by Ann Aptaker
“You first.” He doesn’t bother to hide his distrust of me or his dislike of our arrangement. His gravelly voice only makes it worse.
“Okay, then,” I say. “So far, the art angle isn’t coming up with anything useful. I had a talk with Desmond Mallory, figuring he might remember some of the more aggressive suitors for the Garraway collection. The guy didn’t have a kind word for any of them, so that’s a wash for now. But he was touchy about his loyalty to Eve Garraway.”
“What do you mean, touchy?”
“He gave Vivienne the big freeze when she plucked a nerve about Eve’s loyalty to him.”
A snide, “Who the hell is Vivienne?” comes through the phone.
“Really, lieutenant? Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten your charming chat Tuesday morning over Eve’s body. The lady was Vivienne Parkhurst Trent.”
“You brought her along to see Mallory?” he snaps, almost growls. “Bad enough I’m dealing with you, Gold, but bringing amateurs into an investigation stinks.”
“Vivienne’s no amateur when it comes to art, lieutenant, and she’s no amateur when dealing with butlers. She was raised with one, and everyone she grew up with has one. She was able to get right down into Mallory’s marrow.”
Huber’s silence is so thick it clogs my ears. He finally says, “I’ve been looking into the death of Mallory’s daughter and the Garraway woman’s part in it. But I’m running up against a wall. Somebody’s clamping down on every scrap of that old case. And they want me clear of it.”
“Protecting the high and mighty from getting dirt on their shoes,” I say but keep to myself that Sig Loreale is doing a lot of the protecting.
“And protecting the Garraway reputation.” Huber sounds so disgusted he’s almost sniveling. “Hell, even from the grave old John Garraway’s still got City Hall and the State boys by the balls. I’ll keep my eyes on Mallory. I’m also keeping an eye on James Atchley. I had a talk with him at his Wall Street office after I left your place this morning. Seems he has no one to back up his alibi for the time of Garraway’s murder. He says he was at his office Tuesday morning, but his secretary stumbled all over herself when I asked about it.”
I say, “And then there’s Mrs. Atchley, the matriarch of the clan. She looked so far down her nose at Eve Garraway she could barely see the top of Eve’s head.”
“You think she’s capable of murder?”
“I think she’s capable of anything. She could probably run a country. But she had Eve’s vengeance to deal with, and that could drive anyone to murder. Did the secretary tell you about that?”
“Sure,” he says, sounding annoyed again, “the secretary spilled about the trouble Eve Garraway was making, threatening the Atchley family’s control of the firm. But I guess you knew that before I did. This is why I don’t trust you, Gold. You keep secrets.”
“Keeping secrets keeps me alive, lieutenant.”
“Keeping secrets from me could land you in handcuffs. I don’t know where you get your information, Gold, and maybe I don’t want to know, if your sources are so dirty that a judge would throw the stuff out of court. But if you keep information from me, I’ll end this little arrangement so fast—”
“Yeah, yeah, you’ll cuff me and toss me.”
“And the entire police department will cheer.” It’s the happiest he’s sounded since I picked up the phone.
“Well, that sends my help with the Garraway murder down the drain,” I say.
“Maybe it doesn’t matter. I’ve got four good suspects for the Garraway killing,” he says. He still sounds happy.
“Four? I count Mallory, James Atchley, and Dierdre Atchley. Lemme guess: you still count me in.”
“Always, Gold. I always count you in.” He hangs up.
I sit back in my chair, put my feet up on my desk and finish my sandwich before I call Sig. I need to let the chicken settle after that irritating threat from Huber and before whatever threats Sig throws at me.
And I need to think.
Eve Garraway. James Atchley. Dierdre Atchley. All three of them with vengeance in their bitter hearts. Maybe Desmond took his revenge, too, though I can’t shake the feeling he wouldn’t wait twelve years to avenge the death of his daughter. But who knows? Maybe his loyalty to the Garraways wasn’t loyalty at all. Maybe it was an “or else” grip, first in Boss Garraway’s fingers then in Eve’s, until Desmond decided to snap those bones. But Tuesday morning, when Eve was expecting visitors, seems like a chancy time to commit murder. An old pro like Desmond would know better. Or should know better.
Vengeance. It’s a fire in the veins. I know. I’ve felt it burn my blood. I felt it when I couldn’t save the woman I loved from a living hell. I still feel it when Sig tries to twist me in his grip. I’ve learned to cool it down because vengeance eats at the mind, and I need clear thinking when dealing with Sig, and to stay alive in my outlaw world.
Who knows what a festering vengeance drove Desmond to do? It certainly drove Eve’s plan to ruin the Atchley family. Maybe it drove the Atchleys to murder.
And James Atchley has no solid alibi for the time of Eve’s death, maybe even lied about it. Maybe that’s the arrogant twerp’s slip-up. But if James Atchley or even Dierdre Atchley was Eve’s killer, how the hell did they get into the house? I didn’t see anyone go in before or after me. And the back garden is two floors below the office where Eve was killed. James is probably athletic enough to reach the office window, but I don’t think he’s stupid enough to make the climb in broad daylight. And the idea of the stately Dierdre climbing up the wall gives me a laugh.
A slug from the bottle of Chivas I keep in a desk drawer helps settle the chicken sandwich and stiffens my spine to deal with Sig.
I dial his number. The maid answers. “Cantor Gold returning Sig’s call,” I say.
Sig’s, “Hello, Cantor,” when he comes on the line has all the warmth of a dark night in a hard winter. “I am not pleased with recent developments.”
“I’m not too pleased with them, either,” I say. “Three women are dead, murdered.” I don’t doubt for a second Sig’s caught my accusation about the phony suicide of Alice Lamarr.
“And if I am not mistaken,” he says in that slow way that makes my bones turn to dust, “all three women are connected to you. But let’s not dwell on such unpleasant matters and their possible consequences for you.”
“Suits me,” I say. “So what have I done this time to make you unhappy, Sig?”
“You have done nothing to make me unhappy that I’m aware of. I am unhappy with Lieutenant Huber. He has not heeded the orders of his superiors. He continues to look into the Garraway matter. I will consider taking steps to stop him.”
That dark night in winter just became a freeze along my spine. Sig’s threat could mean anything as inconvenient to Huber’s career as having him demoted or thrown back in uniform, or it could mean a headline in tomorrow’s paper, COP FOUND DEAD ACROSS THE RIVER IN NEW JERSEY SWAMP, though that last one’s a stretch. Killing a cop brings too much heat. Even Sig knows to avoid it.
Sig says, “In the meantime, have you learned anything new about Miss Garraway’s death? Anything to lead you to her killer?”
“If I did, would that make you happy?”
“It will make me even happier when you bring the killer to me, as instructed.”
“Hold on to that happiness, Sig. Let it soothe you until the picture gets clearer. You wouldn’t want me delivering the wrong person, now would you?”
“You will not deliver the wrong person, Cantor. You will deliver the guilty one.”
Chapter Sixteen
Huber was right about one thing: I don’t like being pushed around. Not by cops, not by the laws they enforce with their billy clubs, not by a goody-two-shoes public who thinks my love life is a sin, and not by Sig Loreale. I get around the first three by sticking my finger in the Law’s and the public’s eyes by living life my way. It’s time to do something about the last item. It’s time to
get out from Sig Loreale’s grip.
I put a plan in motion by calling my lawyer, Winston “Winnie” Maximovic. Winnie’s about as well connected as a lawyer can get, with people in high places who owe him favors and people in low places who owe him their freedom. I phoned him because I need to talk to Tap Tenzi, and Huber’s keeping quiet about where he’s stashed him. And even if I’d known he’d stashed Tap in Brooklyn’s Raymond Street jail, the chances of me just waltzing in and having Tap brought to a visitor’s window are slim to none. Cops in Brooklyn don’t like me any better than cops in Manhattan, and Tap wouldn’t want to talk to me anyway, since it’s my doing that landed him in jail. But Winnie plucked the right strings to find out which cell bars Tap is currently behind. He also put a word in the ear of some political hack to grant us visitation and make sure Tap shows up.
We’re driving there now.
Winnie’s car, a ’54 Lincoln Capri sedan, black with chrome accents and white interior, is a rolling tuxedo. The big but graceful car suits the big but graceful man driving it. That’s the thing about Winnie; his three hundred or so pounds is all class, with a melodious voice and elegant speech to go with it. That’s the Winnie the public, the press boys, the politicians, and the courtroom crowd see. What they don’t see are glitzy gowns the size of tents in his bedroom closet, or the handsome young men he wears them for.
He parks on Willoughby Street at the corner of Raymond. The neighborhood’s the sort where bobby-soxers hang out at drug store soda fountains, kids play jump rope on the sidewalk and ride bikes in the street, and housewives hang laundry on lines stretching from the back of one rowhouse to the back of another.
The Raymond Street jail, an old Gothic graystone building that could pass for a church, a castle, or the setting of a Frankenstein movie, looms next to us. Before we get out of the car, Winnie says, “Are you quite sure you want to do this, Cantor? Mr. Tenzi is not apt to be cooperative with you.”
“I have to try,” I say. “He has information which could get me free of Sig.”
“You are coming perilously close to blackmailing Mr. Loreale. This frightens me, Cantor. I can help you escape the police, and I can keep you out of jail, but even my most deft legal maneuverings cannot save you from Loreale’s vengeance.”
“Let me worry about that.”
“And you should worry. But if I can’t talk you out of this unwise enterprise, at least put your gun in the glove compartment. They won’t let you into the jail with it.”
I put the rig with my .38 into the Lincoln’s roomy glove compartment and get out of the car.
• • •
The shadows cast by the mesh-screened window separating us from Tap carve the pockmarks in his face even deeper. His square jaw is clamped tight, his gray eyes hard as pavement. He is not happy to see me.
He’s still wearing the same white shirt and suit pants he had on when Huber arrested him at the High Style Tie & Handkerchief Company last night. I guess he won’t get his prison stripes until he’s sent up to Sing Sing after his trial. The flashy rhinestone ring is missing, though. It’s probably gracing the finger of a jail guard’s wife, or more likely the guard’s outside-the-house amusement.
Tap says, “Why are you here, Gold?” in his smooth, middle-of-the-night voice. “And who the hell is the mountain of blubber you brought with you?”
Winnie says, “My name is Winston Maximovic. I am an attorney.”
“I already got a shyster.”
“I’m not here to represent you, Mr. Tenzi. I am here to accompany Cantor.”
“Yeah? So why is she here?”
I say, “How would you like to help me take down Sig Loreale?”
I’ve caught Tap’s attention but not his pleasure. He works his jaw as if he’s gnawing on the idea I just tossed him, but he looks at me as if he’s disappointed I’m not dead. “Now why would I want to help you with something?” he says. “You’re why I’m in these deluxe accommodations, Gold.”
“If you need a reason,” I say, “okay, here’s one: Alice.”
Everything on his face slowly tightens. His lips pucker, his cheeks suck in, stretching and reddening the pockmarks. “What about Alice?” he says, spitting it. “The little tramp, and a sick one at that, screwin’ around with you.”
There’s no sadness at the mention of her name. “You haven’t heard?” I ask. “Don’t they give you newspapers or a television or even a radio in this joint?”
“Heard what?”
“Listen, Tap, Alice is dead. They put out a phony story that it was suicide, but I say it’s a sure bet Sig had Alice killed. She was a loose end.”
There’s no expression at all on his face now; even his shoulders have gone stiff. But his eyes tell another story, one of creeping grief.
It’s Winnie’s cue to press the point, use his courtroom skills the way he gets a hostile witness to change sides. His fleshy face takes on an expression of such kindness and tenderness the angels would weep. “And you will be next, Mr. Tenzi. Mr. Loreale will either allow the state of New York to execute you, or if the state declines, or takes its time, he will see to the matter himself. Perhaps here in this jail, or perhaps later when you are upstate.”
I jump back in, keep the pressure on. “Listen, Tap. When you tried to make a deal with Sig, he sent you away like you were the wrong lunch order. Or maybe he didn’t even bother to see you at all. That’s where he made his mistake, didn’t he, Tap. You saw something he didn’t want seen, and he had no idea Lorraine Quinn had caught it on her camera. I bet even Lorraine didn’t know. Otherwise Loreale might’ve saved you the trouble of killing her. But he just ignored you. You never got your chance to make a deal with him, your silence for a spot in his operations. Well, here’s your chance to get even, Tap. Here’s your chance to take Loreale down, just like he slapped you down. Look, you’re a dead man and you know it. But at least you can go out laughing, get the last laugh on the guy who slapped you down.”
Tap doesn’t move a muscle. I swear, I think the guy is barely breathing. He just stares at me through the mesh screen, doesn’t even blink. But I finally notice that his lips aren’t completely still. His mouth is opening but so slowly I feel like it’s next year when he finally says, “I loved Alice. She thought I didn’t, but I did. Having her on my arm was everything. But you— you and your sick ways, your disgusting ways, and she, and you and Alice—” He runs the back of his hand across his mouth as if trying to wipe off something bitter. “Loreale wants to kill me? Let him. I don’t care. Like you say, I’m already a dead man. And dead men don’t do favors. Get out of here, Gold.”
• • •
“Well, it was worth a try,” I say when we’re back at Winnie’s Lincoln.
“I hate to say it, my friend, but Mr. Tenzi may have just saved you from a foolish and dangerous adventure.”
“No more dangerous than being pushed around by a crime boss who thinks you’re born to do his bidding.”
When Winnie purses his lips, his whole face moves like a leather satchel opening and closing. “And do I need to know just what it is Mr. Loreale is bidding you to do?” he says as we get into the car.
My silence gives him his answer.
“Just be careful, Cantor. As I told you earlier, I can keep you out of jail, but I cannot save your life.”
• • •
Back in Manhattan, I had Winnie drop me off on Chambers Street. After the washout with Tap Tenzi, I fall back on that old idea that if you want a job done well, do it yourself.
Which is why I’m stepping off the elevator on the fourth floor of the sooty Italianate building housing the law office of Otis Hollander. It’s just a little after four o’clock in the afternoon. I assume the office is still open.
Miss Sawicki, tightly encased in another fuzzy angora sweater, this one turquoise, is at her reception desk. Seeing me, she quickly puts down the Photoplay movie magazine she’s ogling, its cover featuring a shirtless Rock Hudson. “Mr. Hollander isn’t here,” she sa
ys.
“I know. I came to see you.”
“Well, I don’t want to see you. You wear trouble as easily as you wear a coat. And besides, you’re—”
“Not your type?” I joke as I sit on the edge of her desk.
“Not even close. I’m no sicko. Now get off my desk and go away. I have work to do.” She shoos me away like she’s brushing off cracker crumbs.
I put a finger on the Photoplay magazine. “Helped by hunky Rock, no doubt. I tell you what,” I say and slide off the desk. “I’ll make a deal with you. You help me with what I need, and you’ll never have to see me again. How about it?”
“Is that a promise?”
“I never lie to a lady.”
She leans back in her squeaky desk chair and eyes me like I’m an odd vegetable she’d never consider buying but wonders why some people like the taste. “Well, what do you want?”
“Lorraine Quinn’s photographs of the Tenzi surveillance.”
“No can do. They’re locked in Mr. Hollander’s current case files in his desk.”
“And you don’t have a key?”
“No, I do not have a key. I’m just the receptionist, not his private secretary. Hey, you can’t go in there!” she shouts at my back as I walk to Otis’s office. Miss Sawicki trails me.
The file drawer in Otis’s desk is locked, and I don’t have my lockpicks with me. But the lock looks like a standard drawer job, nothing a little finagling with a couple of paper clips can’t handle: one curved into a hook, the other as a pick.
“Give me two paper clips,” I say to Miss Sawicki.
“What for?” she says, but she knows damn well what for.
The hard stare I give her finishes her naïve act, and she gets two paper clips from the desk drawer and hands them over. I twist them into a hook and a pick and go to work. In less than a minute, I feel the click of the lock and I open the file drawer.
I run my fingers along the row of files until I find the one labeled Lamarr and pull it out, then have a seat at Otis’s desk. I say to Miss Sawicki, “Maybe you shouldn’t be here for this. There might be something in the pictures that could put whoever sees it in danger.”
