The Man in the White Linen Suit

by David Handler

  “Somewhere in a big hurry. Lulu will show us the way out, not to worry. Nice meeting you, Bart. I was a big admirer of your father’s work. That was a terrible thing, what happened to him.”

  “Yes, it was,” he said quietly, his jaw tightening. “Thank you.”

  Lulu had already rambled her way down the hall and caught up with Very so he wouldn’t get lost. She’s not quick off the blocks, but she can scoot once she gets up a full head of steam. I had to practically sprint to catch up with them as editorial assistants up and down both sides of the corridor eyeballed us with a mix of curiosity and fascination.

  “What’s up?” I called out to Very.

  “It’s contagious, that’s what,” he answered over his shoulder.

  “What is?”

  “We got a bulletin from the Nassau County sheriff. Mel Klein’s neighbor in his condominium complex in Amityville just found him in their parking garage shot through the head.”

  “No way . . .”

  “Yes way. The little guy’s gone.”

  MEL’S CONDO COMPLEX was two blocks from a marina. There were several of them on the block, all newly built. Townhouse-style condos, with underground parking garages. Perfect for upscale singles. The half-dozen cars that were parked in the garage of Mel’s complex were shiny high-end late model Acuras, Audis and the like—with the exception of Mel’s relatively modest and not very late model black Volvo 740 station wagon, which suited his personality perfectly. He was just the sort who wouldn’t want his clients to think that he was getting rich off them.

  Instead, he’d just gotten dead.

  He was seated snugly behind the wheel in his harness seat belt with his window rolled down. His complexion in death wasn’t much different than it had been in life, although he did look utterly shocked and his face was distorted from the entry wound in the side of his head directly over his left ear. Plus there was the issue of all of the blood splatter and brain tissue that were congealing on his neck and the shoulders of his green shirt.

  Nassau County sheriff’s cars were clustered out front along with an unmarked Crown Vic, an EMT van and a couple of crime scene vans. A bald, tubby middle-aged detective named Meade was the lead officer.

  After he and Very exchanged terse greetings, Very said, “I was told that a neighbor found him when she got home and pulled into the garage. Nobody heard the shot and phoned it in?”

  “Nobody,” Meade answered wearily. “And I’m right there with you, Lieutenant. You fire off a weapon in a basement garage like this one, it’s going to make such a boom that people will hear it halfway down the street.”

  “Meaning his shooter used a silencer,” Very said.

  “Must have,” Meade grunted. “Victim’s got what appears to be a 9-millimeter entry wound in the side of his head. And the weapon had enough muzzle velocity for the bullet to go straight through his head, shatter the passenger-side widow and embed itself pretty damned deep in the garage wall twenty feet away. We’re not talking about your ordinary personal protection handgun.”

  “I’m down with that,” Very agreed. “I’d make it a .357 Magnum. Professional hit.”

  “Me, too,” Meade said, noticing me standing nearby with Lulu right at my heel. She’s learned to not wander off and potentially contaminate a crime scene when there’s been a violent death. She has a lot of experience with violent deaths. We both have. Too damned much, if you ask me. Not that you did.

  Very followed Meade’s gaze. “This is Stewart Hoag. He was hired to find a missing Addison James manuscript that may or may not be at the center of this.”

  Meade came over and shook my hand. “You a PI, Hoag?”

  “Novelist, actually.”

  Meade furrowed his brow, bewildered, then glanced down at Lulu, who gazed up at him quizzically, which left him looking even more bewildered. He turned back to Very. “I understand you paid a call on the victim at his office this afternoon.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Mind if I ask why?”

  “Klein was providing legal advice to two people connected to a case I’m working. One of those people, Tommy O’Brien, was thrown off of an Upper West Side brownstone roof yesterday. Hoagy’s roof, as a matter of fact. O’Brien worked for Addison James, the bestselling author. The other person Klein was advising was James’s wife, Yvette.”

  “Any idea what kind of advice Mrs. James was seeking?”

  “She wasn’t happy with the prenup she signed when she married him. She was hoping Klein could arrange to have it redrafted.”

  “Addison James is a pretty big name, isn’t he?” Meade said.

  “He’s the wealthiest author in America,” I said. “Worth hundreds of millions of dollars.”

  “So why’d his wife retain a Babylon small-timer like Klein?”

  “Klein had helped a friend of hers,” I said. “She also told me she felt comfortable with him because he didn’t talk down to her.” I glanced over at him, seated there behind the wheel of his modest Volvo in his blood- and brain-splattered green shirt. “Do you think he knew his killer?”

  Meade thumbed his chin. “What makes you ask that?”

  “The absence of shattered glass. It’s a hot day. He had his AC on, yet he’d rolled down his window. The passenger-side window was still rolled up—hence all of that shattered glass over there.”

  “Maybe he needed a key card to open the door to the garage,” Very said.

  Meade shook his head. “Remote control device. It’s on the passenger seat.”

  “Then I’m right there with Hoagy,” Very said. “Somebody he knew must have approached him.”

  “A neighbor?” Meade wondered.

  “A neighbor who then proceeded to shoot him at point-blank range with a .357 Magnum equipped with a silencer?” Very said doubtfully.

  “You make a good point,” Meade acknowledged.

  “Did you know Klein?” Very asked him.

  “Not personally. I knew of him. He had a good reputation. Decent low-key guy who did a decent low-key job. Quiet bachelor who steered clear of the marina party crowd. We’re searching his apartment now. And I want to sit down with his firm’s PI, Jocko Conlon, to see what he knows.”

  “You haven’t talked to him yet?”

  “Just briefly on the phone. He’s holding down the fort at the office. The receptionist there, a Roseanne Leto, is real upset, apparently.”

  “Are you acquainted with Jocko?”

  “More than acquainted,” Meade responded, his tubby face breaking into a grin. “He was my partner out here when he went to work for the Nassau County sheriff. Best cop I’ve ever worked with. But he got fed up with having to fill out a form in triplicate every time he had to take a piss, so he decided to go private. Keeps telling me I ought to join him. Believe me, Lieutenant Very, if anyone can help us nail Klein’s shooter, it’ll be Jocko.”

  “I see . . .” Very said gloomily.

  Meade studied him curiously. “You see what, Lieutenant?”

  “Nothing. Don’t mind me. I’m just feeling kind of fed up with the world right now.”

  “Sure, I hear you. Appreciate you making the drive back out here. Is there anything else I can tell you?”

  “Nah, I think we’re good,” Very said.

  “Then if you’ll excuse me I’d better get back to working this.”

  “Yeah, you’d better do that.”

  “HOW ON EARTH could Meade possibly say that Jocko Conlon was a good cop?” I asked Very as he steered his cruiser back toward the Sunrise Highway, Lulu curled up on the seat between us with her head in my lap.

  “And here I thought you were supposed to be a brainy dude.”

  “So, what, you’re telling me he’s as crooked as Jocko?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

  “Meaning that if it turns out Jocko had anything to do with this . . .”

  “Then Meade will do everything he can to gum up the investigation. He’s scum. A total waste of s
kin. Every breath he takes he’s using up somebody else’s oxygen.”

  “I’m sensing the man didn’t make a good impression on you.”

  “Ya think?”

  “There’s something that my mind keeps circling back to, Lieutenant.”

  “Which is . . . ?”

  “When Jocko was on the job in the city he worked out of the two-four with Richie Filosi, and Richie is short on funds.”

  “I’ve had a man on Richie all day. He and Kathleen went to a two o’clock W. C. Fields double bill at the Film Forum.”

  I glanced over at him admiringly. “Nothing gets past you, does it?”

  “Not true, dude,” he said, turning gloomy again. “This whole case is getting past me. No matter which direction I turn, somebody ends up dead.”

  “So what’s your next move?”

  “Good question.” He got back on the highway and floored it, his jaw working on a fresh piece of bubble gum, his mind working the case. He was silent for a long time before he said, “I know, way deep down inside, that I’m going to be sorry for the words that are about to come out of my mouth.”

  “What words are those?”

  “Dude, have you got any ideas?”

  “Funny you should mention that, Lieutenant. As a matter of fact I have.”

  Chapter Nine

  Addison was seated at the partners desk in his huge office gazing stubbornly out the window at his view of the Hudson. Darkness had fallen over the river and lights blazed in the windows of the waterfront apartment towers across the river on the New Jersey Palisades. Addison wore his eye patch, a plain white T-shirt, white linen drawstring pants, huaraches and a highly petulant expression on his face. He was in a churlish mood.

  I couldn’t exactly blame him.

  His personal space had been invaded by people who were seated on his leather sofas and armchairs or were just milling about, and he wanted nothing to do with any of them. Just wanted to sit drinking his goblet of Dom Pérignon and staring out at the river. The office was warm, what with the presence of so many people and the absence of air conditioning. There was also a definite edge of tension in the quiet conversations that were taking place.

  This was no party. This was no disco. This was no fooling around. We were gathered there because someone in this room had murdered three people and we all knew it. We just didn’t know who that someone was. Check that—one of us knew. The killer among us.

  Addison did swivel around in his chair when he saw the reflection of Very and me in the window standing by his desk, Lulu at my side. “What are all of these people doing in my office?” he demanded angrily. “And why is that dog here again?”

  “She’s with me, as I’ve told you, Mr. James.”

  He shook his bald pink head, overwhelmed. It was a bit much for him to take in. “And what’s with all of this food, Yvette?” he roared. “Why am I feeding these people? I don’t even know them.”

  “I thought it would make things more pleasant,” Yvette explained breathlessly, rushing over to him. She was wearing an exceptionally clingy pink sheath with a pair of gold leather flip-flops and seemed bright-eyed and excited to have company. Yvette seldom entertained, I gathered, and had spared no expense. She’d arranged for three banquet tables to be set up in the middle of the room, and a catered spread from Zabar’s filled every square inch of them. There were platters, platters and more platters. For those who wanted fish, there was an entire nova salmon, smoked sable, whitefish, a bowl of pickled herring—which was of particular interest to Lulu—along with plain cream cheese, cream cheese with scallions and a basket filled with a half-dozen different kinds of bagels. For those who wanted deli, there were immense platters laden with sliced rare roast beef, corned beef, pastrami, salami and a selection of cheeses. There were bowls of potato salad, coleslaw and pickles, and another basket that was filled with sliced loaves of rye bread and pumpernickel. For those who wanted sweets there were three—count ’em, three—different kinds of cheesecake—plain, chocolate and strawberry. Coolers were filled with soda, beer, white wine and mineral water. There was also a huge coffee urn.

  Yvette had even retained two maids for the evening to escort the guests upstairs when they arrived and to make sure there were no dirty plates or glasses left lying around.

  “That is really quite some spread,” I said to her admiringly. “Why, I’ll bet it’s even bigger than the old Velveeta Spread.”

  Yvette gazed up at me blankly.

  “Not a fan of Mad magazine in your youth, I gather. That’s an iconic line from their takeoff of Bonanza. I believe they called it ‘Bananaz,’ but I’m not positive about that. I took a lot of psychedelics in college and they poke strange holes in your memory.”

  “No offense, hon, but for such a smart, cute guy you don’t make a whole lot of sense sometimes.”

  “Thank you, it’s something I work very hard at. I see you went with real plates and silverware. Classy.”

  “I hate, hate paper plates. Plastic forks, too. They’re tacky. I’ve done everything I can to eliminate tacky from my life.”

  “And you have. In fact, I’d call you a consummate success.”

  She studied me suspiciously. “Are you being sarcastic?”

  “No, I’m perfectly serious.”

  “Well then, that was a sweet thing to say.”

  “Mind you, your taste in music could use some refining.”

  “Why, what’s wrong with it?” she demanded.

  “It doesn’t actually qualify as music. Tell you what, I’ll put together a playlist for you.” Then I turned back to Addison and said, “I thought a relaxed mood would prove more effective than hauling people downtown and having Lieutenant Very grill everyone by shining bright lights in their eyes.”

  “Dude, we haven’t done that since the fifties,” Very said. “We don’t whack people over the head with the Manhattan Yellow Pages anymore either.”

  “The lieutenant concurred. And in answer to your question, Mr. James, ‘these people’ are here to help out.”

  “These people” being Kathleen O’Brien, Richie Filosi, Norma Fives and her assistant, Bart Shackleford. “These people” being Sensenbrenner, the narrow detective from Willoughby, and Meade, the tubby detective from Nassau County. All were partaking of Yvette’s spread and acting extremely ill at ease. Two others, Jocko Conlon and Mark Kaplan, Addison’s sleek personal attorney, had yet to arrive.

  “Help out how?” Addison demanded as Yvette bustled off to make absolutely sure the buffet table was in order.

  “For starters, we’re trying to figure out who killed your daughter,” Very replied.

  “What the hell good will that do?”

  Very peered at him, mystified. “Don’t you want to know?”

  “Not particularly. I suppose I ought to care that she’s dead, but I don’t.”

  “Well, I do care,” Very said to him, his right knee jiggling. “It’s my job to care, and to bring her killer to justice. Not to mention whoever killed Tommy O’Brien and Mel Klein.”

  The old writer stared at Very with his one not-so-good eye. “Mel who?”

  “Klein. He was an attorney on the South Shore. Babylon. His name doesn’t ring a bell?”

  “Klein, Klein . . .” Addison searched his memory. “I do remember an Irwin ‘King Kong’ Klein who was the starting center for NYU’s basketball team back before the war when NYU was a sports powerhouse. He was also an All-American on their football team. One of the great two sports athletes of all time. But no, I don’t believe I knew a Mel Klein. Should I?”

  “He was your wife’s lawyer,” Very said.

  “Yvette had a lawyer? Why’d she have a lawyer?” Addison seemed genuinely baffled. “Was she planning to divorce me?”

  “He wasn’t that kind of lawyer.”

  “Well then, what the hell kind was he?”

  “Contracts. He was working with her on the prenuptial agreement she signed when you two got married. She thinks she got a raw deal
. He agreed. Are you telling us you didn’t know about this?”

  “I don’t concern myself with such matters,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. His champagne goblet was empty. He reached for the bottle of Dom Pérignon on his desk, hefting it. “There’s no champagne in my champagne.” Got up and fetched a new bottle from his refrigerator, limping ever so slightly, and sat back down with it. Popped its cork and refilled his glass. It didn’t occur to him to offer us any.

  I left him with Very and moseyed over to the buffet table, where I opened a cold Moosehead ale and prepared a small plate of pickled herring for Lulu. Yvette was busy rearranging the basket of rye bread so that the slices were all in a neat row. Then she neatened the stack of napkins. Cloth napkins, not paper.

  “By the way, Yvette, I meant to tell you how sorry I am for your loss.”

  “Loss?” Her huge blue eyes studied me. “What loss?”

  “Mel Klein. Somebody shot him this afternoon.”

  “Oh, Mel. Yeah, I saw it on Eyewitness News. Tell me, what am I supposed to do now?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Do I contact another lawyer and ask him to take over my case? And what happens to all of Mel’s paperwork? Will his office hand it over to my new lawyer?”

  “You’ll have to authorize it, but that’s generally how it works,” I said, intrigued by her complete absence of emotion. The little guy was history. She’d moved on. “You’re a pretty cool customer, aren’t you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It was my impression that the two of you had formed an emotional bond. Something stronger than a typical lawyer-client relationship.”

  “Where’d you get that impression?”

  “From Mel.”

  Her eyes avoided mine now. “What, you met him?”

  “Lieutenant Very and I had a good long talk with him in his office this afternoon. Two hours later, he was dead.”

  She neatened the same stack of napkins again. No one had touched them since she’d neatened them before. “I wasn’t sleeping with him. I told you that already. I felt sorry for him is all. He was such a sad, lonely little schlemiel. And he was sweet to me. You tall, good-looking bastards never are. Mel treated me like I was special. Plus he wasn’t a typical asshole lawyer. Not that I mean to bad-mouth lawyers.”