"And the baton?"
"I don't know," I said. "I must've dropped it somewhere. Hopefully, in my apartment."
"Okay, so explain three angry men in your office."
"Well," I said, "they weren't exactly angry when they first walked in."
"You made them angry," he said. "You have a tendency to do that, don't you? Make people angry?"
"They came into my office all pumped up for trouble."
"Did you ask them what they wanted?"
"No."
"Did they actually threaten you?"
"They put a bullet in my door."
"Before or after you attacked them?"
"Before, but—"
"Did you overreact, do ya think?"
Weinstock and I have always had an adversarial. He was now a Detective First Grade on the 78 Precinct Squad, but his once bright star was not as bright, anymore. His attitude about life was a lot closer to mine these days.
"No, I didn't overreact," I said.
"Okay," he said, "I've got their descriptions. We'll check into it, dig that bullet out of your door, but in the meantime why don't you try to figure out who you pissed off?"
I stood up and said, "You're a big help."
"Hey, they could walk in here right now and file a complaint against you. They could say they walked into your office to hire you and you attacked them."
"What about the guy saying, 'You're comin' with us?'" I asked.
"Yeah, you're right, Delvecchio, that would've scared me to death, too."
"I repeat, you're a big help."
"See you around."
I said we were on better terms these days, I didn't say we were friends.
* * *
I was on my way back to my office—figuring the leg breakers were on their way to the hospital—when my cell rang. I'd only given the number to one person since I broke the seal on the plastic.
"Delvecchio."
"Nick, it's Rita Eiland. Sorry I didn't call you back earlier but I've had a bad day. A friend of mine died."
"Died?"
"Well, it looks like she committed suicide."
"Where are you?"
* * *
Her name was Kelly Moller. She lived with her lawyer husband in a million dollar condo on Joralemon Street in the Brooklyn Heights section of Brooklyn. It was not that far from where I lived on Sackett Street, but in terms of quality and value we were miles apart.
I caught a cab, which let me off in front of the building, just down the street from the Grace Church. Well, actually you'd have to go around the corner and take Hicks Street to Grace Ct. to get to the church, but I could see the back of it.
Rita had told me to meet her there. She said the body had been removed, the police were gone, but she was there because she was a close family friend. I told her twenty minutes. But I made it in fifteen. She met me at the door, looking as she had when I first met her—smart, handsome, well dressed. She and Kelly must have been about the same age, early to mid-forties.
"What's going on, Nick?" she asked.
"Where's the family?"
"In the living room. And it's just her husband."
We were in an entry foyer.
"Let's talk here for a minute," I said. "Your friend Kelly came to see me this morning." I described the woman. "Is that her?"
"Wait here."
She left me for a moment, came back with a framed photo of the woman I'd spoken to that morning. Only in the photo her hair wasn't stringy and lank, it was full and lustrous. She was smiling, actually looked pretty. She could have been the woman I had seen in my office, but not only was she from a different day, she appeared to be from a totally different life.
"That her."
"What did she want with you?" She immediately realized how that sounded. "I'm sorry. I meant why did she need a private detective?"
"She said you recommended me."
"I did, but she didn't tell me why she needed someone."
"She tried to hire me to kill her, or to refer her to someone who would do it."
She gaped at me, thunderstruck.
"What?"
"Are you sure she committed suicide?" I asked.
"That's what everyone is saying," Rita said. "Why?"
"She told me she'd never be able to do it herself," I said, "and I believed her."
"You're saying she was murdered?"
"I don't know," I said. "If she did this, she came right home from my office and did it. I don't see her changing her mind that fast. Plus I had three guys come to my office and try to take me someplace against my will."
"And you think that was connected to this?"
"Again, I don't know," I said. "I'm just trying to make sense of Kelly, Rita."
"You better come in and meet her husband," she said.
She led me into the living room, where several people were seated. This part would not be fun.
* * *
"Nick Delvecchio, this is Kelly's husband, Daniel Moller. Dan, Nick is a private detective Kelly tried to hire this morning."
The man stood up from the sofa. He was tall, either side of fifty, about six two, wearing an expensive suit, sporting an equally expensive haircut. Everything about him said money—where he lived, what he wore, and the way he looked at me.
"This morning?" he asked. "Just this morning? Why would she try to hire you, and then kill herself?"
"I don't know the answer to that, sir."
"What did Kelly want to hire you to do?"
"I should probably be telling this to the cops," I said, "but she tried to hire me to kill her."
"What?" her husband spat. "Th-that's preposterous!"
"I agree, sir," I said, "but it's true."
"So, if you had helped her this morning maybe she wouldn't have killed herself this afternoon."
"I told you she tried to hire me to kill her," I said. "What kind of help would you have wanted me to give her?"
"If you'd said something to somebody—" Moller started, but Rita put her hand on his shoulder to stop him.
"Relax, Dan," he said. "Take it easy."
"Nick, maybe Dan has a point." She squeezed his shoulder before removing her hand. "If you had called someone—him, myself—we might have been able to avoid this."
"Rita," I said, as calmly as I could, "she came into my office, asked me to kill her and wouldn't tell me her name. By the time I took her seriously she was gone. I spent all morning trying to figure out who she was. It was only when I spoke to you that I finally found out, and I came right over. How would I possibly have called anyone, least of all you?"
"I see," Rita said.
"Well, all right then," Dan Moller said, "I suppose there's not much more you can do. I thank you for your efforts. If you'll bill my office—"
"Mr. Moller, I've got nothing to bill you for," I said.
"I see. Very well, then ... thank you. I, uh, have to go into the office for awhile."
He turned and walked out of the room.
"He has a home office," Rita explained.
"How did she do it, Rita?"
"Pills."
"Who found her?"
"I did. When the police came Dan and I identified her."
"I'm sorry."
"I was worried about her."
"How'd you get in?"
"I had a key."
"What about he husband? What's his story?" I asked. "Their story? Happy?"
"Not really." She didn't offer any more.
"Who held the purse strings?"
"Well, he held the strings, but it was her money."
"When's the last time you saw her?"
"A couple of days ago."
"How was she?"
"Down," Rita said, "she's been down for some time."
"Depressed?"
"Yes."
"Clinically?"
"I can't answer that."
"Well, has she been prescribed any pills? Was that what she o.d.'d on?"
"I can't answer t
hat, either."
"Then who can?"
"Dan," she said. "He told the police everything."
"Okay."
"Nick, what is it?" she asked. "You don't think—"
"I don't believe in coincidence, Rita," I said. "She comes to my office claming she needs help because she can't kill herself, then she comes back here and does it? And whether she did it or somebody else did it, why did she want to die?"
"I—I don't know."
"Well, I want to find out. Who was the detective assigned?"
"I have his card. Let me get my purse."
"You were here when the cops were?"
"Yes."
"Okay," I said. "Get me that card—but don't tell those guys what you're doing. I don't trust them."
* * *
The 84 Precinct was on Gold Street. The building was the home of local Government, as well. The Brooklyn Borough Hall, the Municipal Building, the Brooklyn House of Detention, NYC Fire Dept. H.Q., the Board of Ed H.Q., Transit Authority H.Q., NYPD "911" building, and the Transit Museum were all inside it's walls.
I stopped at the front desk and asked for Detective Sibel (pronounced "sy-bell" Rita had told me). When the Sergeant asked who wanted to see the detective I showed him my license and said it was about the Moller suicide.
The Sergeant made a call to the squad and then a uniform showed me the way.
Sibel was about five or six years younger than me. We shook hands and he told me he'd heard stories about me when I was on the job, from his brother.
"Wait a minute," I said. "Herb Sibel was your brother?"
"Right, Herb," Sibel said. "You remember him?"
"I do," I said. "He was a bigger psycho than I was, got more complaints to prove it."
Instead of getting insulted he laughed and said, "That's right! You do remember him."
"How's he doing?" I asked.
"Ate his gun a couple of years ago," Sibel said. They kicked him off the job and he couldn't take it. How you doin'?"
I wasn't kicked off the force, I resigned. But I decided not to ruin the bonding roll we were on.
"Ah, you know. Trying to make it as a P.I."
"I hear ya," Sibel said. "What's your connection to the Moller broad?"
I told him the story of how she'd tried to hire me to kill her and I sent her packing.
"Maybe if I'd been a little more, you know, sensitive, this wouldn't have happened."
"Ah, you don't know that," Sibel said. "These kinds of broads are unbalanced. She mighta dunnit anyway."
"You're probably right. Any chance I could view the body?"
"Why you wanna take a look at the stiff?"
"Just for closure," I said, figuring he wouldn't understand. "Might be able to get her out of my head that way."
Sibel shrugged and said, "No skin off my nose. I'll make the call."
"Thanks," I said. "Any doubt it's suicide?"
"Well, if there was you changed that," Sibel said. "I mean, hell, she asked you to kill her. How much more unbalanced could she be?"
"I guess. Okay, thanks, Detectiv—"
"Ray," he said, "Ray Sibel."
"Thanks, Ray. I'm sorry to hear about your brother."
"Ah, whataya gonna do? The job gets in your blood, right?"
"You got that right," I said.
* * *
I went to Kings County Hospital to the morgue. They were ready for me and allowed me to view the body. She was grey, almost deflated looking. An autopsy had not yet been done.
"Is that her?" the morgue attendant asked, as he covered her up again.
"I guess," I said, studying the corpse's face carefully, "that depends on who you mean."
I went back to my office. The cops had been there, had dug the bullet out of the door. They'd left my office door wide open. I closed it and walked around. Nothing was missing. The baton was on the floor in my living room. I took it back to my desk with me. The message light on my phone was blinking the number "1." I pressed Play.
"Mr. Delvecchio, this is Kelly Moller," a shaky voice said. "I need your help. I—I'll call again at five p.m. Please be there."
Interesting. Especially since the time stamp on the message machine indicated that Kelly Moller had called and left me a message after she'd been killed.
I sat at my desk until the phone rang at five. There was nothing else I had to do.
"Hello?"
"Mr. Delvecchio?"
"Yes."
"This is Kelly Moller."
"Yes."
Silence, then she said, "I'm supposed to be dead, right?"
"Right."
"Well, I'm not."
"That's good."
"I'm also not the woman who came to your office this morning, asking for help."
"Okay."
"That woman is dead."
"I know, I saw her in the morgue."
"Look," she said, "I understand you don't know which of us is really Kelly, but the fact remains if you don't help me, I'll be as dead as she is and it won't matter."
"Okay," I said. "Give me your number. I'll call you back on a cell phone, and then you can tell me where you are."
"Do you think your phone is tapped?"
"I'm not taking any chances."
* * *
I met Kelly on the Brooklyn Heights Esplanade, which had a great view of the harbor. I recognized her from the photo Rita had shown me. The girl in the morgue had resembled Kelly, but this girl matched the photo. If the photo was real.
"It's beautiful, here," she said. "Calm."
"You got i.d.?" I asked.
"Yes." She took her wallet from her jacket pocket and showed me her driver's license without looking at me. "You need anything else?"
"No. I'm going to assume you're Kelly. Who's in the morgue?"
"I don't know," she said. "A girl hired to impersonate me."
"For what?"
"I don't know. Maybe just to fool you."
"To make me think you were suicidal," I said, "so that when you showed up dead I could testify to it?"
"Sounds good," she said.
"So you're supposed to be in the morgue."
"But I got away," she said. "They killed her, and then identified her as me."
"So now they still have to kill you?"
"Yes." She turned to face me for the first time. The wind blew hair that was anything but lank. She was a very attractive woman, but the fear in her eyes was damaging her looks. "Can you help me?"
I touched the gun—the one I'd gotten from under the floorboards in my office—and said, "I think so."
* * *
I let her use my cell phone to call Rita, arrange to meet her on the Esplanade.
"Now what?" she asked, when she broke the connection.
"Now one more call," I said, "and we wait."
Rita arrived first. She seemed shocked, but I don't know if it was to see me, or Kelly.
"Kelly?"
"Hello, Rita. I was expecting someone else."
"Who?" She looked at me.
"Maybe the three goons who came to my office," I said.
Rita blinked, didn't ask, "What three men? Or "What are you taking about?"
"I saw the woman in the morgue, Rita," I said. "I know she's not Kelly. And Kelly certainly knows she's not Kelly."
Now she said, "What are you talking about, Nick?"
"Well, here's Kelly, alive and well," I said. "You told me you found the body, and her husband identified her. The only conclusion I can draw from that is that you and Dan killed her. Why? For the money?"
"I was going to divorce Dan," Kelly said. "You bet your life it was for the money. And my friend Rita's been fucking my husband!"
Without warning Kelly lunged at Rita.
"You goddamned bitch! If I hadn't heard the two of you on the phone plotting my murder I'd be in the morgue now instead of that poor girl."
Rita put her hands up to defend herself, and I noticed she had a gun in her right. I grabbed Kelly aroun
d the waist and pulled her away.
"Easy does it," I said, turning away and putting Kelly down on her feet. "Time to go to the cops, Rita." I put my hand in my jacket pocket and turned to face Rita.
"Not quite," she said.
She pointed the gun at us and then she waved. Down the block car doors opened and three men got out. They were big.
"They're really mad at you, Nick, for that stunt with the baton. And I'm surprised. I picked you because I didn't think you were that smart. And you, Kelly, why couldn't you just die like you were supposed to? Then Dan wouldn't have needed three goons—"
"Come on, Rita," I said, stepping between her and Kelly. "You see my hand in my jacket pocket, don't you?"
Rita laughed.
"I'm supposed to believe you have a gun? Like some t.v. private eye? Or is that baton in there?"
"Nope," I said, "it's a gun, and I'm not afraid to use it. Are you?"
She licked her lips. I was probably wrong. She hadn't kill anybody. It had to have been Dan Moller.
"Don't move, Nick," she said. "Don't make me—"
"If you're gonna do it," I said, "shut up and kill me, already."
She couldn't pull the trigger. But any one of the approaching men could. Especially the one with the huge bruise on his chin. Or the one with his arm in a cast.
But they were muscle. The third man had the gun, and he was drawing it from the inside of his jacket as he got close.
"You're coming with us," he said.
"Get a new line," I said, and shot him in the knee, right through my jacket. It virtually exploded and he went down, grabbing it with both hands. Blood flowed from between his fingers and the two 'roid brothers stared down at him in shock.
Rita screamed and jumped. I grabbed the gun from her hand with my left hand, drew my gun from my pocket with my right.
Suddenly, there were cops around us, led by Detective Sibel. They grabbed the three men and Rita; Sibel took my gun away from me.
"You promised on the phone you'd have a good story for me, Nick."
"I think I do, Hal," I said. "Meet Kelly Moller."
Robert J. Randisi has been called by Booklist ". . . the last of the pulp writers." He has published in the western, mystery, private eye, horror, science fiction and men's action/adventure genres. All told, he is the author of over 585 books, 50+ short stories, 1 screenplay and the editor of 30 anthologies. He has also edited a Writer's Digest book, WRITING THE PRIVATE EYE NOVEL, and for 7 years was the mystery reviewer for the Orlando Sentinel. In 1982 he founded the Private Eye Writers of America, and created the Shamus Award. In 1985 he co-founded Mystery Scene Magazine and the short-lived American Mystery Award; a couple of years later he was co-founder of the American Crime Writer's League. In 1993 he was awarded a Life Achievement Award at the Southwest Mystery Convention. In 2009 he received the Life Achievement Award from the Private Eye Writers of America.
BEAT to a PULP: Hardboiled 2 Page 18
