Stone Cold Dead James Ziskin (pdf e book reader .TXT) 📖

some liquor from Corky’s. And Ted Jurczyk was there, but none of Darleen’s other friends. We were laughing about something, then a phone rang in the girls’ room.

Late night calls rarely bring good news. I don’t recall ever having appreciated one, and this night was no different. I woke suddenly from my dream and needed a couple of seconds to find my bearings. Disoriented from the drink and the deep sleep, I wasn’t sure where I was until the phone pealed again.

“Hello,” I said into the receiver.

“You dirty, little slut,” came the voice. “I will get you for what you did,” and the line went dead.

In my daze, I couldn’t quite place the voice and, as my wits returned, I realized that I couldn’t be sure who it was. I suspected Dick Metzger, of course. The sheriff had released him earlier in the day, and he must have seen the article in the newspaper by now. But it could have been Louis Brossard, as well. Or Wilbur. Was he still in jail? I wasn’t at all sure, especially in my current state.

I went to the kitchen, checked the bolt, and moved the kitchen table to block the door. But I felt no safer. It was a little past one, and the long night stretched out before me. The prospect terrified me, and no new lock downstairs or furniture in front of the door provided comfort.

Pulling the curtains aside, I looked up and down on Lincoln Avenue from my bedroom. The street lamps glowed in the cold night air. Nothing looked out of place. There were several cars parked along the street, their hoods covered with a dusting of frost, indicating they’d been still for hours. I switched on all the lights and sat in the parlor trying to figure out what to do.

I could call the police or Mike Palumbo or Fadge. But I feared I was becoming a nuisance. I no longer worried about Joey Figlio—or Frankie Ralston, for that matter—and I was pretty sure Wilbur Burch was still locked up. To date, no one other than those three had actually breached my door. But I had never provoked anyone the way I had Dick Metzger and Louis Brossard. And both on the same day.

Arming myself with the longest knife in my drawer, I went back to bed and tried to sleep. But the tension was too great, and I struggled to calm myself. Time passed. After what seemed like hours, I checked the clock: two thirty. Then the noises began. I thought I heard a car in the street, but nothing was visible from my window. Next, the house creaked, and I got up to investigate, knife at the ready. Nothing. At three fifteen, the wind blew a branch or something off a tree onto the roof. At least that’s what I assumed and prayed it was.

At four, I made myself some tea, thinking it might soothe my nerves, and returned to bed. I laid my head on the pillow and stared at the ceiling. My eyes felt heavy, and Darleen was helping me to the sink in girls’ bathroom. She patted my back and smiled at me. She was wearing braces again.

The noise that woke me was in my dream, I realized soon enough. It was a bang. A gunshot, perhaps, but I woke with a start, and the carving knife fell to the floor with a great clatter. Mrs. Giannetti would surely give me an earful in the morning.

But on the bright side, as I sat up in my bed, I had my answer.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 18, 1961

The fear must have cleared my head. Or perhaps it was like a crossword puzzle after all. Eventually, even the toughest word falls. Even the hardest puzzle can be solved.

It was still dark, but morning wasn’t far off. I couldn’t call the sheriff at this hour, so I plotted out what needed to be done. Frank would need to arrest Brossard and get him to sign a statement in the presence of his lawyer. That would take several hours, I figured, but it couldn’t be helped. It was essential to the integrity of my plan, which was still just a hunch and almost a shot in the dark. But I had nothing else. And if this didn’t pan out, Brossard would be in the clear. Without witnesses and with no physical evidence, he may have achieved the perfect murder. For the second time. But only if I was wrong. The other help I needed from the sheriff was a second search of Brossard’s car.

At seven, I dialed Frank Olney’s home number and told him my idea. It took a few minutes to convince him that there was no harm in trying it and that the alternative was to do nothing at all. In the end, he thought he could get Brossard and his lawyer to give a statement by early afternoon.

“There’s one more thing, Frank,” I said hesitantly. “Last night I got a threatening phone call. I’m not sure if it was Brossard or Dick Metzger, though I’m leaning toward Metzger.”

“What did he say?”

“He called me a dirty, little slut and said he was going to get me for what I did.”

“Holy hell,” he said. “I’ll post someone to watch your place tonight. In the meantime, get a locksmith and a carpenter in this morning and replace your kitchen door with something more secure. Will your landlady let you do that?”

“Not likely,” I said.

“Well, put it in and ask for forgiveness later.”

I phoned Charlie Reese next and told him my plans. He, too, was uncertain, but agreed it was the only option at the moment. He also thought I should secure my kitchen door, and he recommended Milchiore’s Hardware on Main.

I soon realized that a new door was out of the question on such short notice, but by noon, Dave Milchiore had installed a big brass Segal deadbolt on my kitchen door. He told me Segal