Private Detective Malo Thompson

Private Detective Malo Thompson

The Cardiff File

© 1989 by James M. Glass

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to Norma Jean Bastin Glass, my wife, who passed away September 30, 2002.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

There are many friends who I wish to thank for their support in writing this book. They are numerous and include Jean Laporte, Frank Feschino, Jr., Nathan Carlson, Ursula Jaeschke and Barbara Stearn.

Chapter 1: Malo Thompson

Malo was tired. He’d been up all night watching the back door of his client’s warehouse, directly across the alley from his location. He had been fortunate in renting space on the second floor of a dilapidated warehouse. This gave him a panoramic view of everything in the alley. He shifted his body weight in the office chair voicing his feelings, I’m getting too old for stakeouts. It’s always the same old story, long hours, bad coffee and too many doughnuts,

A rusty panel truck entered the alley, moving slowly towards his location. The van pulled up to the back door of his clients’ warehouse. The driver blew his horn twice. The warehouse back door slid open cautiously and a grisly old night watchman peeked out. He then slid the door wide open. A young man emerged from the van. He opened the rear doors of the van and pulled down a ramp. The man was very thin, unshaven and his clothes hung on his frail body. The young man quickly entered the warehouse returning a few minutes later with a two wheel cart, filled with boxes. Malo recognized boxes containing televisions. The driver made several trips inside. Each trip he returned with a different product. Stoves and dish washers were loaded inside the van.

Malo clicked away with his telescopic camera using infra-red film. He recorded the young man paying off the night watchman with a stack of money. The young man drove off as the night watchman closed the sliding door of the warehouse. Neither of the men had been aware they were the focal point of the pictures Malo had taken with his camera.

Vacating the warehouse he had occupied, Malo muttered to himself, This is an old age story. An employee ripping off his employer by selling merchandise through the back door and pocketing the money. Malo’s pictures included the complete transaction, including the license number of the panel van. Now, he could turn the film over to the store owner and collect his fee. The store owner could make the decision about having them prosecuted. Malo would just be happy to get back to his office to catch up on his other work. He needed a shower, a shave and some rest. Malo headed back toward his office and home.

His building was located on 47th and Halstead in Chicago. He had purchased the two-story brownstone building several years ago. Malo converted the building into his office and personal residence. The lower floor was his office. The sign on the front door simply read, Malo Thompson, Private Investigator. The upper floor was remodeled and used as his personal residence. One of the nicest features he had installed was an elevator. A locking mechanism on the elevator gave him control of access to the second floor. The lock on the elevator and the security door on the stairway gave Malo the assurance he needed from unexpected visitors. Security was his number one concern, considering all the enemies he had made over the years. It wasn’t hard to make enemies when you investigated wayward husbands, or members of the mob. He was sick of all of the divorce work and made a mental note to take a pass on this type of work for the near future.

After showering and changing clothes, Malo poured himself a highball and proceeded downstairs to his office. It was a Saturday afternoon and he had just finished recording his report for his part-time secretary, when he felt a tingle at the base of his neck. His senses became suddenly keen and alert. Swiftly, but without a sound, he turned in the direction of the front door. The shadowy outline of a man was reflected against the outside of the frosted glass window. The man seemed to be standing in a crouched position, his shadow loomed menacingly. Malo watched as the shadow moved cautiously towards the door. On instinct he removed his gun from his shoulder holster and hid it in his hand, behind the desk. The shadow paused at the closed door. The door silently eased open and the man stepped quickly through the doorway. The man, seeing a figure at a desk, swiftly aimed and fired three shots into Mac, who was sitting behind the other desk.

Malo’s voice was husky as he spoke to the figure in the doorway.

I'm here, friend.

The man was very fast, as he spun towards the sound of Malo’s voice, but Malo didn't give him a chance to complete the turn. The roar of his gun was deafening in the small room as Malo placed two shots, chest high, into his body. The man’s body edged backward as he was rocked back on his heels, and then rebounded to the tips of his toes. His body did a slow pirouette, falling face down to the floor. He was dead before he completed the fall. Malo cautiously approached the body and nudged the man's gun away with his foot. Malo’s shots had hit him in the center of the chest, leaving gaping holes in his back. A .357 magnum has that effect on human flesh. When the bullet hits your finger, it's going to take part of your palm with it. There was no use checking for a pulse. The man was quite dead.

Malo heard the sirens in the distance as he was walking over to the telephone. One of his nosy neighbors had probably already called the cops. Malo finally reached Lieutenant Paul Summers of Homicide. He, quickly, informed him of the shooting. No sooner had he finished talking to the Lieutenant when the door opened and two Chicago policemen came bursting into the room. Both of the policemen had their pistols drawn and leveled in his direction.

The younger cop yelled, Freeze! Malo froze, with the phone still in his hand.

Drop the phone and place your hands against the wall. The cop rushed forward with his gun trained on Malo, ordering, Extend your legs backwards!

Malo assumed the position. He could tell the policeman was inexperienced and nervous; he had no desire to offer him an outlet for his anxiety. The cop patted Malo down, removing the .357 from Malos’ shoulder holster. Malo heard the other cop say, This one's dead. He's got two large holes in him. Better call the coroner

Just then Malo heard someone entering the room, and a voice, which was very familiar, said sarcastically,

Well, Thompson, who's your friend?

Malo recognized the raspy voice of Sgt. Heller of Homicide.

I haven't looked yet, Malo said over his shoulder. Can I put my hands down, Sergeant?

Yea, yea, you can put them down Thompson. Then looking in the direction of the cop at the door the sergeant said, McKiver, hold his gun as evidence for the inquest.

Mckiver was new to the force and wanted to make points with the sergeant. "I checked his gun, Sergeant.

There have been two bullets fired from his gun." The young rookie glanced smugly at Malo.

The Sergeant ignored McKiver's statement, leaned against Malo’s desk, and repeated his question. Who's your friend, Thompson?

I don't know, replied Malo, suddenly feeling tired of it all. Why don't we both take a look and find out.

Ignoring the forensic standard procedure of not moving the body, the Sergeant placed the toe of his shoe underneath the corpse, lifted and pushed the body over on its back.

Well, at least you didn't shoot him in the face, the Sergeant stated in his sarcastic tone of voice. It makes the identification a lot easier The sergeant leaned over the body. In a surprised tone of voice the sergeant muttered, Well, well, look who we have here, Thompson! It looks like it’s your old friend, Reed Carter. He finally got out of prison. It doesn't look like he'll be any further problem to anyone now. The sergeant finished his statement with a chuckle.

Reed Carter had killed his wife and three children, then had calmly driven away in the family car. After a few weeks had passed, Reed hadn't been arrested.

Finally, in frustration, his wife's father had hired Malo to track Reed down. The father wanted Reed to be prosecuted. The father had lost faith in the police department. He figured they were too busy working on simpler cases and didn’t really care about his daughter and grandkids.

It required weeks of work and checking with friends of Reed and his wife, but Malo finally received a break. One of Reed's co-workers at the Steel Mill had informed him Reed used to have a girlfriend. The co-worker had bumped into them one time at a bar. He had recognized the female file clerk who worked in the office of the Steel Mill. Her name was Cindy Lawson. She was still employed by the steel mill. Apparently, the co-worker informed Malo, Cindy hadn't known Reed was married. When she found out, she dropped him like a hot potato.

Malo had no difficulty locating Cindy in the filing room at the Steel Mill. She told him she was going on her break and would be more than willing to talk to him over coffee, especially if he bought the coffee. Cindy was a woman who had very definite opinions about married men who chased single girls. When Malo asked her how she had found out Reed was married, she told him she had become suspicious of him because he was never available on the week ends or on holidays. She asked one of her girl friends, in personnel, to check Reed's employment record.

I dropped him cold. I, then, called his wife about his free wheeling life away from home.

During their conversation she revealed to him Reed had taken her to a house he owned in Wheaton, Illinois. He had told her the house was in his mothers’ maiden name but he owned it. She didn't remember the exact number of the house, but she did remember the street name was President Avenue.

She smiled coyly at Malo when she added, I thought it was a classy name, that's why I remember it."

It only required a few days for Malo to check the houses on the street to discover Reed was living in the house in Wheaton, under an assumed name. Instead of trying to apprehend him himself, he notified Lieutenant Paul Summers. The Lieutenant, working in conjunction with the Wheaton police, apprehended Reed. At the trial Reed had vowed to kill Malo, the Judge, and the members of the jury. Reed had been lucky; his attorney managed to plea bargain his sentence. The Judge considered part of the evidence tainted and sentenced Reed to eight years in prison, instead of a life sentence. Apparently, with time off for good behavior, he had gotten out early, and had proceeded to carry out his threats.

Malo related to Sgt. Heller the incidents which had led up to the shooting in the office. The sergeant listened intently, and then told Malo, Lieutenant Summers is going to want a more formalize statement from you. He will probably ask you to come down to police headquarters.

Malo replied, I know, I have been through it before.

Looking over at the other desk in the office the sergeant chuckled, That's pretty clever, Malo. You place a dummy in your chair, and then you sit on the opposite side of the office.

Malo smiled, it’s a long story, a few years ago, and one of my better clients had Mac made up for me. It was all part of a joke. I helped the police put a crooked banker in prison. One of his cronies decided I should be in a six foot grave. The guy didn’t make it any better than Reed but it cost me a bullet in my shoulder and a few painful weeks in a sling. My client told me, now; there were two dummies in my office. My other customers had always teased me about having a one man office and from that time on, I told them Mac was my partner. It, also, gives me the feeling some one is watching my back. He's become part of my alter ego. He sure came in handy today.

Sergeant Heller, looking at Mac, just smiled as he replied, Yeah, it looks as though he's going to need some repair work now." The dummy's face had been blown away by Reed's bullets.

The sergeant looked up to notice the arrival of Lieutenant Paul Summers.

Good morning Leutenant.

Morning sergeant.

The Lieutenant was a soft, pudgy man, about five feet, eleven inches tall, with thinning blond hair. People meeting Summers for the first time were fooled by his appearance. His soft pleasant look didn't convey his tough, no-nonsense attitude. If you were a criminal, he was your worst nightmare. He was tenacious in his pursuit of the guilty. He would hang on until he was able to prove their guilt. Summers looked around the room, ignoring Malos’ presence. Directing his attention to the sergeant he inquired, What happened here, Heller?

Sgt. Heller repeated the story Malo had told him. After looking at Mac and the corpse, Lt. Summers turned towards Malo.

You live a charmed life, Malo. Let's go downtown and we'll get your official statement.

When Malo walked into the police headquarters, his nostrils were assailed by the strong odor of disinfectant. The police used it to get rid of the smell of the many unwashed bodies passing through the building. Crinkling his nose in distaste Malo asked, How in the hell do you stand the odor, Lieutenant?

You get used to it. The lieutenant replied in a voice stating a fact.

It smells like an overripe corpse.

You know the old saying Malo, it's better to smell like one, than be one.

I can’t argue with you there Lieutenant. But I sure wouldn’t want to work here.

Well you can get use to anything.

Malo gave his statement. After it was typed, he read it and signed it.

Is that all Lieutenant? Can I go now? Lieutenant Summers shook his head no. Let's have a little talk first, Malo, the Lieutenant requested in a serious tone of voice. Let’s go into my office, I want to talk to you in private.

He followed the Lieutenant into his office. Sit down Malo

What is this all about Lieutenant? Taking a thick manila folder from his desk,

Lieutenant Summers started looking through it. He closed the file, suddenly, with a snap.

Malo, you've been involved with five deaths...in the last two years.

Lieutenant, you know all those were self-defense, Malo replied defensively.

The Lieutenant sighed before replying, I am well aware of all the information in these files. It’s not a question of whether they were self defense. That’s not the problem. The problem is the Commissioner is fed up reading about you in the paper. His voice became exasperated, What in the hell do you think tomorrow's papers will say? Bad Thompson kills again? Or will it be, Bad Thompson survives again? In a calmer voice the Lieutenant tried to get his point across to Malo. You see, Malo, we're taking too much heat because of you. Something has to be done to let everything calm down."

Malo leaned forward in his chair, sparks of anger shining in his eyes, and exclaimed in an exasperated tone, Lieutenant, what do you want me to do? Let one of those jerks kill me?

Lt. Summers ignored the outburst and replied calmly, We want you to take a vacation, Malo. Go somewhere, and get the hell out of here for a few weeks.

What do you mean take a vacation? Malo knew the answer before the Lieutenant exploded.

Listen, Malo, I'm not kidding! Get the hell out of this town for a while. Don't force me to find a reason to lift your license.

You mean the heat from the Commissioner is that hot?

It's that hot, Malo.

Okay, okay, Malo conceded, I'll give it some thought and I'll try to come up with something. Then with a grin on his face he asks, Can I have my gun back?"

Pointing his finger at Malo,