Murder In The Rain: A Detective Bass Mystery

By Stephen Randorf

Baseball was not a sport Detective Bass understood, nor was he familiar with the fashion design industry, but when a small-time hoodlum's body was pulled from a frozen river on a cold February morning, that he understood.  A young fashion designer became a prime suspect after spring training camp ended and a newspaper editor, investigating doping in sports, disappeared.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen Randorf
• Release date: Oct 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393388920

Stephen Randorf

Stephen Randorf grew up in the Midwest region of the U.S.  His education includes history and creative writing.  The Detective Bass Mystery novels and novellas specifically center around Detective Gilbert Bass, a middle-aged, desk-prone police detective who solves the low-profile cases of an urban city.

Book preview

Part I

Chapter 1

On a cold February morning, Detective Bass leaned against the walkway’s railing and watched as the victim’s body was being hoisted out of the river.

The bridge was lined with office buildings and condos which blocked the early morning sun and cast dull gray shadows across the frozen river. A hole had been cut in the ice by the rescue squad to bring up the body. Some of the loose chunks of ice still bobbed in the undercurrents.

Bass could see the body as it lay on a stretcher near the EMS truck. He did not need the medical examiner to pronounce the person dead; what he needed was to keep his own overcoat wrapped tight, especially around his neck whenever the wind gusted between the buildings. White puffs of condensation followed Bass’s breath with each sigh.

Shoppers, wearing thick overcoats, lined up on both sides of the bridge, mixing morbid curiosity into their quest for good sales and bargains.

A woman standing behind Bass said, I suppose this one will keep you busy for a while.

Bass turned around.

It was Lucille from the newspaper.

Bass replied, I doubt it, my young lady. It’s not my case.

Lucille was not young nor his lady. She smiled, anyway. Why’s that? she asked. Her winter coat was open in spite of the wind. Her checked business suit and bright yellow blouse were clearly visible as she clutched her purse and a paper sack close to her midsection, using them to keep the coat flap from flying open. Her hair was too short to flutter in the wind. She bit her lip and endured the chilly gusts that swept the bridge.

I’m off work today, Bass said. Vacation time, I guess.

So you’re out slumming it? This early in the morning?

You could say that.

Lucille nodded toward the victim lying on the stretcher. Who’s getting it then?

Hodgins, if I’m lucky, as Macky would say. Let him freeze his ass off for a change.

I’m glad you two are still friends.

Bass laughed. You back on this beat?

No, Lucille replied. I needed to stop for a bagel. She held up the paper sack.

A gust of wind swept over her, and Bass caught the yeasty scent of fresh bagels. Then the wind shifted, and Bass felt the freezing chill driven into his nostrils. He rubbed his nose and wiped away the cold air, and then the wetness around his eyes.

Felix is here, Lucille said. I guess he’s covering it. She pointed to the crowd of onlookers who had gathered a safe distance from the paramedic van and the two squad cars.

Bass squinted in the wind and then spotted Felix, a man past middle age dressed in a three-piece pinstriped suit, standing behind two women. He was peering intently over the women’s shoulders as he looked at the crime scene. Bass guessed that he and Felix were about the same age, even though he looked healthier and had less weight. They had met a few times. Casual times. Times when drinks were exchanged.

A uniformed officer brought out a roll of yellow police tape and started to stretch it across the surrounding area, from railings to benches to potted, dormant trees.

No overcoat? Bass asked, referring to Felix’s attire.

He probably has on his wooly willies.

Really? Bass said.

How would I know? Gilbert Bass, you amaze me sometimes.

I didn’t think he covered this kind of event. I didn’t think it was his style.

He doesn’t. But he’s my boss, so he can do whatever he wants. Actually, I thought he was on vacation. Or headed for one.

Someplace warm, I hope.

I hear Arizona.

That would qualify.

Bass looked over Lucille’s shoulder to see which officers were at the scene. I doubt his press pass will get him through, Bass said absentmindedly. Hold my place. I’ll be right back.

What? You think someone wants this section of frozen railing?

Bass went over to the gurney.

Sergeant Phillips stood next to the half-covered corpse. When the sergeant turned her head, one of her earrings glistened in the morning light.

What do we have? Bass asked.

One dead hoodlum.

Bass could see how the man’s head had been battered. His face had a blueish tint, and frozen blood matted his hair.

Drowned? Bass asked.

I doubt it, Phillips replied. Head crushed, two gunshot wounds to the chest. See his jacket there? She pointed to the two holes in the frozen fabric. I doubt he had time to drown.

You’d make a good M.E.

I thought you were off today?

That’s right. I’m a tourist like everyone else. You have a name for him?

His driver’s license says: ‘Clive Sparrow’.

You think it’s right?

Who knows. That’s not in my pay grade.

No sympathy? Bass asked.

Not for a hoodlum.

Bass shook his head. It’s not in my pay grade either. Not today, anyway.

Bass returned to Lucille. You can tell your boss that it’s a hoodlum. Clive Sparrow is his name. Most likely shot, twice in the chest. Bass looked across the icy river and up at the tall buildings. Instinctively, he studied the office windows of the eight and nine-story buildings, particularly those of the condos, those that would have a good, picture-front view, as if this was his case and he was looking for witnesses to interview. But he saw no one in the windows. They must all be at work, he surmised.

What are you looking at? Lucille asked.

I was wondering where the falcons nested. This city still has them, don’t they?

The peregrines? A warm ledge, I would hope.

The man was shot twice. Probably last night. The shots must have made a nice ringing sound between these buildings.

You’re sounding like a detective. I thought this was your day off.

Yeah, it is.

Bass and Lucille watched the medical team load the victim into the van, followed by shouted instructions and slamming doors. Bass noted the forensic team members who had been dispatched. He did this more out of habit than interest.

And then, as if he was thinking out loud, Bass said, I know someone who lives in one of those buildings.

You mean those expensive condos? Really? Which one? Lucille faced the same direction Bass was.

I don’t know exactly, Bass replied. It’s not a condo he lives in. I doubt he could afford that. I believe he has a small room at the top of an elevator shaft. Or at least he did at one time. Sometimes at night his place gives off a blue hue.

Lucille tightened her overcoat and gripped the paper sack as a gust of wind blew through.

Top, huh? she said. You always did know people in high places.

The only problem is, I don’t know which building. I can only tell where he lives when he has a light on at night. I can see it from here. I know that.

That’s good to hear, Gil. But my bagel needs a nice, warm microwave. I wouldn’t mind crawling in with it myself, to keep warm.

Suit yourself. Don’t forget about Clive Sparrow. Tell Felix.

Lucille left in the opposite direction, avoiding the crime scene and the yellow tape strung across the river walkway.

Bass took out his cell phone and made a call to his dentist. I had an appointment at nine, he told the receptionist. Something came up. Police business. Can I come in this afternoon? He had cancelled before. The receptionist was used to rescheduling him.

Bass stayed near the frozen river until all of the teams had left. He rarely had that luxury. Time was always important. Evidence dissolved and disappeared in a matter of time. The sooner the teams started the quicker the case was resolved.

Then Detective Hodgins appeared on the scene. He left his car, went over to the bridge, and looked down at the hole cut in the ice. Seeing Bass watching him, he came over. You’re off today, he declared sternly. What’s your business here?

Dentist appointment. Over there. Bass pointed to a brick office building a block away.

Don’t meddle.

I have no intentions to. Bass looked down at the uneven pieces of broken ice bobbing in the water. You missed seeing the body being recovered.

A hoodlum, they tell me. A dead one. Whether I’m here or not doesn’t make a difference. I know what a dead body looks like. Hodgins peered over the railing, down at the frozen river. Maybe he just slipped and fell in. Drowned, maybe?

Maybe, Bass said. For a brief minute, as he stood braced against the wind, he thought Lucille had been right about the microwave. He also thought the conversation with Hodgins had added to the chill, bringing the temperature down another minus five degrees.

Bass made up an excuse and left. He knew of a coffee shop in the vicinity where he could sit and warm his hands.

Bass did not return to the river walkway until after nightfall. The yellow tape snapped and rattled with each gust of wind. Even in the darkness, Bass could see where the watery chunks of ice had re-frozen into an odd patchwork. He felt warmth in his hands from the Styrofoam cup of coffee he was holding.

Across the river were rows of old brick buildings that had been converted into expensive condos and lofts. Several even had boating privileges with private piers—piers now icebound, along with the rest of the river.

At seven o’clock, half the windows Bass was studying were lighted. Some had blinds closed, but most tenants didn’t bother. Bass watched the silhouettes parade past the windows, illuminated by the apartment building’s yellow lights.

By the time the blue glow from one particular rooftop appeared, he had finished the coffee, crunched the Styrofoam cup under foot, and kicked it into a clump of snow so it wouldn’t blow away or roll onto the river.

Bass counted the buildings from left to right, starting at the bridge. One, two, three. It was the tallest building, and also the narrowest, that interested Bass. But the building was also plain. Even in the darkness, he could see the place showed no sign of any renovations.

He crossed the street and walked the several blocks to the building’s front entrance. As he had expected, the double set of lobby doors were locked. He scanned the building’s marque and then the front as he looked for a plaque with phone numbers. He vaguely remembered a back entrance.

An alley was nearby, and Bass turned down it, going in between the sooty buildings and under their fire escapes. A weathered door was in an alcove. A single bulb light fixture hung overhead, but the socket was empty, and the only illumination came from a street light kitty-corner from the alley. Bass knew it would be useless to knock. He saw a metal box with buttons attached to the brick and assumed it was an intercom. For night deliveries? Bass wondered. He pressed his finger on the cold button.

He pressed it four times before he heard a scratchy voice from the speaker box. The voice was too scratchy to understand. Bass, he said into the intercom.

Another round of inaudible, scratchy sounds came out of the box, and then the voice said, Bass?

After several tries, the voice went silent and the box became mute.

Bass pressed the first button again, using his thumb this time and pushing hard against the plastic. He did this several times before he stepped back and stamped his feet to get the blood circulating.

In the alley, he looked at the fire escapes on the far end of the building that gave the corner a jagged appearance. All the windows were unlit and lacked shades, black squares surrounded by red bricks, almost looking like a checkerboard.

Bass waited another five minutes. He was about to give up and leave when he heard a slow creak. The sound came from a narrow viewing slat on the door. As it slid open, Bass felt he was being watched, and understood. He smiled at the narrow window and waved. Latches clicked and the wooden door, inch by inch, scraped open.

When it edged halfway, a moderate sized man appeared. His face was old, his hair was grayish-white, and he looked upset.

Picasso, Bass said. It took you long enough.

Much of the man’s appearance was hidden in the shadows between the alcove and a hall light near the stairs behind him. Oil paints marked his long-sleeved blue work shirt. He frowned as he gripped the edge of the door with one hand. His other hand—and his other arm—were missing. The empty blue sleeve was tucked into his baggy blue jeans.

I’ve been home the whole time, he said in a gruff tone. And if anyone said they were here with me, then they were. I’ll testify to it. The whole time.

I’m not here to check on anyone’s alibi, Bass said, but then he added, Why? Should I be?

Picasso gave Bass a once over. I thought you were dead.

The feeling is mutual, Bass said.

You shit-head, Picasso said. He motioned with his hand for Bass to enter. What are you freezing out there for?

Bass followed Picasso up the back stairs.

His real name was Stannik. He had been in and out of the legal system for as long as Bass had been a detective. Whenever Bass suspected the involvement of a smalltime crook, he came looking for Stannik. Petty thievery, gambling in fake lotto tickets, betting on the dogs—Stannik always had a head start. And he was always caught, always did his time, and only made one real mistake, and that was selling someone else’s drugs. It was his missing arm that had the track marks.

Hasn’t this building gone condos yet? Bass asked.

God have mercy, that’s all I need.

Is that who’s looking after you now? God? Not the mob?

I have nothing to do with those people. Not anymore. You know that.

Someone’s paying your bills. You aren’t living off your good looks. You’re too ugly for that.

You here to torment me?

They had gone up several landings before Bass had enough light to see the layers of dust clumped in the corners. You not cleaning the building anymore? Did they replace you?

Don’t talk nonsense. I do it in my spare time, that’s all.

You must be a busy man.

Stannik stopped on a step. What do you mean by that?

Nothing. I was just trying to flatter you.

You should know better than that. Stannik continued up the stairs.

When they reached the top, and Stannik slid open the door to a large room, it all came back to Bass. It had been three to four years, since he was there last, when he was looking for a tip on a gang of purse snatchers. The place had not changed since then, not that he could see. Stannik’s place had the same closed-in smell from too many cigarettes and too many mornings of fried bacon. Bass saw the double-burner hotplate on a bookcase shelf, and when he glanced at the high arching windows, which overlooked the river twelve stories below, he saw they were closed tight against the February wind. Broken furniture was piled in one corner. An unmade bed stood kitty-corner to an ancient refrigerator, and a clutter of twisted electrical cords were mixed in with squished tubes of oil paint on the floor near a drop cloth where an easel was set up. The stacks of National Geographic magazines beside the unmade bed were new.

Taking up reading? Bass asked.

Don’t be a dumbass.

You own a gun?

Is that why you’re here?

Bass spotted several unopened cartons of cigarettes on a narrow shelf. He picked up two of the cartons and clapped them together, making a sound that, in the quiet apartment, was like thunder. Have you sunk to pirating tax-free cigarettes?

I thought you were asking about a gun?

These cartons look a bit shady, Bass said. He held one end of a carton to his nose, sniffing for freshness, and then looked at the label. Are these really the right brand? Or are they cheap knock-offs?

No guns. It’s part of my parole. Stannik came over and took one of the cartons from Bass. He tossed the carton on top of a cabinet and then grabbed the other one. What do you care? You don’t smoke.

The cabinet had other cigarette stacked inside. The brands varied.

How long is that? Bass asked, referring to the parole.

For life, I think, Stannik replied.

That’s because you are always getting into trouble. Bass went over to the cabinet and grabbed the same carton he had held earlier. He opened the cardboard flap and removed a pack. You mind? he asked, holding the pack up for Stannik to see.

What for? You don’t smoke.

I’ve done worse things to my health. Bass calmly slid the pack into his suit jacket’s side pocket. By now, Bass was standing near one of the windows. He peered down at the frozen river. Hear any shots last night? The echo must be something up here.

You asking about Clive Sparrow?

News travels fast.

Bass pressed his cheek against the cold glass, trying to see the spot where Sparrow’s body was recovered, but it was too far down stream.

I still have my connections, Stannik said. His eyes narrowed with suspicion.

I thought you might. What can you tell me about Clive Sparrow? Bass set the carton back on the table, this time next to a set of candles of varying heights that Stannik used to light his cigarettes.

Stannik, acting as if he didn’t hear the question, went across the room to the easel. He adjusted a gooseneck lamp so it would shine on the canvas where he had been working. He picked up a flat bristle brush that lay next to the palette on a side table, dabbed the brush in a reddish-brown paint, and applied it to the canvas using long, slow strokes. With his back to Bass, he finally replied, Your police records on Sparrow are better than my memory.

The problem with our records is that they’re all in the past. I want to know about the future. Clive Sparrow is a small time hood, like yourself—no offense.

Stannik nodded.

Sparrow wouldn’t have ended up in the river, if he didn’t know something, Bass continued. Something about the future, about what’s going to happen.

If he knew anything about the future, he wouldn’t have been shot. I mind my own business.

Bass came over and looked at the canvas. The picture was a half-finished mountain scene. The canvases lined up against a wall had similar motifs. You still peddling these in Florida?

It pays the rent.

Bass studied the painting for a minute. Why tourists in Florida want to look at mountain peaks is beyond me.

When their tastes change, I’ll change. I can sell you one, if you want. It’ll save you from climbing up those stairs every time just to admire my work. You can admire it in the luxury of your own living room.

Bass laughed.

And you’ll save on shipping cost. Cash and carry.

And you keep your agent’s commission?

That’s her problem.

Bass stopped looking at the painting. He went over to the door to leave. One thing I’ll never understand: when you guys want to get rid of someone, why don’t you just buy them a plane ticket? Send them someplace far away, like Hawaii or the Caribbean, and get rid of them that way. With winters like this one, it’s guaranteed they’ll never come back.

Bullets are cheaper.

Doing time isn’t. Bass opened the door to the stairway. I’ll pull the door shut downstairs.

Chapter 2

The weather had changed and the months had changed. The city had gone from February snow to April rain showers.

During that time, Detective Bass and his partner, Chet MacIntyre, had brought several more cases to conclusion. The final verdict for those would depend on the District Attorney’s staff and the courts.

Lucille phoned. It’s Felix, she said in a worried voice. He hasn’t been in. His secretary is worried.

File a missing person’s report, Bass sarcastically replied. Or put a notice in your paper: ‘Editor gone missing’. Bass tried to sound serious, but he ended up laughing.

Gil, Lucille said, annoyed, you’re not listening. This isn’t like him. For two days? That’s really unusual.

Bass’s face turned serious. "There isn’t much I can