Play It Again

by Stephen Humphrey Bogart

  Out of the corner of his eye, R.J. could see Kates clenching and unclenching his hands for a good thirty seconds before he finally stomped away.

  R.J. was a bit guilty about how good it made him feel to get to Kates like that. Too easy, he thought, I need a challenge. But he was also aware that the lieutenant would be a dangerous enemy if he got the chance. And he was pretty sure that Kates was right: He was going to need a friend before this was over.

  I shouldn’t rag him like that, he thought. But what the hell. A guy has to have a hobby.

  He was finished with the sports and working on the crossword puzzle when Bertelli came in ten minutes later. “Hey, Angelo,” R.J. called, and the young cop came over and stuck out his hand.

  “How ya doin’, R.J.?” he said.

  “I need a favor,” R.J. replied.

  Bertelli blinked. “Geez, you’re supposed to beat around the bush for a minute or two, shoot the breeze, you know.”

  “Sorry, I was up all night.” As he said it, R.J. realized how tired he was. He shook the feeling off. There was no time for being tired now. When this was over he could sleep a week.

  “What’ve you got?” Bertelli asked him. His eyes were shining with eagerness.

  R.J. frowned. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I might have something—but it’s not much. I need to look at your case file, see if you got anything that backs it up.”

  Bertelli looked thoughtful. “That’s a big favor,” he said slowly. “The Looie would chew my ass right off for that. I’ve talked too much already. No, I’m sorry, R.J., I don’t see how I can do that.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “Unless you can trade me something.”

  R.J. smiled, just a little. “You’re a sly bastard, aren’t you, Angelo?”

  Bertelli spread his hands, palms up. “Hey, that’s life, R.J. What’re you gonna do?” And now he grinned. “So how’s about it? Got a trade for me?”

  R.J. shrugged and spread his hands. “I’d like to, but it’s not up to me. You got a few minutes?”

  “Whattaya got in mind?”

  “Maybe we could meet somebody for a cup of coffee.”

  “Somebody who could make the trade?”

  R.J. nodded. “That’s right. How about it?”

  Bertelli hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “Lemme check my desk first. Be right back.” He clapped R.J. on the shoulder and, nodding to the paper, said, “Twenty-seven across is sabots.” He turned and walked quickly to the stairs.

  R.J. glanced down at the crossword puzzle. Bertelli was right.

  * * *

  Casey had agreed to meet them for coffee at a joint a couple of blocks away, but she’d been dubious about it, especially about meeting with a cop. “Angelo is different,” R.J. had said.

  And now he was wishing that Bertelli wasn’t so different. It was clear that he was charming the hell out of Casey Wingate.

  A simple cup of coffee turned into croissants and cappuccino, and Bertelli was in charge all the way. He was “Angelo” now to Casey, had been “Angelo” almost at once.

  Casey said, “How do you, Officer Bertelli?” and he flinched away like she’d slapped him.

  “Oh, gesu, please, don’t call me that, you’re breaking my heart.” He placed a hand over his heart and looked like he would faint.

  “All right then, what do I call you?”

  He snapped almost to attention, took her hand and kissed it, like some goddamned count out of one of Belle’s old movies. “Call me ‘Angelo,’” he said. “It’s my name.”

  And Casey giggled! The sound was shocking to R.J., a girlish giggle coming out of hard-boiled Casey. He couldn’t believe it.

  Worse than that, he realized he was clenching his fists and sizing up Bertelli as if they were about to slug it out.

  But I like this guy. Am I jealous? R.J. asked himself. Of what? There’s nothing to be jealous about.

  Is there?

  As he thought it, Casey laughed, throwing her head back to reveal a sleek neck.

  Hell yes, plenty, he thought, tuning back in on their banter.

  “I don’t want to interrupt,” he said, and two pairs of cool, amused eyes turned to him. “But can we get this deal done?”

  “No problem, R.J.,” said Bertelli. “How’s about it, Miss Wingate?”

  She smiled at him. Damn that Italian charm, R.J. thought.

  “It’s really not up to me. But—R.J., why don’t you bring Angelo up to date first?”

  R.J. nodded. He told the whole thing: the dreams, the childhood accident, the man on the tapes. He tried to make it sound as objective and hard-edged as possible, but it was tough sledding.

  Bertelli didn’t interrupt. He just sat with one finger to his chin, every now and then glancing at Casey and raising an eyebrow.

  When R.J. was done, Bertelli shrugged. “It ain’t a lot,” he said. “But it’s a lot more than I got right now. Okay, I’ll show you the file. When can I see the tapes?”

  Casey hesitated, then said, “Angelo, I’m sorry if I misled you. I can’t let you see the tapes—officially.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You, personally, can come see them right now if you want. But I can’t release them into evidence—they’re not my property.”

  Bertelli shook his head. “If you’d leave the table for just a moment, Miss Wingate, I’d like to say a very bad word.”

  “Look,” R.J. butted in, “the problem before was that this asshole Pike wanted to make you get a warrant, and it’s too much trouble if you don’t even know the tapes are worth it. So now you know: They’re worth it. Get the warrant.”

  “How sure are you that this guy on the tapes is the killer?” asked Bertelli.

  R.J. raised an eyebrow. “What else have you got?”

  “Besides,” Casey added, with a touch of humor R.J. hadn’t seen before, “anything that gets Pike’s nuts in a knot is worth doing.”

  “Ouch,” said Bertelli, “this woman plays hardball.”

  “Finish your coffee,” said R.J. “Let’s go.”

  But after two hours with the police files, R.J. was ready to admit that the cop had gotten the better of the swap.

  Bertelli had put them in an out-of-the-way interrogation room and sat them down. He’d carried a cardboard box in, thumped it down on the table with a hearty “Here it is,” and left them to go through it.

  When they had finished, the only thing they knew that they hadn’t before was that neither of the victims had any trace of alcohol or drugs in their bodies at the time of death. Since Belle had been sober for a number of years, that wasn’t exactly a major break in the case.

  “I’m late,” said Casey, abruptly slamming shut the last folder and tossing it back in the box. “And this is getting us nowhere.”

  R.J. stood up and stretched. “I’ll walk you out.” He had finished first and had just been watching her read.

  They walked down to Bertelli’s cubbyhole. R.J. stuck his head in. “All done,” he said. “Thanks for nothing.”

  “Back at you, buddy,” the detective said.

  R.J. started toward the exit, where Casey was waiting, but a shout from Bertelli brought him to a stop.

  “Hey, R.J.!”

  Bertelli walked three steps toward R.J.

  “You let me know, huh? If you find something?”

  “You do the same, Angelo,” he said.

  As R.J. walked out onto the sidewalk with Casey, he heard a minor tussle off to his left, punctuated by a squalling sound. He turned to look.

  Coming toward him was a pert, overly made-up blonde in a blazer, holding a microphone and trailed by a cameraman.

  “Mr. Brooks!” she said excitedly, and R.J. recognized the squalling sound he’d just heard.

  “No comment,” R.J. said and turned away.

  “But I’m from Entertainment Tonight!” she foghorned at him.

  “In that case,” said R.J., “I have a comment—but you can’t use it on the air.”

  “
Don’t you want to tell your side of the story? We’ll let you do that.”

  “Lay off him, you hussy,” Casey said, taking R.J. by the elbow. “He’s with me.”

  And, stifling a giggle, she led him away from the outraged ET reporter. “The hell with you, Wingate!” the blonde called after.

  “Thanks,” R.J. told her.

  “Thanks nothing,” she retorted. “You promised me an exclusive, and you’re going to stick to that promise.”

  “You bet I will,” he said. “You’re the only media slug I ever want to talk to.”

  “Of course. Because you know I’ll get your story right.”

  “Sure,” he said. “You can think that, if you want to.”

  * * *

  A drink is really all he needs.

  There.

  Much better now. Absolutely no cause for concern, not of any kind. The son is on the hook, and he will be drawn in, gaffed and netted. It’s really quite simple, quite certain.

  Smooth down the small wrinkle on the sleeve of his uniform coat. The gold braid on the sleeve catches the dim light in the bar, and the sight pleases him.

  On the stool beside him is the hat of a lieutenant commander in the Argentinian navy. He strokes his pencil-thin mustache with one thumb and reaches for his drink.

  Ah. It is very good. The drink—and the son; watching him flail about, squirm, thinking he is the hunter, when in fact he is the prey. Oh, yes, it was a rich irony, one he loved deeply. All great theater has a certain amount of irony, and this—

  Well. This was going to be his masterpiece. It was too complex for the stage, just as he himself was too complex. The fools never could see beyond his face—couldn’t see that the face they said was too bland was actually his greatest tool! The thing that made him great!

  Idiots!

  The greatest talent of his time, beyond any question, and they couldn’t see it, wouldn’t see it, wouldn’t look beyond the envelope to the raging fire inside, the brilliant talent that could sit astride the stage like a colossus. Why? Because he was too plain-looking?! Because he seemed ordinary?! Because—

  But enough.

  He signals for another drink.

  He will show them. He will make it so clear that even those idiots couldn’t miss it. They could keep their films, their Broadway roles, and he would be content with regional dinner theater. Because he has at last found the way to express himself. Great talent must out, and his was. In his own pure art form, so far beyond their simple little skits.

  Even the stupidest of them could not fail to see. When you actually see the talent in its full bloom, ah, how different it is then.

  He is starting to feel that small tickle, all the way at the back of his mind, the little, almost imperceptible twinge that says it is time to do something again.

  Still time to set the scene properly, yes, plenty of time for that, but…

  Perhaps he should pick up the pace a little. Try something odd, different. An attack from an oblique angle.

  Yes. He sips his drink. Something unexpected, that will be interesting.

  Then they would see.

  CHAPTER 15

  The man was a prick, there was no doubt about it and no other word for it. He was a fat, pale, pumpkin-assed, dickless little prick.

  Casey hadn’t said so, not in so many words, because Pike was well connected and turning a good dollar for his board of directors. But she had let him know what she thought. It didn’t seem to bother him much.

  Somehow he’d figured out it was her fault the cops had showed up with a warrant. And he threw an absolute tiff.

  “Wingate!” His voice warbled down the hall. And Pike came waddling after it, his arms and legs pumping in a furious cartoon of roly-poly rage.

  And he poured himself into her office, his fat little finger coming up into her face and shaking like an enraged cocktail weenie.

  She almost laughed at the sight of this pudgy, bug-eyed little asshole, stomping his feet and screaming in a shrill and trembling voice.

  And why? The tapes were not a big deal—except that he had said the cops couldn’t see them, and his lawyers had said he had to let them.

  Prick.

  Casey grabbed up her handbag and headed for the elevator, leaving the little lardball in midtirade.

  Anyway, the cops would get the tapes—or copies of them, to be accurate. Maybe they’d even send Angelo to pick them up—whoops, Detective Bertelli. She’d have to be careful about that around the office.

  The elevator doors slid open. She stepped in and punched the button for the lobby.

  Still, he was a sweet guy, for a cop. Something about the eyes, she thought. Or—no, he just had It. Whatever It was.

  Some very unlikely -looking people had It: Pavarotti, Woody Allen, and Bertelli. Funny. None of them good-looking guys, not like R.J….

  Now where had that thought come from?

  The elevator stopped. Casey strode out, nodding to the guard.

  “Going home early, Miss Wingate?”

  “That’s right, Bobby.”

  “Well, good night then.” The beefy old man smiled at her. She knew he was watching her legs as she stepped out onto the street, but what the hell, let him dream.

  R.J. Brooks, handsome? This was the first time the thought had come to her consciously. She looked at it for a minute as she scanned for a taxi.

  He wasn’t actually bad-looking. A little battered, maybe, but that had its charm. The chin was good, very firm, and the scar was intriguing, especially now that she knew how he’d gotten it. And of course, those fantastic eyes, so very much like his mother’s.

  She saw a cab cruising and stepped to the curb, raising her hand.

  He certainly didn’t have any fat on him. Not like that little prick Pike. Still, R.J. handsome? Why was she thinking about this anyway? Maybe she was—

  She became aware that the cab was heading straight at her.

  And it was not slowing down.

  Casey blinked. Surely it would squeal to a stop. It was just racing to get to her quickly, looking for a bigger tip, trying to beat out a rival, that was all. It would brake—it would brake right now.

  It didn’t brake. It sped up.

  * * *

  R.J. leaned back in his office chair, thinking. He thought of what he knew about the creep that killed his mother, which was almost nothing.

  He thought about what he could do to find out more, which seemed about the same.

  He ground his teeth. The frustration made him want a drink. Sure, he thought, that’ll help a lot. Get drunk. Cry in your beer.

  He pushed the thought of a drink away and realized he was hungry. He was just thinking about asking Wanda to go get him a sandwich, when he heard the outer door slam open, and a few seconds later Casey Wingate stormed in.

  She was a mess, but the most gorgeous mess he’d ever seen. Her hair was everywhere, her clothes were dirty and even torn in a couple of places. Her stockings were shredded. She looked great.

  But her eyes were spouting flames, and the color in her face didn’t need any makeup at all.

  She came into the office like a bolt of long-legged lightning and Wanda was right behind her. R.J. waved her off.

  “It’s okay, Wanda. This is Casey Wingate.”

  Wanda gave Casey the kind of once-over only another woman can manage and nodded. She slid out and pulled the door closed.

  “Well, Miss Wingate—” he started to say. He didn’t get very far with it. Casey put both knuckles on his desk and leaned in at him, looking like an avenging angel.

  “He tried to kill me, R.J.,” she said.

  R.J. sat up straight. “Who did?”

  “The killer, the man who killed your mother. He just tried for me, not fifteen minutes ago!”

  “Did you see him? Are you sure it was him?”

  “Who the hell else wants to kill me?”

  R.J. let that one go. “All right, what happened?”

  “I’m in front of my office,
flagging down a cab, and the son of a bitch comes straight at me!”

  “Casey, cab drivers in this city—”

  She stopped him. “I’ve lived here all my life, I know all about Manhattan cab drivers. This guy came right up on the sidewalk after me. After me, R.J.—not anybody else on the sidewalk.”

  “How did he miss you?”

  She glared at him. “You sound disappointed. Look at this!”

  She hiked up her skirt and showed him her ruined stockings. “I had to dive behind a telephone pole. The bastard smacked the pole and drove off, smirking at me.”

  “You saw him smirk? What does he look like?”

  “Dark-skinned, bearded, with thick black horn-rimmed glasses. He looked like all the ten thousand Pakistani cab drivers in the city. Except—”

  “What?” He was impressed with how cool she was, how many details she had noticed. This was a very tough woman, he thought. Tough and drop-dead gorgeous—an incredible combination.

  She shrugged. “It was only a quick glance, and I was lying on the pavement, madder than hell. So I could be wrong. But it sure looked like he had gray eyes.”

  He had managed to get a chair under her as she talked it through, right up to the part about the driver’s eyes. Now he stood up straight and had to concentrate on breathing.

  “How sure are you?” R.J. asked her.

  She shook her head. “Maybe ninety percent. He looked right at me, almost like he was mocking me. Like he wanted me to—” She broke off and frowned.

  “Like he wanted you to know he could have got you if he’d wanted to?”

  “Well—yes.”

  R.J. nodded. “That’s what I’m thinking too. It doesn’t fit the way he likes to kill. So if he missed you—”

  “Then maybe he wanted to miss me,” she finished. “But why?”

  R.J. stood up. “If he’s sending a message, I’m not getting it. So it’s more likely he’s just playing with me.”

  Casey looked outraged. “With you?! Jesus Christ, R.J., he nearly squashed me, and he’s playing with you?”

  He shrugged. “Sorry. But that’s what I think. I think he’s after me, and he’s just poking around at the people that he knows I care about—”

  He stopped, aware he’d said something without thinking, something he hadn’t meant to say. But Casey didn’t appear to notice.