Stone Cold Dead by James Ziskin (android e book reader txt) 📗

sheriff was next on my list. He answered the phone at the jail and told me Don Czerulniak was sitting in front of him at that very moment.

“The mother ID’d the body,” he said. “No surprise, except that she flat out fell apart. Wept for an hour until she’d exhausted herself. Real sad scene.”

I felt a knot tighten in my chest and a mounting pressure in my throat that took my voice away. I struggled to draw a breath and dabbed my eyes with my handkerchief. Irene Metzger’s self-possessed calm had crumbled with the presentation of her little girl’s dead body, mangled and torn, having been battered against the cold steel of a canal lock by the roaring waters of the Mohawk. The unspeakable hope she’d expressed to me—to recover her daughter for a proper burial—had sustained her in her quest until this moment. Now her work was done. She no longer needed to be strong. Now she, too, could weep and abandon herself to her unfathomable grief. Darleen was gone, but she was home again. Irene Metzger’s motherly charge to safeguard her child was over. For good.

“Ellie, are you still there?” asked Frank from the other end of the line.

“I can’t talk now,” I choked and dropped the receiver into its cradle.

Later, having splashed water on my face and stared at my wan reflection in the ladies’ room mirror long enough to rebuild my composure, I returned to my desk and finished my article. I had no photographs to illustrate the Joey Figlio-Ted Russell story, but I thought we probably had a picture of Russell in the school-district photo file. I left a note for Maggie in Research to dig one up.

As I was hurrying out, I stopped at George Walsh’s desk, the emotional hangover from my breakdown still tingling in my head. I considered the order. Everything in its place. A pad of ruled paper, three number 2 Ticonderoga pencils, a rotary sharpener (emptied daily of its shavings by its master) screwed down to the edge of the desk, and a fancy IBM Executive Typewriter on top of the green blotter. I eyed the cloth cover and its smug little IBM logo, comparing it to my sturdy, serviceable Underwood manual machine. Tucked neatly around the sleek lines of the IBM, the gray cover mocked me silently.

George Walsh was a pitiful typist. Shortsighted and lacking hand-eye coordination, he had to lean in so close to the keyboard that the swinging type bars practically clipped his nose as he typed. He had never memorized the arrangement of the keys, so he couldn’t touch-type. Georgie Porgie was the classic hunter and pecker, a two-finger man, slow and methodical.

I cast a glance behind me to see if Luba was on the prowl. She had the habit of materializing out of nowhere like a ghost and scaring the wits out of you. It didn’t help matters that her hair was a wiry, gray rat’s nest and that her chin nearly reached the tip of her nose, giving her an eerie resemblance to a caricature of a witch. Having spotted no Lubas in the vicinity, I peeled the cover off the typewriter and retrieved a nail file from my purse, ready to operate. Placing the point of the file under the edge of the W key, I pried the plastic key top off with little trouble. I did the same to the E key. Then I pushed the E down onto the W’s type lever until it clicked smartly into place and put the W where E should have been. Then I did the same with three more pairs of keys. With his nose so close to the grindstone, George might well type an entire page before realizing he’d written gibberish. Then he would surely try again with the same results. It would take him an hour to figure it out.

I realized that my sabotage would only be temporary, but it served as a tonic for my frustration. I had toiled and sweated and frozen for the story that Georgie Porgie stole from my desk. If he wanted another scoop, he’d have to write it himself and learn to type all over again.

Satisfied with my work, I replaced the cover carefully, smoothed its wrinkles, and made good my escape undetected.

After my meltdown, I had to visit the sheriff without delay or never be able to show my face there again. I walked in, clearheaded and composed, as if nothing had happened, to speak to him and the district attorney.

“The jailbird herself,” said the DA.

“Thanks for getting me out, Don,” I said.

“Yeah, those morals charges are tough to beat.”

Frank didn’t appreciate that kind of humor in general. In particular, when it involved me, it seemed to pain him.

“Any word on Baby Face Nelson?” I asked.

Frank shook his head. “Last seen downtown, heading toward the river. If he fell in, he’s a goner.”

“What’ll happen when you find him?”

Frank smirked and nodded in the DA’s direction. “I’ll let the honorable district attorney break it to you.”

The Thin Man took a long, slow breath, then groaned in his typical manner. “The kid’s got to go back to Fulton,” he said. “Nothing we can do about it. He’s a minor.”

“Can’t you forget where you set him down until he’s eighteen?” I asked. “I’m afraid of that kid.”

“He won’t bother you,” said Don. “He’s got bigger worries now.”

I shook my head in disagreement. “Joey Figlio has exactly one worry: how to kill Ted Russell. Now that it’s certain that Darleen is dead, he has nothing else to live for.”

“Well, I’ve got Ted Russell now, and Joey Figlio ain’t getting near him,” said the sheriff.

“How about me?” I asked, aiming my best smile at him. “Can I get near him?”

Frank wasn’t keen on the idea.

“What about his lawyer?” I asked. “Who’s representing him?”

“Public defender,” said Don. “Some kid who just passed the bar. But I called the superintendent and the teacher’s union and told them to get