Millstone - Novel 01

Hanging the Chimney Hook

All Rights Reserved © 2020, Rick Haydn Horst

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Chapter Thirteen

It would be ironic to have Malor sitting at the precinct all cozy in a regular bed at night, mint on his pillow, and flirting with the detective who feeds him Delmonico steak, when all the while, he's playing us for a bunch of hounds who couldn't detect a fart downwind.

My gut told me he was innocent, but my gut isn't evidence. As a thought experiment, I proposed the assumption that he lied to us multiple times. We only had his word of having no knowledge of the ring, that Tommy hadn't spoken with him about it, that he hadn't made any finger traps since he lived in Franklin, that he went home from Tommy's when he said he did, and most importantly, that he hadn't murdered anyone.

But that led me back where I started. Why would he kill Tommy? Was it just because Tommy knew of the ring? And why would he use the finger trap on him and then leave so many of them at the scene of Chadwell's murder? If he had left them by accident, wouldn't all of them either have his prints out of unconcern (intending to ruin them all later) or none of them have his prints out of excessive caution? It's more like the killer thought, "Well, surely one of these has Malor's prints on it. I'll just give the rest to the police and see if that works." Forensics found Malor's print on only one trap and a fingerprint of unknown origin on one of the others. I would have had a hard time putting a percentage of chance on it, but it seemed more likely that someone was setting him up, and at that point, I would bet money on the owner of that anomalous print as the culprit.

That afternoon, when Max and I arrived on the third floor of the midtown precinct house, we found Albert at his desk working on a report still wearing his leather shorts and harness.

"You're going in that?" I asked.

"Oh, hey! And yeah, I have nothing else here. Edge said he wouldn't care if I went naked, so long as I wouldn't wear my uniform, and while that's tempting, I already had this on. Have you any objections, cousin?" Al stood for us to go, and he gestured toward the elevator.

"No, of course not. And they appear quite flattering, but I bet you hear that all the time."

"Oh, yes." Albert gave a smug little smile at the thought. "But I appreciate the compliment. You guys should invest in some leather. I would love to see you in it."

Max, who had mused over the appearance of Albert's fine ass, gazed up at me. "I would wear them all the time; you couldn't get me out of them."

"If they had a zipper back to front like his, I wouldn't need to get you out of them. If I wore them, though, it would make it harder for me to conceal carry."

"You don't have to carry concealed," said Albert.

"What?" My brows rose as we entered the lift.

Albert pushed the button for sub-level 2. "This isn't New York. A conceal-carry permit is for the entire state, but this state allows local jurisdictions to make their own laws about open carry. So, while you remain inside Franklin County, which is the entirety of the metropolitan area of the City of Franklin, you can open carry. Most people frown on it for the average citizen, that's why so few people do it, but as a private detective, no one would think twice about it."

"Admit it, Millstone," said Max, "you want to wear some leather." We exited the elevator into the parking garage.

"Would you like it if I wore something similar?" I asked.

"If I had my way, you'd wear little else."

When we reached Albert's Camry, I opened the front passenger door and made a gentlemanly gesture for Max to take my usual seat. "I'll wear leather on occasion if you will," I said.

He gazed at me with a little smile, and he kissed me just before climbing into the front. "Deal," he said.

En route, Max asked me, "Will you tell Albert, or should I?"

"You go ahead."

"Tell me what?" he asked.

"We know the guy who might want to, and I quote, 'pound your bubble on the regular.'"

"Tenten? Who is it?"

"It's James Malor. He used that exact phrase when telling us about Tommy."

"So, Malor is friends with Brice," said Albert. "Wow, that's practically a character reference for Malor."

"Is it?" I asked. "Why?"

"The Master's real name is Brice Harper. Master Brice is his dominant sexual persona, one he uses a lot. I know a couple of guys whose judgment I trust, and they know him personally, and they said he's an upstanding guy. That's why I was willing to step outside the club for sex, which I rarely do. Brice could qualify as a club member if he wanted, but apparently, he's not a joiner. If he considers Malor his friend, that says good things about him."

"Fascinating," I said. "Do you know if Edgerton has any real interest in Malor, or has he just schmoozed him to learn what he knows?"

"I don't know," said Albert, "he seemed a little odd around him today."

"Perhaps," said Max, "the detective has found himself unaccountably attracted to him. I admit he does have a strange kind of appeal."

"You think so?" I asked.

Max turned his head toward me. "I can't explain it either."

"It's probably just the allure of his enormously fat dick," I said.

"Feeling jealous?" asked Max.

"Of a man the police could charge with rectal endangerment? No."

When we arrived at the brick building for Alliance, I brought up a concern.

"I understand why the detective sent you, Albert, but now that we're here, I'm not sure that all of us should go in to speak to Neuhouser. It looks too suspicious."

"You're probably right," he said. "I'll go in."

Albert moved to leave the vehicle, but Max stopped him and said, "I should go in."

I unbuckled my seatbelt and slid forward between the front seats. "You know what to ask him, right?"

"If Tommy spoke with him," he said, "and I know not to ask within earshot of anyone else."

"Perfect." I turned to Albert. "Please, let Max go. He has a way with people; he can do this."

"Alright," he said. "Be observant."

Once Max went inside, Albert relaxed in his seat and said to me, "Today's gossip column had really pissed you off this morning, hadn't it?"

"Yeah, but I'll get over it. How well-read is the Daily Herald?"

"It's the main source of social news and gossip for the city," he said. "If you want hard news, watch Channel 5 or go to its website--that's our local independent channel, but for everything else, people read the Daily Herald. The adults-only online version is actually better and has a wider readership, but the print version is more family-friendly."

"Family-friendly...even with advertisements for the Ramrod?"

"Yes. Unlike the rest of this country, we don't shield younger people from real life. They see leather men walking down the street here, so what's the big deal about knowing where they like to hang out?"

"I suppose. Just how popular is the gossip column?"

"It's a fan favorite." He used the rear-view mirror to look me in the eye. "Have you that much worry if people know you have the largest dick in the city?"

"In the past, it concerned me for several reasons," I said, "but I worry less now than this morning. I guess I find some concerns easier to let go of than others. However, I only asked about the gossip column because I think I have the makings of a plan. I need to work out a few of the details, though. You said that the Herald is for social news and gossip. Does it do any hard news at all?"

"Only really big news. Why?"

"The Naked Reporter came to Chadwell's home while the police were investigating the crime scene."

"That's strange since the Naked Reporter only does social interest articles and gossip."

"Yeah, I wouldn't think that murder would be of social interest. Perhaps he's trying to break into something more serious."

A few minutes later, Max returned to the car.

"How did it go?" asked Albert.

"Jeez, Neuhouser really does have a severe case of Paranoid Personality Disorder. I had to coax it out of him by appealing to his sense of paranoia. He said that Tommy, whom he called Tommy-Boy by the way, hadn't spoken to him directly because he was sick that Tuesday and stayed home. But Tommy called him and left a message at 4:45 that afternoon, informing him that he quit his position, but he hadn't gotten the message until the next day."--Max pulled out his cell phone--"Surprisingly, he hadn't deleted the voicemail, and he sent me a copy." He played the recording.

"

[Hi Mr. Neuhouser, it's Tommy Haines. I'm sorry I missed you today. I wanted to tell you personally that I appreciated your help in getting me the job at Alliance. The income carried me long enough to find some work I prefer, so I must quit my job there. Now that I have enough driving experience, my roommate helped me get that job at the cab company. I start driving a cab tomorrow, and I'm excited about it. I like the idea of getting to meet new people all the time.

"Also, I have something important to talk to you about, but it's too much for voicemail; I should tell you in person. When you get this message, please call me, and we can arrange a time that's convenient for you. I hope you feel better soon. Take care.]"

The first thing that struck me about it was how terribly sad it made me feel. I had heard his name before and spoke of him with an impersonal detachment, but hearing his voice made him real. He had that fresh voice of a young man in the last year of his teens. He sounded like a good kid with so much life ahead of him, but within 12 hours of making that call, he was dead. The three of us just sat there for several minutes in silence before returning to the station.

"So, we have nothing," said Edgerton, sounding disgusted.

The detective, Albert, Max, and I sat around the table in the conference room. The case had us stumped. I searched through the files to find anything missed. Tommy's phone records indicated that he communicated with Alliance, the Hackney Cab Company, Glenn, Chadwell--which stopped about the time Malor said they had the falling out, Sister Foustina, the Winter Foundation, his tutor, and Malor. Chadwell's phone records indicated that he called Alliance, Tommy, and briefly with his mother, who lived in Iowa. He appeared to have no other friends. Malor says he hadn't known Chadwell as anything more than a coworker, and records indicated they never had electronic communication with one another away from work.

Forensics could get no DNA from the unknown print, and they found only Chadwell's prints inside the house. He had taken an extreme measure by swallowing the ring, so if he hadn't gulped it down to keep it out of the hands of someone else, I couldn't imagine the reason. A third party must have existed, and I hadn't believed it was Malor. Tommy understood the importance of the ring because he spoke to Sister Foustina about it, making him unlikely to have told anyone else. Chadwell seemed the more likely candidate to have said something to someone.

"Had Chadwell no one in his life he confided in," I asked myself, "like someone he hadn't realized had a connection to the circumstances with Malor in Seattle?"

I pulled out three bags with the finger traps. One bag contained a single trap labeled "unknown fingerprint," another labeled "fingerprint of James Malor," and the others in the third bag. I made a close examination of the traps. They looked like they were made of the same heavyweight paper parchment, but they were not all identical.

I laid them onto the middle of the conference table inside their perspective bags. "Remember that children's song,

One of These Things Are Not Like the Others

? I was always quite good at that game. The one labeled with Malor's fingerprint is different from all the others, and apparently, forensics missed it."

"What's the difference?" asked the detective as he picked up the bags.

"We assumed that Malor made them all, but no matter which direction you hold it, the one with his print has the strips starting with a left curve over the right, and all the others are the opposite."

"I noticed Malor is left-handed," said Albert. "If they're all the same but that one, the maker was probably right-hand dominant, which means Malor really is innocent. If he had done that to throw us off, he would make sure we noticed."

"That's not much, Millstone," said the detective, "but it's something, and that means we have more than Malor's word that he's innocent. Good. This unknown stray fingerprint could help identify our killer once we have a suspect."

"I have an idea how to get us one," I said, "but you may not like it."

"With no other options on the table," he said, "I'm listening."

I knew it was a long shot, but we had nothing else. This person appears to hate Malor so much they were willing to kill, and they wanted the ring badly enough for Chadwell to swallow it to keep it out of their reach. At that moment, besides Sister Foustina and Malor, only the police knew we found the ring, and everyone thought the police had Malor in custody. The killer wants us to think Malor just did a poor job of setting up an obviously fake suicide. So, they probably lowered their guard thinking their plan to get Malor arrested had worked, but what if we changed that?

What if we let Malor go, pretending the police accepted the fake suicide as real and believed that Chadwell had killed Tommy and then took his own life? After all their hard work to point the finger at Malor, that should infuriate the killer beyond measure. And what if our naked friend at the newspaper interviewed Malor, or he had some gossip about him to place in the paper. He could somehow let people know of Malor's intention to attend the housewarming party with everyone else. And on top of all that, what if he attended the party wearing the ring on his finger?

"You want to use me as bate!" said Malor. "You realize I'm not a masochist, right?"

When we called Malor into the conference room, the detective had asked Max and Albert to wait outside. He wanted to make it feel more like a chat, rather than our pressuring him to do it.

"I don't like this either, James," said the detective, "but you cannot continue to live your life as normal with someone out to get you, and believe me, they are."

"You called me James," he said with surprise in his voice.

"Now's not the time for that conversation," said Edgerton.

"They could give you a protective vest," I said, "they would have plainclothes officers there and wire you with a microphone."

"Will the two of you and Max be there?" he asked us.

"Max will escort Winter and stick by her, and I could have my eye on you from the crowd."

"And you?" he asked the detective.

"It's my case, so I'll be there," he said.

"Right...your case," he said, sounding a little disappointed, and I got the impression that he hadn't heard the words he hoped to hear. "I got the invitation for this thing a few weeks ago, but I hadn't counted on going. I've nothing to wear to a party like that; everyone dresses in fancy things, and I've never been fancy."

"If we solve that problem, will you do it?" I asked him.

What we asked of him was dangerous. The line of his mouth frowned a bit, and having lost every ounce of his cocky attitude, he said, "Detective Edgerton's right. I couldn't live my life with someone after me. So, I might as well get the confrontation over with, right?"--He nodded--"Yeah, I'll do it."

"Millstone, will you excuse us for a few minutes?" asked the detective.

"Sure," I said. "Thank you, Mr. Malor." I rose to leave, and before I could get to the door-

"Hey, Millstone!" Malor called after me. "I would like it if you and Max called me James."

His request had me smiling a little. If we were seeing the real James Malor, he seemed much more likable. "Okay, James. We'll get things started."

I could only guess what their conversation consisted of, but when I left the conference room, I found Max and Albert at his desk, speculating on the situation between the detective and James.

"Well?" asked Albert.

"He'll do it, but he has nothing to wear, and whatever we get him, he needs the ability to wear a protective vest under it. And while you're at it, could you get him something to protect his groin area?"

"Good idea," said Max. "He has a lot to cover down there, so it needs to be something big."

"Well, it will only take three minutes to get a vest," said Albert, "but I'm unsure about the pad. It might help if I had a visual of what we're trying to cover. So, what are we talking about, the size of a tarp?"

"They don't call him Tenten for nothing," I said.

"Holy shit," he said, "I just got what that means."

"If his dick caused the legal troubles in Seattle," I said, "this person might go after it, so he could never harm anyone again."

Cringing, he said, "Ouch," and left to find what we needed.

I asked Max, "Could you call Taylor the tailor? Ask him if it's possible to make a suit in just a couple of days. It's fine if he charges extra for a rush job."

"I'll also ask him if he's ready for our fitting," he said. "What will you do?"

I pulled out my phone. "I will contact our friendly neighborhood naked reporter."

I stepped away from Max as we made our perspective calls. As I expected, it took a few transfers to reach someone who, once they discovered my name, give me the reporter's cell number without a fuss. I texted him a message.

TEXT:

[Hello, Mr. Santiago, this is Howard Millstone. If you want first crack at a hard-news story, I have something for you.]

It took less than 60 seconds to receive a call from him. I told him the situation, what I needed, what I hoped he could do for us, and what reward I would give him if he helped us. He agreed to my terms. As I spoke with him, Max mouthed that the tailor could see us at 4:30 that afternoon, and I invited the reporter to the tailor shop at that time.

While Albert tried a few different protective vests on James, Edgerton called me into his office. He closed the door behind us and shut the blind.

"That's a do-not-disturb signal," he said.

I glanced around his office and saw baseball memorabilia on his walls, most notably the Franklin Coppers. Apparently, the police department had its own baseball team. His office was cozy, and it looked like one for a busy detective with files stacked on his desk and an empty mug that held coffee that morning.

"Please, sit for a minute," he said, "I have something to ask you." We both sat, and he just looked at me for a moment like he hadn't known where to begin. I had to assume drawing me into his office had occurred as a last-second decision.

"It's about James, isn't it?"

He leaned back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling. "I'm beginning to appreciate your ability to jump to correct conclusions," he said. Leaning forward again, he looked me in the eye. "Am I out of my mind?"

"That depends on how far you've taken it and on how far you intend to let it go."

"It hasn't gone far at all, but you've no idea how much it pleased me when you noticed the discrepancy in those finger traps."

"So, your doubts had you keeping him at arm's length, but that reason no longer exists."

He nodded.

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather speak to Max? He's more the clinical type."

"No, you may have an insight due to that one thing you both have in common. Besides, I have two people I consider my peers, Thomas Sawyer and you. Don't let that go to your head."

"Oh, it won't," I said. "I'm still struggling to earn a spot in your good books, and I've yet to understand why I care about that. So, are you seeking advice from a peer or a sounding board?"