something else. Second, the sooner this matter gets resolved, the sooner you get back to the job of makin’ money with your swank, air-conditioned Lounge.”
Dobbs blanched at the first point, just barely, but smiled at the second. “Ah, now that would be a benefit. Ask your questions, Mr. Woodstock, but I won’t guarantee I’ll answer them all.”
Woodstock took out a cigarette and snapped it glowing with his lighter. “Okay. Lets start with the basics. Was there anything unusual going on at the time of the murder? Any conflicts with staff, strange dealings or maybe problems with rivals?” Dobbs considered the question. “Are you looking for something in specific, Mr. Woodstock? “No, not really. But there’s the possibility a rival or enemy of yours was the killer, so I need to know.”
Dobbs went silent, mulling it over. “There was one event. I didn’t consider the possibility of it being related to the killing, but... Your putting matters into this perspective makes me wonder.” He sighed. “There was a theft from my office safe a few days ago- perhaps my own fault, as I’d failed to resecure it. I’d gone to fetch the daily receipts to place within, and in the interim someone removed a parcel of considerable value. I didn’t notify the police for several reasons, including the hope that the matter could be resolved without their intervention. The obvious suspects were my own people, of course.”
Jotting down notes, Woodstock asked, “What was taken?” Dobbs steepled his hands. “And we reach one of those uncomfortable things that I do not wish to discuss on the record. You will be circumspect?” Woodstock smiled. “Mum’s the word.” “Fine. In an envelope, there were five rubies. Identical in size, shape and cut, worth a fortune. They were each about the size of one of your shirt-buttons.” Woodstock whistled. “Yeah, I can see how you’d think it was maybe just a opportunity-theft. Gems are significant though, especially an unusual set like that. Lots of people would be interested if they knew about ‘em.”
Dobbs smiled. “You see the problem. A lot of people were.” Woodstock winced. “Yeah. My suspect-pool just got bigger. Any of those ‘interested’ parties from the spooky side of things?” “Yes. Several,” Dobbs said, losing the smile. “The gems were to be auctioned privately. I can provide you a list if, once again, our friends downtown do not see it.” “I’d appreciate that. Just a couple more questions. Did you have any hired acts that were to perform that night?”
“No, just the dancers and their accompanist. You should have gotten their names from the police.” Woodstock tapped ash from his smoke. “Last question for now, Mr. Dobbs, then I’ll get out of your hair. You said you suspected one of your employees. Did you have someone in mind?”
“Yes,” Dobbs responded. One of the dancers, in fact. Shirley Belham. Unfortunately, she’s disappeared, perhaps because of this,” he gestured to the crime scene, “or perhaps out of general fear. I and my associates have had no luck in locating her. If you can find her, Mr. Woodstock, A reward would be in order for the gems. And... No repercussions for the girl short of losing her position.” Closing his notebook, Woodstock nodded. “Yeah, given what’s happened she’ll be lucky if she gets off that easy. Thanks for your time, Mr. Dobbs. Oh- can I get that list of ‘interested’ parties?”
“Certainly.” Dobbs rose and went back the way he’d come in, returning shortly with a folded piece of paper. “Destroy this once this matter is resolved, if you would.” Woodstock pocketed it, then said, “On the assumption that you don’t want the cops tearin’ this place up, have your people check any crawlspaces or passages in here- I think the bastard that did her was still in the building when your boy found her. Here’s my card- just call and leave a message with my service if you find anything.”
Dobbs actually paled. “Thank you for the suggestion. Anything else?” Yeah. Some cops will be back in here for another look at the scene. I think that the blood on the ceiling and the bar is from the killer.”
Parting ways with Dobbs, Woodstock went back outside. From the chill of within, the heat and humidity of without was like a hammerblow to the face; he reeled a bit, one of the uniforms outside steadying him. “Geez, was it that bad in there?” Woodstock collected himself, saying, “Naah. Dobbs has air conditioning. From colder than hell to hotter than hell- just wasn’t ready for it. “Must be nice bein’ rich,” The other said as the door was once again locked.
Taking a cab back to the precinct, Woodstock considered the situation. He didn’t think that Janette was a purposeful killing; she’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. That really left it being an enemy of Dobbs or someone that was after the jewels, or both. Regardless, the rocks seemed to be the heart of the entire situation.
He nodded to Holloran as he came in, and went downstairs to the crime lab. Not surprisingly, several uniforms and a pair of detectives were hanging around down there, taking in the significantly cooler basement air. He checked in at the desk, and soon was in the small office of Ed Barrows, who was in charge of the lab. Ed offered his hand. “Nasty business, Mike. What do you need from us?” Woodsock took out the envelopes holding what he’d found at the scene. “A coupla things, really. First, these need to be checked out- that one was found in the claw marks on the bar face, and I have no idea what it is. The other thing... Well. You’ll see. It has some of the same gunk as from the clawmarks.”
Barrows opened a drawer and took out two petri-style containers, and shook the contents of the envelopes out. He grimaced at the second. “Skin. So he didn’t get it all?” “No. He didn’t get away clean- that’s from the killer as near as I can tell. I dunno what the other stuff is. And you wanna get the boys to take another look at the scene before giving the go-ahead to clean up- that blood spatter on the bar and ceiling was from the perp too.”
“Really?” Barrows looked intrigued. “I’ll see what I can determine. Maybe we can at least get a blood type... Or maybe species.” He peered at the strip of skin. “Looks... Where did you find this?” Woodstock said, “Under where her right hand had been.” “Hmm. Call me crazy, but this looks days dead. Decay somewhat in advance of what you’d expect. I’ll see what I can learn- God help us if we have some new undead that’s daylight-proof. This other material... I’ll have to look at it closer. But I think it’s jeweler’s wax.” Woodstock glanced at it. “That’s... Just weird.”
“I’ll get a crew over to the Lounge to see what else we’ve missed. Oh... Coroner’s report just came in. Dental confirmed she was Janette Carlyle. Death was due to bloodloss. She had a severe concussion, and both arms had defensive breaks. Someone massively strong beat her unconscious, then... Well.” Woodstock rubbed his head. “Yeah. Poor kid.” “Should I have the body held?” Barrows asked. “Naah... No. Nothin’ more for it. I’ll go tell her cousin.” Barrows raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that Billing’s duty?” “Yeah, but I’ll do it. I’ve talked to the guy already. I’ll swing by after I’m done for today. Thanks, Ed- keep me informed, willya?” Barrows nodded.
Woodstock had one more stop before talking with John Carlyle- the archives at the New York Times. He had a vague feeling that he’d seen or read something about them, and he needed to learn more about them anyway- the paper was a good starting point. With some assistance from the curator it only took a few hours to find the article. The gems were known as the Pentad Rubies, and were originally from India. The most recent owner had been a minor English Lord, who had loaned them for display to the Museum of Natural History. It had been a minor scandal and major embarrassment to the Museum when they’d turned up missing. And here they were, stolen again from Mr. Dobbs’ safe. Funny that.
He thanked the curator and left the Times with a copy of the article and the file photo of the gems. While he still didn’t know who had the gems, he now at least had the ability to see if there might be something spooky-side about them. Five perfect identical gems- it was inevitable, he thought. He looked around from the doorway, and flagged down a cab.
Somehow, even in the daylight there was a sadness to Janette’s former residence. Woodstock went up the short stairs and inside, stopping at John Carlyle’s door. Taking a deep breath, he knocked. “Who’s there?” Came Carlyle’s voice. “Its Woodstock, Mr. Carlyle. May I come in?” The sound of a lock being turned and the door opened, revealing John Carlyle, looking tired. “Yes?” “I just... I figured someone should let you know in person, Mr. Carlyle. You can claim Janette’s body for burial now. I’m sorry.”
Carlyle shook his head. “Nothin’ to be sorry for, Mr. Woodstock. Ah’ve talked to her momma. We’ll be buryin’ her here. Don’ seem right, shippin’ her like luggage. We’ll give her rest, and th’ family will be up to pay respects when they can. Have you learned anything?”
Woodstock shook his head slowly. “Only that she likely died for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. We’ll find the killer.” Carlyle offered his hand. “I know you will. Ah’ll let you know the time if’n you want to attend the service. Ain’t gonna be nothin’ big.” I’d like that. Please do. My number is on the card. I need to get going, but I thought it was the right thing to let you know in person.” Woodstock shook the offered hand, and left.
His day pretty much done and a pall on his mood, Woodstock realized that the last time he’d eaten was the danishes in the morning. Instead of heading home, he decided that dinner was in order.
Sam’s Diner was a regular hangout for the cops, and for Woodstock as well. It was your usual lunch counter, with a long curving countertop with stool-seating, plus booths along the walls. The decor was art deco in red, white and blue, and the scene became even more jarring when you saw Sam, the proprietor- he was the spitting image of Uncle Sam. He hailed Woodstock as he entered. “Hey, Woody. Anything interesting in the detective business?” Woodstock smiled wryly. “Yeah, but nothin’ I wanna talk about while I’m lookin’ for dinner. No offense. Can I get the usual with coffee and a slice of pie, Sam?” “Not a problem,” was the reply. “I’ll pester you about it some other time.” He hollered the order back to the cook, then poured coffee for Woodstock as he sat down.
For the moment, Woodstock was left with his thoughts. Too many angles made too many possibilities to resolve the situation quickly. He honestly didn’t give a damn about the gems, or Dobbs or anything else. A girl that had sought his help had died- that put a certain weight on him to solve the case. Everything else was secondary. He’d have to wait on the labwork on the odd substance from the crime scene and see what he could find on the gems tomorrow. At least Janette would be cared for.
Sam brought his meal over- a plain hamburger with hash browns, and a nice slab of apple pie. He dug in, still tossing the information he’d gained so far over in his head. “Looks like you’re in a deep one,” Sam observed. “Yeah, its a sleep-eater, alright. The Sandwall killing. I just haven’t got a focus to work from yet.” Sam winced at the reply. “Oof. That went front-page, Woody. Yer gonna get some ink if you crack this.” Woody grunted in response, fame being the furthest thing from his mind.