The sun had barely risen when Peter pulled up in front of the square, Price Hill fourplex where Overstreet lived. Glass block sidelights, brick patterns, and a concrete inset cast with chevrons decorated the facade—features Lia said marked the building as pre-World War II Art Deco. The apartments would be solid and spacious, the kind of construction that didn’t happen anymore, places renters hung onto for decades.
He detoured to the parking lot behind the building and found the twelve-year-old Toyota Camry listed as Overstreet’s on a recent speeding ticket, its condition hardly better than Lia’s thirty-year-old Volvo. Being a crime historian didn’t appear to be a big-money gig.
Having confirmed Overstreet’s presence, he returned to the front of the building. The door bumped open. In the foyer, a woman with a toddler in tow wrestled with a stroller and a diaper bag.
Peter took two long steps and grabbed the door. She smiled in gratitude as he held it for her. He sent a mental thank you heavenward and took this opportunity to enter the building without buzzing Overstreet first.
Peter’s knock went unanswered. He knocked again, this time eliciting a hollered, “Hold your horses.” A long minute later, Overstreet’s door cracked open, leaking stale tobacco smoke.
Overstreet, barefoot in striped boxers and a stained v-neck T-shirt, looked a decade older than he had on the screen. This put him firmly in the sweet spot for Heenan’s killer. Blood-shot eyes suggested he’d either been drinking or smoking dope. No hint of sickly-sweet ganja under the tobacco. Alcohol, then.
He blinked owlishly. “Whaddya want?”
Peter flipped open his badge case, displaying his shield. “Detective Dourson. Do you have time for a few questions?”
Overstreet shut his eyes and mouthed, “Shit.” The man’s head bobbed a few times, computing. He opened his eyes and stepped aside.
“Come on in. Place is a wreck.”
The living room opened into a dining area, the table stacked with books and periodicals, forming a wall around a laptop and an industrial-sized scanner. Crumpled paper littered the floor around full wastebaskets. Overflowing ashtrays sat on various surfaces. A coffee table held a three-quarters empty bottle of cheap scotch and a pair of glass tumblers sticky from the previous night’s excesses.
Overstreet scooped a pile of clothes off the couch and dumped it on top of a cardboard box. “Have a seat. Do you mind if I make coffee and get dressed?”
“No problem.”
Peter had chosen to catch Overstreet off guard. Now he’d gain more cooperation if he gave the guy a chance to settle himself. Often pure sincerity was the best route to getting information. And if that didn’t work, it was better to play subjects like fish, letting them think they had some measure of control while he set the hook.
Overstreet crossed the dining area and out of sight. Smoke from Overstreet’s morning cigarette drifted in the air, followed by kitchen sounds: a freezer door opened, then shut; a faucet running; a coffee grinder; the hiss and gurgle of a coffee maker. Overstreet returned, passing through the living room to a tiny hall, muttering to himself as the cigarette dangled precariously from his lip.
As soon as Peter heard the shower, he moved to the dining table and scanned the piles. A paper-clipped stack of pages torn from a legal pad tugged at him. He ignored it. People who looked disorganized often knew exactly where everything was and noticed if anything was a hair out of place. And anyone with half a hungover brain wouldn’t leave him alone with anything of value.
Instead, he studied the seven-foot bookcases lining one wall. History and reference books, with a shelf dedicated to multiple copies of Overstreet’s own titles, Sin City Crime and Cincinnati Cold Cases. He’d downloaded digital versions of both books the night before and ran searches for “Malachi.” He’d gotten zip.
Overstreet, in fresh jeans and T-shirt, feet still bare, passed through the living room on the way to the kitchen.
“Want some coffee?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
He returned to the living room, steaming mug in hand, and dropped into an armchair.
“Sorry, Dick Brewer brought a bottle of scotch over and we had a late night. You know him?”
“Sure. Mill Creek Yacht Club.”
“I saw you on the news. I should have recognized you right away. You’re wondering why I didn’t come to you first.”
“Among other things.”
Overstreet took a sip of coffee. “I knew I could get more bang from Aubrey Morse if I gave her something you didn’t have.”
“And bang outranks civic duty?”
Overstreet sent Peter a rueful smile. “Bang is everything. I knew you’d get to me sooner or later. Wish it wasn’t at the crack of dawn.”
“Payback is hell.”
“Yeah, yeah. What would you like to know?”
“Where were you in the summer of 1987?”
“You don’t mess around, do you?”
“Just getting it out of the way.”
“That’s one way to do it. I was at OSU. Didn’t move back until I got my degree.”
“Good enough. Tell me about Marvelous Malachi.”
Overstreet lit a cigarette, waved it in the air. “Channel 7 ran the sound bite version. I guess you want the full story?”
“Background first. I’m not from here.”
“Okay. Be patient with me if I repeat myself. How much do you know about Newport?”
“Conventioneers go there to see strippers and get unlicensed massages.”
“The shady reputation goes back more than a century. Newport was the center of bootlegging on a national scale during prohibition.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No interstates back then. The river connected Newport with the rest of the country. The locals hated authority and were desperate for jobs. It was great for everyone until Prohibition ended. The players needed a new enterprise. They leveraged existing channels for local graft and moved on to adult entertainment. They opened places they called carpet joints, gambling palaces dressed up with classy decor and high-end entertainment.
“These were the first casinos. The very first was the Beverly Hills Country Club, but gambling was everywhere. You could find slot machines in the corner grocery. Now hundreds of them are on the bottom of the Ohio River, courtesy of Robert F. Kennedy.”
Peter snapped his fingers. “The Beverly Hills Supper Club, didn’t it burn down in the seventies?”
“Yeah, they changed the name. Third-deadliest nightclub fire in US History. One hundred and sixty-five people died. That was a mob deal. It has nothing to do with your bones, though our story centers on the club.”
Overstreet took a drag and another slug of coffee. “You have to understand, the men who turned Newport into a national hotspot weren’t traditional mobsters. They were businessmen who exploited prohibition and engaged goons on the side for security. Then business exploded. Truckloads of money rolled out of those places every night.”
“It’s hard to imagine Newport as the center of anything.”
“When I was a kid, Newport was a scruffy biker town across the river. It’s coming back with the development of the riverfront. During its heyday, there were Hollywood A-listers on stage and walking the streets every weekend. Marilyn Monroe, Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, they were all regulars.”
“I remember that part from your interview. What happened?”
“The short version is, Nevada legalized prostitution and gambling and the mob figured taxes were cheaper than graft. They opened the big casinos out west. Then Robert Kennedy became Attorney General. He rolled through and busted everyone who remained.
“Without the mob to ensure the streets were safe for tourists, the adult entertainment industry fell to the bikers, and Newport devolved to the seedy scene it became by the eighties.”
“How does this relate to Heenan?”
“Everything. Repeal of the Volstead Act crippled organized crime across the country. They were called the Syndicate back then. Newport’s successful transition to adult entertainment drew their attention.
“Big players from Chicago and Cleveland wanted a piece. A group of players called the Cleveland Four came to town and didn’t see the sense in building competing casinos when they could take over established clubs.”
Overstreet lit a new cigarette from the butt of his dying one, taking quick puffs to get it going.
“The Beverly Hills Country Club was the most successful of the carpet joints. A guy named Pete Schmidt owned it, and he wasn’t selling—not that Cleveland’s offer was in any way attractive.
“Cleveland launched an intimidation campaign. Schmidt wouldn’t budge. They burned the club down in 1936. Schmidt remodeled and opened back up. Cleveland escalated to robbing the money trucks. This is where we come to your mystery bones.”
“He robbed a money truck?”
“In a way. Malachi worked for Schmidt, opening for the big name acts.”
“Malachi have a last name?”
“Not that anyone knows. Nobody knows who he was or where he came from. Everything I’ve said up to this point is fact. What comes next is legend, handed down from guys who stayed here instead of moving out to Vegas. I heard versions of this story from a number of those guys before they died.
“Some said Malachi worked for the mob, some said he was working for himself. Everyone agrees he made money disappear. Malachi skimmed the receipts and smuggled out what he stole. I figure he decided Pete wouldn’t know the difference, since the trucks were getting robbed anyway.”
“Where did the money go?”
“That’s the mystery.”
“Spawning rumors of lost treasure.”
Overstreet spread his arms. “Like Al Capone’s vault.”
“But Malachi fell out with the Syndicate.”
“Rumor was they had Malachi in a basement on Monmouth Street, permanently manacled by the ankle.”
“He chewed off his foot like a coyote in a trap?” More likely Malachi paid someone to help him escape and they dummied up the manacle to confuse things.
“Nobody ever saw him again. I always figured they killed Malachi and put out the story of his survival to provoke Pete. You know, that Malachi betrayed him and was living large on his money. I thought they made up the story about his impossible escape so it wouldn’t look like some stooge got one over on the mob. Now we know the story was true.”
“What makes you think they didn’t find Malachi’s haul?”
“Are you familiar with the history of Fabergé eggs?”
“Vaguely.”
Overstreet stubbed his cigarette out and went to the shelves, removing an oversized book with a glossy dust jacket. He flipped through the pages, handing the open book to Peter as he pointed at an array of colorful eggs.
“Fabergé was the royal goldsmith in Russia before the Bolshevik revolution. He created fifty jeweled Easter eggs for family gifts. Eight of the eggs have been missing for decades. Those eggs are the Holy Grail to collectors.”
Peter had seen similar tchotchkes on eBay but knew better than to say so. He set the book aside.
“What happened to them?”
“The Bolsheviks happened. When they executed the Romanovs, they buried the Imperial treasures in a vault in the Kremlin. Fast forward to the Depression. Russia was broke and Stalin decides to sell off the Imperial treasures. No one has laid eyes on them in decades, and the accounting was loose.
“Armand Hammer—he was like Warren Buffett back then—he brought thousands of Fabergé pieces to the US, acting as an agent for Stalin. Imperial Fabergé eggs were going dirt cheap because nobody had any money. Hammer obtained several of the eggs for his own collection, including Cherub with Chariot. I’m sure he saw it as an excellent investment.
“About the time the Cleveland Four moved in on the Beverly Hills, Cherub with Chariot fell out of sight. It’s rumored Hammer sold it to Pete Schmidt for a paltry thousand or two.”
“Interesting. Is there a photo in your book?”
“There’s only one photo in existence, and it’s useless. The egg appears as a blurred reflection behind another egg. Today, Cherub with Chariot would get fifty million, easy. It’s been eighty years. If anyone had the egg, it would have shown up on the secondary market.”
“A fifty-million-dollar trinket would burn a hell of a hole in your pocket.”
“Exactly. The egg isn’t the only artwork that went missing from the club, but it’s the most famous.”
Overstreet waved his cigarette as he talked. “Malachi steals the egg. Then he realizes selling it would get him killed. He hides the egg until it’s safe to sell. Only, instead of cooling off, the egg gets hotter. Then he dies. And if he hid the egg, who knows what else he hid?”
“Why not pop the gems, melt the gold?”
“He’d need a jeweler. Too risky to trust anyone when Malachi’s whereabouts were worth a hundred times more to the big guys than Malachi would pay to dismantle the egg. And Malachi wasn’t a cheap hood. I suspect he would have seen destroying the egg as sacrilegious.”
“Why stay in the area if people wanted to kill him?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Overstreet put his palms on his thighs and pushed up off his chair, signaling the end of their interview. “That’s all I’ve got. You want my notes? I’m happy to scan them for you.”
“That would be great.” Peter returned to the bookcases while Overstreet booted up his laptop and unclipped the stack of yellow pages. The scanner hummed. “You writing a book about this?”
Overstreet shook his head. “It’s a sexy story, but there’s not enough meat on those bones, if you’ll pardon the pun.”
Viola lay in the hall outside Lia’s studio, muzzle on paws as she sent evil looks through the new baby gate. Lia sighed. Despite the barrier, Gypsy huddled behind the huge easel for protection.
Lia set her palette on the drafting table and crouched, offering a treat. Gypsy bellied out, snagged the goodie. Lia caught her up, rubbing her cheek against the velvety fur, inhaling puppy scent.
Dog business was dog business, and Viola was making it clear she was queen bitch. There wasn’t much Lia could do about the dynamics except keep them apart. She considered covering the gate with cardboard so Viola couldn’t see in, but the two dogs could still smell each other and it probably wouldn’t work. Moving the gate to the base of the stairs would keep Viola off the first floor, but Viola got along fine with Chewy and she hated to separate them.
“She doesn’t like me, either, girlfriend. Just remember: You’re younger, you’re prettier, and in six months, you’ll have bigger teeth.”
Viola’s ears perked. She bolted, scrambling for the front hall seconds before the doorknob rattled. Peter was home.
Lia stood, cradling Gypsy as she surveyed her newest iris. “Look what your mom did. Isn’t it pretty? What’s that? It needs a highlight on the top petal?”
From the hall, Peter said, “Everyone’s a critic. Don’t you hate that?”
“She can say what she wants, as long as she’s constructive.” Peter’s face sagged, a sign of exhaustion. “You look bushed. Put some water on while I clean my brushes. I’ve got a stir-fry ready to go.”
Water bubbled on the stove when Lia entered the kitchen. The wok was out, the table set. Peter sat, legs in a jock sprawl, sipping a beer while he fed biscuits to the dogs. He said, “I didn’t see any rice.”
Lia took a packet of dried noodles from the cabinet and turned on the heat under the wok. “We’re having bean thread instead. How did it go with Jay Overstreet?”
“He was congenial for a man with a hangover.”
“I bet you enjoyed ruining his morning.” She dropped the tangle of noodles into the water, poking at it with a wooden spoon.
“I won’t deny it.”
“What did he say about the missing art?”
Peter tipped his beer back, took a long pull. “You know anything about Imperial Fabergé eggs?”
Lia poured a dollop of oil in the wok, added garlic and ginger, and retrieved shrimp and vegetables from the fridge. “He thinks Andrew Heenan had one of the missing eggs?”
“That’s the theory.”
She dropped shrimp onto the sizzling spices, chased them with the spoon. “I bet he made it up. Lost art treasures are more impressive than saying Andrew ran off with enough money to buy a three-bedroom house in today’s market.”
“The book he showed me had some wear on it. He didn’t pick it up yesterday. True or not, he believes it.”
Lia scooped the cooked shrimp into a bowl and dumped noodles in a strainer. “Rinse that while I cook. What kept you so busy today? I thought you’d be back hours ago.”
Peter ambled to the sink, dealt with the noodles. “I need to be on top of the Malachi thing before I talk to Parker tomorrow. After I rousted Overstreet, I spent the day doing research. Then I decided the only person who might know about Andrew’s past is Peggy Redfern, so I stopped by Twin Towers.”
Lia splashed rice wine and soy sauce on top of her frying veggies, stirred in cornstarch, added the shrimp. “How did that go?”
Peter handed her plated noodles. “No better than last time. She asked if I was a Redfern. I said no. She patted my hand and said I looked like a very nice man anyway. Then I asked if she remembered Andrew and she said, ‘Does he work here? This is a very nice place.’”
Lia turned from the stove. “Will you try to talk to her again?”
Peter sighed. “I don’t know if it’s worth the effort.”
Pretending Lia didn’t see him, Peter snuck a last scrap of bean thread to Viola under the table and pushed away from his empty plate.
“How was the gang this morning? Terry must have had something to say.”
Lia sliced two bits off her last piece of shrimp, handing one to the puppy warming her lap and the other to Chewy where he lay at her feet. “I didn’t go. I took the kids for a hike instead.”
“Chicken.”
“Yeah? Tell me Jay Overstreet wasn’t a convenient excuse for you to avoid the park.”
Peter shrugged. “Guilty.”
“Did your research turn up anything?”
“Mostly that Newport’s gambling days are a big tourist attraction. They even have gangster tours.”
“Really? Sounds like fun.”
“Maybe it was the way I was raised, but it rubs me the wrong way, glamorizing the murder and corruption that went along with gambling and prostitution as if it’s something to be proud of. Nudging and winking at it all without considering the cost in human lives. I don’t understand how anyone could consider something so shameful their glory days.”
“Your moral compass is one of the things I adore about you.”
Peter snorted.
“Will you look for Pete Schmidt’s family?”
“According to Overstreet’s notes, Schmidt outlived his only son. No evidence his son had children. There may be distant cousins, but they’re not likely to be involved.”
“Will you try to track them down?”
“Cincinnati Bell has over three hundred listings for Schmidt. That doesn’t account for folks who ditched their landlines for cell phones, or female members of the family who changed names.”
Lia forked up a bit of broccoli, holding it away from Gypsy. “Alma’s a whiz on Ancestry.com and the Schmidt connection is public knowledge. I could ask her to look.”
“Overstreet has been there and done that. I’d put money on it.”
“Misdirection?”
“More like a snipe hunt.”
“Why are you convinced he’s misleading you?”
“He’s a liar, for one.”
“Oh?” With no more food forthcoming, Gypsy gave a disgruntled chuff and curled into Lia’s lap.
“He made a production of copying his notes on a scanner and printing them out for me.”
“And?”
“He wrote them on a yellow legal pad with the pages paper-clipped together. Paper fades over time. This was too yellow to be as old as he claimed, and paper that’s been clipped for years will have a permanent dent. The penmanship is too uniform for notes he compiled over a period of years.
“He rewrote his notes after he called Channel 7. He knew someone would ask and he wanted to have something ready when that happened. I have to wonder what he left out.”
“Why would he leave anything out?”
“The benign theory is he’s protecting his research for the book he says he isn’t writing. And the non-benign theory is he’s up to something.”
“Such as?”
“If Malachi’s egg exists, he’s in the best position of anyone to find it. He must have hundreds of hours of interviews and research. The answer might be in his files. He buys time by fobbing redacted notes off on me.”
“If he wants the egg, he can have it.”
“You don’t want a fifty-million-dollar egg?”
“Have you seen one?”
“He showed me photos.”
“Overly embellished and boring, like wedding cake. A triumph of craft over art. Tiffany stained glass is much prettier.”
“I’ll keep that in mind for Christmas. It’ll be easier on my wallet.”
“Could he be protecting someone?”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “The real killer?”
“What if it’s more than that? What if he did it? He’s old enough, isn’t he? That would explain his interest in old crimes.”
“Overstreet kills a man when he’s barely out of school and makes his life’s work taunting the police with their failures, with this as his finest hour?”
“I see what you mean. Too Hollywood.”
“You saw him on television. He’s a skinny guy. You think he was ever capable of hauling a dead body over a hundred feet of rough terrain in the dark?”