Not my characters, just my story. I only wish I owned Pete. The story is best read if you've seen the series and know the characters. If you haven't seen it lately, watch, enjoy.
A Lifetime in Eight Days
Chapter 10: The Evidence in the Absence
The big office on the second floor was oppressively quiet as the two men who currently occupied it faced off against one another. The silent confrontation had nothing to do with anger or mistrust or even an overwhelming difference of opinion. It merely concerned the facts surrounding an investigation that they were both totally committed to but which they had different viewpoints on when it came to the ways and means of solving the case. The big man behind the desk finally interrupted the silence.
"Look, Lieutenant, I'm aware that Peter Gunn is a friend of yours and I understand that you have more than a professional interest in this case." Captain of Detectives A. C. Clark had a booming voice that could be heard throughout the entire precinct when he wanted to make himself and his opinions known, but today he kept it almost as quiet and gentle as Jacoby's voice normally was. "But you need to remember that you are a professional member of this police force and that police business takes precedence over personal desires."
"I realize that, Captain-" Jacoby stood in front of his superior's desk, his suit a bit more rumpled than usual, his deep brown eyes tired but determined.
"We don't even have an eyewitness statement from anyone that Denner is actually back in town. There've been no physical sightings. So far everything we have is based on assumption and second-hand or third-hand information. Back-fence whispers from sources I wouldn't trust if it was my own mother they were talking about!"
"So you're saying we should just forget about it?"
"No. I'm saying that I don't have the authority to make a deal with this Bennie Marconi based on what you're giving me. Just because he's Joe DeVito's cousin doesn't mean he knows Paul Denner. Not even the O'Malley brothers could give you that." Clark heaved a rough sigh and leaned back in his chair, which emitted a strained creak as he shifted his bulky body. "Yes, consorting with DeVito will get Marconi prison time, but if he is involved with Denner and with Gunn's disappearance five years is a drop in the bucket compared with what might happen to him at the hands of his own people if he sells out for a reduced sentence. The man's going to want a big time deal to avoid that and you just haven't made a case I can live with."
"And Pete's lighter?"
"He could have picked it up off the ground," another shrug, not unkindly, "found it in the gutter." Clark leaned forward, burly hands clasped in front of him on his desk, the expression on his face one of compassion. "Work with me here, Jacoby. You know I'm right. You know where this will end up if I give you the green light to do what you want, to just go about things in a willy-nilly manner without considering all of the very real consequences."
"Begging the Captain's pardon," Jacoby interjected in a soft voice, "but I don't really give a damn about the consequences. Paul Denner shouldn't even be out on the street. What about the consequences of that action? He doesn't deserve to be walking around a free man because we all know what he did. And you know I'm right about that. If there's any way to put him back behind bars we should be doing that instead of sitting around discussing consequences." Jacoby made a half-turn and picked up his hat from the chair he'd set it on when he entered the Captain's office. He turned it over in his hands, staring at it before returning his gaze to Clark. "Pete's been a good friend to the Department. He's dropped so many solved cases into our laps that I can't even begin to start to count them. He's put himself in danger helping us get people off the street when our hands as cops have been tied. He's helped a lot of us personally. And he has never ever wanted or asked for any recognition. And that begs the question as to who we're trying to protect here. Pete Gunn or Pauly Denner? Because from where I'm standing Pete's certainly not getting the respect he deserves from this office." Jacoby's lips thinned in anger. "Sir."
The office became very quiet then Jacoby spoke again.
"The D.A. has the authority to make a deal with Marconi." He held the other man's gaze. "Do I have the Captain's permission to speak with him?"
Clark gave Jacoby a long hard stare.
"No, you do not have permission, Lieutenant," he finally said.
Jacoby's lips pressed into a thin line as he put his hat back on and adjusted the brim, his eyes never leaving those of Clark. He felt as if his entire investigation had just been dealt a death blow.
Then Clark slowly got to his feet, stepped around his desk and reached for his own hat and overcoat.
"I'll talk to the District Attorney myself."
Jacoby chafed as he thought of all the time that had been wasted. First between him and Captain Clark, then between Clark and the District Attorney. It always seemed that the faster you wanted things to happen the longer they took. At least it seemed that way in police work. In all fairness the D.A. hadn't had to think too awfully long before giving his blessing to a deal with Bennie Marconi. After all, he'd been an assistant attorney in the D. A.'s office during the case involving Paul Denner and the murder of Eleanora White. He wanted Denner back off the street again as much as the next guy. He had also had dealings with Peter Gunn in the not so distant past, dealings which had caused him to come out looking and smelling like a rose to his office and to the public. Whatever Bennie Marconi asked for he would be given, within legal limits, contingent on the information he presented to the police and whether that information led to the whereabouts of Paul Denner and Peter Gunn. He would also be called upon to testify at any court proceedings initiated as a result of the investigation.
Standing just outside the interrogation room, his back to the closed door, Jacoby stared at the piece of paper in his hand. Written in his neat script was an address, 112 Idlewood, a location just south of the big bend in the river in a section of town that was home to both businesses and residences. Unfortunately the so-called businesses that populated the area weren't ones that normal everyday folks would be associated with. What made it even more intriguing was that it was also a very good area for a person to disappear into if he didn't want to be found. A person like Paul Denner. Jacoby blew a tired breath through dry lips then looked up as Detective Harmon appeared beside him. He handed Harmon the notepaper.
"Get all the information you can on this address. Who owns the building, whether its currently occupied, who the neighbors are, the works. Set up surveillance right away and be sure to keep it low-key. I don't want to tip anyone off before we go in."
"You actually think anyone will still be there?" Harmon ran a hand through his short graying hair. "According to Marconi he was expected back at the place hours ago. If that's the case then Denner already knows something's off. He might already have skipped town and could be somewhere upstate by now. As for Pete," the detective shrugged his narrow shoulders, "who knows?"
"You don't have to remind me of the possibilities," Jacoby bluntly answered. "I knew what the risks were when I ordered Marconi picked up and I've been questioning that decision since I made it. But this thing has to end somewhere whatever the outcome."
He nodded toward the squad room. "Get those things taken care of. Then get a team ready to go in. I want the best men we have. If Pete's still there – if he's still alive – I don't want any mistakes made that might end up getting him killed."
The Lieutenant glanced at the big clock on the wall. The hands had crept past ten-thirty already. The evening outside was pitch black and another steady rain had picked up. Maybe they'd be given the element of surprise this dreary night. Maybe not. He opened the door to the interrogation room, stepped inside and closed the door back behind him. Then he sat back down at the short end of the table and listened as the man from the D.A.'s office continued to ask questions and the police stenographer continued to put the questions and answers in writing. Jacoby interjected with his own questions when the situation warranted. And the more he heard come out of the mouth of Bennie Marconi the harder his expression became and the more he hated Paul Denner. He had never before realized that such a deep hatred toward a fellow human being was possible.
It was a large two story house, probably with a basement, right on the waterfront. The windows were dark except for one on the first floor corner. There was a detached two car garage that appeared to be empty and a driveway that swung out toward the road that ran along the front of the house. Jacoby had seen no movement since he had arrived. The officers who had been conducting surveillance of the property reported that no one had entered or exited the home during the time they'd been there. Standing in the inky blackness beneath the awning of a building catty-corner from the house, Jacoby held up his wrist and tried to get a look at his watch. With the benefit of a sliver of light glancing off a window behind him, courtesy of a street light half a block up, he saw that it was now almost two in the morning. With a deep seated feeling of unease he motioned with one hand to Sergeant Davis as the officer knelt beside the half open door of an unmarked car parked at the curb. A few soft words spoken into the police radio by Davis set a team of twelve men, including he and Jacoby, in motion. Within thirty seconds the house was surrounded. Lieutenant Jacoby at the front of the house and Detective Harmon at the back watched as those respective doors were kicked in and police swarmed inside. They were met with no resistance. A quick top to bottom search of the property left them empty handed.
No one was home.
Lieutenant Jacoby pulled his coat aside and holstered his weapon, visibly angered. For some reason which he couldn't pinpoint he wasn't really surprised the house was empty. It was just another frustrating example of how this case had progressed. He stood in the middle of the first floor living room, eyes darting here and there as he gave orders.
"I want this place gone over room by room, inch by inch, until every corner is covered. Check closets, drawers, garbage cans, under the beds – if there's a piece of evidence, a clue of any kind, I want it found! Search the garage, the back yard, everywhere. Davis!" Jacoby heaved a dispirited sigh as Sergeant Davis appeared at his side. "Get the lab boys in here to check for prints. Blood. Whatever they can find." Davis nodded and, hurrying through the front door, heard his disgruntled boss slam his fist against the wall and utter an expletive.
Jacoby swiped a sweaty palm over his face then rubbed at his chin as he stared around the room he stood in. He'd been so afraid of this. That this would be the result of his decision to have Marconi taken into custody at that diner. Denner had been tipped off, either by the simple fact that Marconi didn't show up when he'd been expected or by someone who had seen the man being picked up by the police. Denner had been in this house within the last half day. So had Pete. Now they were both gone.
"Lieutenant?"
He turned his head to look at the officer standing a few feet away. The young man held a revolver, a pencil stuck up the barrel to hold it upright and keep the shiny surface from being contaminated by any new fingerprints. The gun was a Colt .38 Detective Special.
"I found this on the kitchen table."
Sticking his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, Jacoby stared at the weapon for several seconds before walking slowly over to the other man. Taking his handkerchief from his pocket he wrapped it around his fingers then gently tapped on the cylinder of the gun until it fell outward. There were six bullets in the chamber. Tilting his head he looked for the serial number on the frame. The final four digits registered in his brain.
"It's Pete's." He glanced toward the front door as heavy footsteps on the porch indicated the return of Sergeant Davis, several men from the police lab trailing him. "Have the lab boys dust it for prints, then empty the cylinder and bag all of it for evidence." Jacoby stepped around the officer and into the kitchen just as Detective Harmon stepped into the same small room from another door located between the stove and a set of cabinets. The detective motioned behind him with his head, eyebrows pointedly raised.
"You need to take a look in the basement, Lieutenant."
He didn't want to. That look in Harmon's eyes told him he shouldn't. But he knew he had to. He followed the man down the set of wooden stairs leading to the basement. The air down there was cold and damp, the room shadowed, one small window located high on the wall facing the street, a bare light bulb against the ceiling in the middle of the room. Jacoby looked around, nothing really jumping out at him. There were the normal things you might find in a basement. A wooden workbench along one wall, two wooden chairs and a worktable, various tools, an old low-standing four drawer cabinet with one drawer pulled open, a double sink. The floor was cement and gravel. He kicked at the gravel with the toe of one shoe, glanced upward at the window where rainwater was seeping through a seal, the steady drip, drip, drip an irritating noise in the otherwise quiet of the room. He raised an inquisitive eyebrow at Detective Harmon. The older man nodded toward the open cabinet drawer. Jacoby walked over to stand next to him and allowed his gaze to follow Harmon's. His gut clenched. Inside the drawer was a wristwatch, key ring, necktie – with one finger he lifted the tie to look underneath – a pair of cuff links and a collar pin, a man's black leather wallet along with various pieces of personal identification and other items that had apparently been removed from the wallet. There was also, oddly enough, a woman's handkerchief and a small vial of perfume. He slowly reached into the drawer and picked up Pete's driver's license and private investigator's license, then quickly began to gather together the other paper items, the last one being a photograph of Pete's girlfriend. He looked at it closely, dried brownish stains catching his attention. He held it out toward Detective Harmon.
"Look like blood to you?"
The detective nodded his head.
"Find blood anywhere else?"
"No," Harmon shook his head then walked over to the workbench along the wall. "But we found these." He lifted up a pair of handcuffs using a screwdriver which lay on the bench.
Jacoby's shoulders slumped and he drew a deep breath which he slowly released. He tore his gaze away from the handcuffs and gathered up a few more of Pete's personal items from the drawer – the key ring, cuff links, necktie and collar pin would most likely hold no fingerprints – as well as the handkerchief.
"Make sure those handcuffs and what's left in the drawer get dusted for prints. I'll get an evidence bag for these things," he held up the items he had removed from the drawer, "and I'll take them with me. The rest of his personal items can be sent to my office once the lab boys are done with them. Be sure to use a separate bag for the cuffs."
Jacoby wearily climbed the stairs. He stood in the middle of the kitchen for a minute or two, his eyes readjusting to the brighter lighting and his mind trying to adjust to what he had seen in the basement. When he finally walked back into the living room he was met with the sight of several more pieces of evidence. A black suit jacket and a pair of pricey black leather shoes lay atop the back of a sofa.
"Those were found in the garage stuffed inside a bag, Lieutenant. The jacket matches the description of the suit Mr. Gunn was wearing when he was last seen."
Jacoby checked the label on the inside of the jacket. He almost had to smile. Peter Gunn was the only man he knew personally who had his suits custom made. He nodded at the officer who provided the information. Then out of habit he checked the jacket pockets. He came up with a roll of breath mints from one side pocket and a laundry ticket from the other side pocket. From the inner pocket he removed a comb as well as a receipt for an insurance payment dated a week previously. That answered one question that had been niggling at Jacoby's brain – who had left the message regarding insurance that Barney said Pete had crumpled up and thrown away? Turned out to be an insurance guy they both happened to do business with. He added the mints, laundry ticket, comb and receipt to the evidence bag containing Pete's personal items. Then he took the bag, jacket and shoes out to his car and dropped them on the front passenger seat. He stood with his hand on the driver's side door handle for the longest time, staring through the darkness in the direction from which he could hear the gentle lapping of small waves against the shore, before slowly walking back into the house and locating Sergeant Davis on the second floor.
"Lee?" His voice was soft.
"Yes, Lieutenant?" The uniformed officer straightened upon hearing his given name fall from Jacoby's lips.
"Do me a favor?" Davis nodded. "Give Harbor Patrol a call. Give them this location and request that they start doing sweeps of the river. Tell them to cover the range where a body might end up if it entered the water within the last sixteen hours or so. And tell them to call me if they find anything."
"Sure thing, Lieutenant." Davis nodded solemnly. "I'll get on it right away."
Jacoby nodded his thanks before walking away. Then, just out of simple curiosity, while passing back through the living room he stopped at a console sitting by itself in a corner. He idly lifted the lid and glanced inside. Silently he reached down and lifted several LPs from the turntable, recognizing them as those missing from Peter Gunn's apartment. He handed them to an officer, requesting that they be labeled and bagged as evidence, and then headed back to the precinct house for another conversation with Bennie Marconi.