In the last episode of Special Delivery, Rocky was questioned by the police about a murder and discovered the statue was missing from the Hoffman mansion. The following takes place after Rocky left the crime scene:
Night fell as hard and fast as a wrestler on the take but the rain never stopped for a moment. I drove home in the Buick and listened to the radio, wading through local stations until I came to one who had something to say about the weather. The man said it was raining. Then he played an Eddie Condon platter. I snapped the dial and the button jarred loose and fell to the ground. I was tired of listening anyway so it was just as well.
Something was bugging me. It was something at that crime scene, but what it was, I couldn't put my finger on it. Maybe it was the way the police talked to James Wong and how Lieutenant Hardacre believed him right off the bat. I've never known him to take anyone's word for anything, whether it be a schoolgirl in pigtails or the Burbank Strangler.
Maybe it was because I let slip about the statue. That opened the floodgates so we had to tell the police all we knew, even handed the book over to Hardacre so he could read all about Il Pollice Nero and its many wonders. He nodded as he read, like everything was making sense to him. He even laughed about it a little. Then when he shoved the book closed, he looked right at us and said, “That statue's the key to the whole thing.” Just like that, even though I hadn't given him half the story of Weller and his wayward wife, the fake Rollo and the fake delivery driver. A two-bit fable like the one he read about wasn't going to swing him one way or another. Hardacre knew something and he was leaving it out.
I shoved off the road at a drug store on Rosemont Boulevard in the hopes they had a call box inside. They did, and I leapt inside, gave the operator instructions to get a hold of the morgue at City Hospital, and waited. In three minutes I heard the voice of a sour, tired man. “Morgue. Kelly speaking. Help you?”
“This is Rocky Stone. I'm a detective investigating the murder at the Hoffman house this afternoon.”
“Listen, I don't know about that...”
“Well, I do, so let me do the talking. An ambulance brought in a Chinese fella, shot three times. You got anybody there that meets that description.”
Kelly perked up. “Yeah! The one in the suit?”
Suit? I thought. What did I expect him to wear, a dress? I just figured out what was bugging me. “That's right. The one in the suit,” I said, soothingly. “Just so we know were reading from the same music, tell me: what kind of suit was he wearing?”
“Ha! Can't be too careful huh?” he said, nauseatingly chummy all of a sudden. “All right, I'll play. It was one of those suits the fighter pilots wear, all bright blue. Made of rubber or something, like he was trying to keep stuff off his clothes. Blood all over it now.”
“Save the irony,” I growled, and hung up the phone.
Something was bugging me. It was something at that crime scene, but what it was, I couldn't put my finger on it. Maybe it was the way the police talked to James Wong and how Lieutenant Hardacre believed him right off the bat. I've never known him to take anyone's word for anything, whether it be a schoolgirl in pigtails or the Burbank Strangler.
Maybe it was because I let slip about the statue. That opened the floodgates so we had to tell the police all we knew, even handed the book over to Hardacre so he could read all about Il Pollice Nero and its many wonders. He nodded as he read, like everything was making sense to him. He even laughed about it a little. Then when he shoved the book closed, he looked right at us and said, “That statue's the key to the whole thing.” Just like that, even though I hadn't given him half the story of Weller and his wayward wife, the fake Rollo and the fake delivery driver. A two-bit fable like the one he read about wasn't going to swing him one way or another. Hardacre knew something and he was leaving it out.
I shoved off the road at a drug store on Rosemont Boulevard in the hopes they had a call box inside. They did, and I leapt inside, gave the operator instructions to get a hold of the morgue at City Hospital, and waited. In three minutes I heard the voice of a sour, tired man. “Morgue. Kelly speaking. Help you?”
“This is Rocky Stone. I'm a detective investigating the murder at the Hoffman house this afternoon.”
“Listen, I don't know about that...”
“Well, I do, so let me do the talking. An ambulance brought in a Chinese fella, shot three times. You got anybody there that meets that description.”
Kelly perked up. “Yeah! The one in the suit?”
Suit? I thought. What did I expect him to wear, a dress? I just figured out what was bugging me. “That's right. The one in the suit,” I said, soothingly. “Just so we know were reading from the same music, tell me: what kind of suit was he wearing?”
“Ha! Can't be too careful huh?” he said, nauseatingly chummy all of a sudden. “All right, I'll play. It was one of those suits the fighter pilots wear, all bright blue. Made of rubber or something, like he was trying to keep stuff off his clothes. Blood all over it now.”
“Save the irony,” I growled, and hung up the phone.
*************************************************
The wind blew a small twig underneath my windshield wiper and it was mopping a trail in my view as it moved from side to side. I barely paid it any mind as my thoughts were overtaking me. A blue suit. Protective. Not protecting him from bullets. Protecting him from the statue, protecting him from getting sick. He knew what it was all about and it wasn't about any ancient curse.
Radiation.
I made it back to my apartment building and dove into the parking garage. The rain continued to slosh around on the windshield and the twig continued to dance. I turned the wipers off and landed the car in my parking spot, tossed the keys to the attendant as I ran past. I had to call somebody with this news, Hardacre, Wong, somebody.
I took the stairs because I couldn't be bothered to wait for the elevator and when I got to door and flung it open I hardly noticed the pair of shoes I nearly tripped over, nor did I realize they weren't mine. My focus had been squarely on the telephone and how to get to it soonest. But the shoes were followed by a dress, a baby blue one. I was positive it wasn't there when I left that morning.
The phone vanished from my mind and I followed the trail along the floor. It ended at my bed. A head peeked out from underneath the covers.
“Well, if it isn't the big, bad wolf,” said Jesse Weller with a devious smirk.
The wind blew a small twig underneath my windshield wiper and it was mopping a trail in my view as it moved from side to side. I barely paid it any mind as my thoughts were overtaking me. A blue suit. Protective. Not protecting him from bullets. Protecting him from the statue, protecting him from getting sick. He knew what it was all about and it wasn't about any ancient curse.
Radiation.
I made it back to my apartment building and dove into the parking garage. The rain continued to slosh around on the windshield and the twig continued to dance. I turned the wipers off and landed the car in my parking spot, tossed the keys to the attendant as I ran past. I had to call somebody with this news, Hardacre, Wong, somebody.
I took the stairs because I couldn't be bothered to wait for the elevator and when I got to door and flung it open I hardly noticed the pair of shoes I nearly tripped over, nor did I realize they weren't mine. My focus had been squarely on the telephone and how to get to it soonest. But the shoes were followed by a dress, a baby blue one. I was positive it wasn't there when I left that morning.
The phone vanished from my mind and I followed the trail along the floor. It ended at my bed. A head peeked out from underneath the covers.
“Well, if it isn't the big, bad wolf,” said Jesse Weller with a devious smirk.
What is Jesse Weller doing in Rocky's apartment? What will Rocky do next? Find out in the next episode of The Adventures of Rocky Stone!
Go to Part 17: A Stranger in His Bed
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