A Stone's Throw by James Ziskin (best story books to read .txt) 📗

Freddie rose before dawn, dressed, and apologized for having to run out on me.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I’ve got to go to work.”

He winced an apology at me. “So sorry I kept you up last night.”

“No, you’re not.”

He kissed me. Nothing too romantic; we hardly knew each other, after all. Sweet and friendly, it was better than a handshake. He asked if I was free that evening, but I had to beg off. Then he buttoned his collar and was off down the stairs. I followed him in my robe to wave good-bye and—damn it—ran straight into my landlady, Mrs. Giannetti, on the front porch. It wasn’t yet six. What was she doing up at that hour? She watched Freddie jump into his car—a red MGA roadster—before turning to stare me down with a reproachful arch of the eyebrows. She held her tongue that day, but I was confident she was only biding her time; I’d get an earful at some point, calculated to deliver the maximum sting. I dragged myself back upstairs to get ready for the day.

The Montgomery County Jail was located in the administrative building north of town on Route 22. The sheriff’s office was on the ground floor, the cells in the basement, and the courtroom on the second floor. I’d had occasion to visit often over the past four years while covering everything from family court hearings to murder investigations. And, of course, to visit my pal Frank Olney and his deputies. I was on friendly terms with all of them. It pays to play nice with cops when you’re covering local news, but I also liked the guys. And they were always protective of me. Deputy Brunello once referred to me as “the sweetheart of Sigma Chi,” and the nickname stuck. I don’t believe any of them had ever been on a college campus, let alone pledged a fraternity, but they all knew the song. More or less. And, bless their hearts, they even sang me part of the refrain from time to time.

“And the moonlight beams on the girl of my dreams

She’s the Sweetheart of Sigma Chi.”

In fairness, I believe that was the only part they knew, but I was touched and flattered by their affections all the same.

“Good morning, Ellie,” said Pat Halvey from behind his typewriter. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I’ve been busy. How’ve you been, Pat?”

“Bowling regularly. Not much else.”

Pat wasn’t the world’s greatest conversationalist. But he was a pretty good bowler.

“Is Frank in?” I asked.

He buzzed the sheriff, and in short order I was seated across from Frank Olney, who told Pat to bring me a cup of freshly perked coffee and a Danish.

“I’ve got some news for you,” said the sheriff, swiveling in his chair. “Spoke to Pryor last night and told him about the anonymous tip. I also mentioned that I’d come across the name Robinson and a possible meeting with Dornan on Friday night. He lapped it up. Said it might be the big break he was waiting for.”

“He didn’t seem to care when I told him about Robinson.”

“He was real thankful and called me back this morning. Found the husband.”

“Tommy McLaglen?”

“That’s right. How’d you know his name?”

“My assistant dug up Vivian McLaglen’s wedding announcement.”

Frank nodded and pushed a sheet of paper across the desk to me. He’d scratched McLaglen’s name and address on it. “He’s been living in Albany for the past six years.”

“Thanks. Anything else?”

“His arrest record might tell you something. Burglary, gambling, and simple assault.”

“Sounds like my kind of guy.”

Frank pursed his lips. He didn’t approve.

“What’s he look like?” I asked to give him a break.

“I don’t have a picture, but his file says he’s medium height and weight. Dark hair and eyes. Swarthy complexion.”

“Did Pryor tell you how tall exactly?”

Frank lifted the corner of a paper on his desk and glanced sideways at it. “Five-nine. Were you thinking he might’ve been the guy in the barn?”

“No, I’m sure it was Johnny Dornan. Now I’d like to find out why. What was a successful jockey in the middle of a good meet doing with a woman of Vivian Coleman’s pedigree?”

“She’d been mixed up plenty with gamblers. Maybe your Johnny Dornan was crooked.”

“Maybe.” I grabbed the paper with the name and address and folded it into my purse. “You think there’s any chance I might find McLaglen at home on a Wednesday morning in August?”

“Probably not. But according to his parole officer, he works at Union Station in Albany, waxing floors and emptying trash.”

“Thanks again, Frank. I owe you breakfast at the Ballston Diner.”

He blushed crimson. “Aw, come on, Ellie. That ain’t right.”

Information had no number for Tommy, Tom, or Thomas McLaglen in Albany. I was loath to waste another long car drive on the off chance of finding a half-wit or hoodlum lazing about home in an undershirt and no pants. But armed with the knowledge that he worked at Union Station, I thought the odds were good that I could track him down. Plus, I had some other work in that part of town I could squeeze in if all else failed. For some time, Charlie Reese had been on my back to document the neighborhoods surrounding the capital buildings in the South End of Albany. They were all scheduled to be razed to make way for Rockefeller’s new complex of government buildings. That was as good an excuse as any, so I phoned Charlie and told him of my plans.

“What about your society-page piece?” he asked.

“All but done. Just missing a face-to-face with the chairwoman of the fund drive. I’m meeting her at four this afternoon in Saratoga.”

“Good. And there’s a story I need you to file on the Little Titans football physicals.”

“What?”

“You know, football season’s starting in a few weeks.”

“Why isn’t Ralphie Fisher covering it? It’s sports, after all.”

“He’s out of town, and Gabe Morrissey’s been out since his hernia operation.”

I cursed all of them, including Gabe’s abdominal protrusions, and not entirely