Ted wasn’t buying. “That’s reassuring, but as I check my schedule, I find that I’m in meetings all week.”
“My mother says I can be overly persistent.”
Ted was curious. In a fit of escapist desperation, he had once gone on a shark-feeding excursion in Cancún; answering a few questions from the police couldn’t be any more dangerous than that. “You were just by here. My landlord was a bit spooked.”
“Five minutes,” the detective said. It was both a pledge and a request.
“Five minutes,” Ted agreed. “How can I help?”
“Do you know a man named Richard Rubiano?”
That was an easy one. “I do. I helped Richie out of a jam a few years back. I don’t represent him, though. I’m no longer licensed. Is he in trouble?”
“How would you characterize your relationship?”
Another floater over the plate. “He does odd jobs for me from time to time.” This was met with an expectant silence. Wary of swinging at a slider, Ted added, “And when he needed a lawyer, I helped him find one. Does he need one now?”
“No, sir. Mr. Rubiano will not need a lawyer.”
“So are you ready to tell me what this is about?”
“Mr. Rubiano was the victim of a homicide, Mr. Molloy. He had a few business cards in his wallet. Yours was one.”
A flicker of grief surprised Ted. A shooting pain that was gone even as he put a name to it. Richie was not a friend and never had been. But since his divorce, Ted’s world had continued to shrink to the point that now any regularly repeated human contact had significance. He would miss the weasel.
The shock of how Richie had died took a moment longer to register.
“He was murdered?” Incredulity beat all. People in his life died by disease, rarely by accident, and never before by murder. Ted sought words to define or explain it. “He was a not very successful con man years ago, but I can’t imagine any of his marks showing up to take revenge.”
“Would you be willing to come down and give a statement?” Detective Duran managed to make the request sound casual.
Sirens and flashing lights went off in Ted’s head. The shark was inviting him home for dinner. “Only with my lawyer present. And that would cost me money, and you would learn nothing that might be of use to you.”
“I would think you’d be more cooperative. We’re looking for the person who killed your friend.”
Ted noted the feeble attempt at inducing guilt and ignored it. Bitterness had long replaced guilt as a motivating factor in his life. But people he knew were not murdered. He felt himself being pulled in despite misgivings.
If there was any chance that Richie had stirred up some hornet’s nest by looking into the old lady’s surplus money, there was also a chance of that trouble leading back to Molloy Partners. A chance only, but Ted did not want to take that risk. He needed to know more, and if that meant trading information, he was willing.
“I have a proposal, Detective. If you’re willing to answer a few of my questions, I will try a little harder to be more open. But only if the conversation is one-on-one and on my turf.”
The cop sighed, signaling that Ted was making his difficult job more so. “Counselor, I am an overworked civil servant just trying to make a living. Cut me a break.”
“I’m trying. Listen, I’ll go you one better. Let me buy you a burger. Lunch. Tomorrow. Do you know Gallagher’s? On Grand?”
-3-
Ted found he had no appetite for his now ice-cold breakfast. He told himself that he had to eat and took one bite. The rest went into the trash.
The possibility that Richie had been killed because of something related to their business together made Ted feel queasy. The business model consisted of picking up the scraps ignored or forgotten by real estate moguls or wannabes. Those people were the predators; Ted barely qualified as a carrion feeder. And Richie? A dung beetle.
Disagreements and disappointments were not unusual—having suffered already, Ted’s clients could be angry, suspicious, or belligerent—but there had never been anything beyond occasional strong words and hollow threats. No one got murdered over surplus money. But the doubt clung to him.
He did not feel the passage of time as he sat staring at a blank laptop screen until his cell phone intruded on this bleak reverie. Jill. Though they had been divorced for ten years, he always took her calls.
“I’m late. I’m late. I’m late. I’m late.”
“Hi, Jill.” He checked the time on the wall clock and was shocked to find that it was already early afternoon.
“I’ve got to run.”
“You’re not late. The game’s not till Wednesday.” Not a date. Just two friends going to a Mets game. Saving a rocky year or two immediately following the divorce, they’d been attending games together since their second date.
“I am late. But that’s not why I called. We’re on, right?”
“Unless you tell me differently. Why are you late?”
“Because I’m still at the museum, and Teri agreed to fit me in for a blowout in seven minutes.” Teri was a tyrannical refugee from Macedonia who happened to have a hair salon on Fifth Avenue with a view of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. Ted had never understood how wealthy Manhattanite women allowed this monster to come near them with sharp objects in his hands.
“At this time of day, you’ll get a cab out front with no trouble.”
“And if there’s no holdup in front of the Trump building, I’ll get there in ten minutes. Goodbye. See you Wednesday.”
“I’m being grilled by the NYPD tomorrow about a murder investigation.”
“What are you talking about? Don’t. Stop. Tell me Wednesday.”
“Goodbye, Jill.”
“Wait! What time?”
“Seven. It’s always seven.”
“No. They’re always changing it.”
They had once seen the second half of a doubleheader that started at eight. Once.
“Goodbye, Jill.”
She was already gone.
Gillian Fitzmaurice and Edward Molloy had been the perfect match. Everyone thought so.
They’d met at a Whitney Museum fundraiser. Jill was a twenty-two-year-old intern, preparing for the life of a privileged docent. Ted, four years older, was the new hire at the family law firm, having clerked for a year with Jill’s grandfather on the New York State Court of Appeals. She was tall and willowy, blonde, with eyes the color of lapis lazuli. Ted was also tall, but broad shouldered and round of face. Black Irish with dark hair, dark eyes, and a complexion that tanned easily. They complimented each other.
“You must be Jill Fitzmaurice,” he said.
“Why must I?”
“You have the Fitzmaurice look.” She moved with a fluidity that could have been the result of good genes or years of ballet lessons. She wore almost no makeup or jewelry and didn’t need it. She wasn’t conventionally pretty, but Ted thought she was beautiful.
She frowned. “Are you sure? I love my grandfather, but he’s got a nose like an ax blade.”
“I meant you have a regal look. You hold your head in such a way that mere mortals, such as myself, must stand in awe.”
She laughed. “Bullshit.”
“Admittedly.”
“But you get points for both originality and chutzpah.”
“I write all my own material.”
“It’s a good line. Does it often work for you?”
“I don’t know. This is the first time I thought I might be able to carry it off.”
“I know who you are.”
“Oh?”
“The golden boy. Grandfather ‘discovered’ you. You’re being groomed.”
Ted was very aware that his presence at the venerable law firm of Hasting, Fitzmaurice, and Barson was an abnormality. Though he had been top of hi
s class, his degree did not come from an Ivy League institution. The Judge had championed him, giving him a chance, but also putting a target on his back. “Local boy makes good.”
“I bet you’ve always made good.”
“I’m not sure how to take that.”
“Any way you want.”
“Then I’ll assume it’s a compliment,” he said.
“You’re a fast learner.”
Ted laughed. “I think I’ll have to be to keep up with you.”
“I’ll assume that’s a compliment.”
“Touché.”
“Ooh. And he speaks French.”
She was enjoying herself, but Ted felt she was holding back. Hiding behind the sass. Rather than put him off, this made him more determined. He wanted to learn her secrets. “Would you like to continue this conversation over dinner?”
“I know it doesn’t look like it, but I’m working.”
“Another time?”
“Attaboy. Sure.”
“Then I’ll need your number,” he said.
“I’ll call you.”
“Then you’ll need my number.”
“No. I think I’ve got your number.”
Ted taught her to ice-skate and introduced her to the joy of watching old black-and-white movies on television. Jill persuaded him to eat oysters and educated him enough for him to not get bored in an art museum. He was ambitious, proud of his proletarian roots, work ethic, and stamina for putting in the necessary long hours. Jill was most content in the moment and wore her Beekman Place heritage like a comfortable old sweater.
They agreed on all of the important things. Both wanted children but not yet. Vacations abroad or in the mountains and never at the beach. Steaks should be rare. Brussels sprouts without bacon were an abomination and inedible. Golf was not a spectator sport. And baseball—Mets baseball in particular—was America’s pastime. She was a Mets fan in a family of Yankee worshippers. Ted had grown up a bus ride from Shea Stadium and still refused to wear any garment with pinstripes.
He was a working-class hero, a rebel in a tie, champion of the underprivileged, confident and forthright. What you saw was what you got. Jill had secrets.
A secret.
-4-
Ted was sitting in his booth at Gallagher’s waiting for inspiration or Detective Duran—whichever came first—when a shadow fell across Page Six of the New York Post. He looked up in time to see a skyscraper shaped like a man peering in the window, squinting fruitlessly. Gallagher’s had been built on that spot in the long ago when privacy and anonymity were prized above all in a neighborhood bar. The lighting, the recessed windows, and the canvas canopy all conspired to make it impossible to identify anyone inside through the window. But when the sun was strong, the reverse was also true. Ted could not make out the facial features of the man glaring so intently. All he could really be sure of was that the guy was bald, white, and big. XXXL plus. Definitely a Big-and-Tall shopper. The giant turned the corner and disappeared from sight. Ted had the impression that the man was not alone, but he was too startled by his size to be sure.
A moment later, a petite woman with hair wound into a towering bun and dyed the color of fresh lemons came through the door. She wore sunglasses that seemed to cover half her face. Even before she saw Ted, he knew she was coming to ruin his day.
“Eddie Molloy?”
The voice was straight out of Astoria. It stabbed through the blather of Fox News emanating from the television over the bar and set his teeth on edge. There are a thousand accents to be heard every day in Queens and very few that could make his sinuses ache in sympathetic rebellion.
“Who’s asking?” he said.
She carried a purse the size of a duffel bag over one shoulder, and she let it drop onto the banquette opposite Ted, following it and placing her elbows firmly on the table. “You’re him, aren’t ya? You’re Eddie Molloy.”
At the end of the bar, Paulie, too sober this early in the day, began cursing at the television. Lili shushed him and poured him a fresh glass.
“Ted. Edward Molloy to judges and tax collectors. But everyone else calls me Ted.”
“Richie called you Eddie.”
“Not to my face. Why didn’t you ask your friend to come in? Or were you afraid he wouldn’t fit through the door?”
“Excuse me? Do I know what you’re talking about?”
She was a good liar, but he had caught her by surprise. He’d been right. She knew the giant and didn’t want Ted to know that she did. Ted stored this in his mental file labeled “Enigmas” but decided not to press it. “So you knew Richie?”
Lili called across the room, “Youse need anything ovah theh?” She had learned her English in Rego Park. Ted shook his head. The lady wouldn’t be staying around long.
“Say what?” the angry blonde said. “I was married to him for ten years.” The sunglasses came off, revealing an intelligent face that caught Ted by surprise.
He was, for a moment, speechless. This woman was half Richie’s age. When had they married? When she was fifteen? And even with the retro hair and overdone makeup, she was an attractive woman—though definitely not Ted’s type—and Richie had distinctly not been an attractive man.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Ted said. “But I have to tell you, Richie never mentioned a wife.”
“And?”
“And . . . I don’t know. I’m surprised, that’s all.” The ancient Ballantine clock over Lili’s head—set to bar time, ten minutes fast—showed that noon was approaching. Ted had no idea when the police detective might show up, but he didn’t want to be found chatting with the widow of the victim. Cops made assumptions all too easily.
“We didn’t always get along, but I want to know what was so friggin’ important that some bastid wanted to kill him over it.”
“I’m sorry, but what is your name? Or shall I call you Mrs. Rubiano?”
“That’s my name. But it’s Cheryl. Not Sheryl. Cheryl. Like in ‘cherry.’”
“Or ‘charming,’” Ted said, hoping to slow her assault.
“Exactly.”
“Well, Cheryl, Richie did odd jobs for me. A bit of research at the county clerk’s office and the courthouse. That’s all.”
“So what got him killed then?”
Was she accusing Ted? “Richie made some enemies in his time.”
“Yeah, I know all about that. Guy was the worst grifter I ever seen.”
“Ah,” Ted said, smiling to indicate he was joking. “It’s a family business then?”
“You mean me? I’m not bent that way. I got a good job—city government, thank you very much—and benefits. But Richie was done with all that. He quit cold turkey when he partnered up with you.”
Ted ignored the misuse of the word “partner” and focused on the subtext. “Forgive me for being dense, but are you implying that Richie’s death had anything to do with his work for me?” Though he had entertained the same suspicion, hearing it from another interested party forced Ted into denial.
“Whatta ya talkin’? You two were cooking up a big deal. I know all about it. He told me.”
She was accusing him. Ted retreated to firmer ground. “Richie searched through court documents for me,” he repeated. “I paid him in cash. People don’t get killed over what I do.”
“Oh yeah? He left me a copy of the file the two of you was working on.” She dove into the gargantuan bag and came up with a pristine manila folder that she slapped on the table.
Ted flipped it open. “Ah, no,” he said, sighing. Richie had not included the full file, only cover pages for each section, but the first sheet showed $1.2 million in surplus money. It was the elephant. The white buffalo. Moby damn Dick. Ted was not surprised.
“What? This is it, Eddie. This is what you guys were working on. He said you called it an elephant
. Huge. You two were going to clear a mil or more out of this. I want my share.”
“Have you read this? Do you know what this is?”
Her face twisted into a grimace of distaste. “It’s legal stuff.”
“Cheryl.” Ted paused. How could he make her understand? He sighed again and began. “This is nothing. Pixie dust. It is not real. He said he was going to work on it himself. I suggested that he not do that—strongly. I don’t take on these kinds of cases for the same reason I don’t buy lotto tickets. They’re both sucker bets.” Ted slid the file in her direction.
She ignored it and tried to stare him down. Ted was immune to this tactic. He’d been stared down by masters. Nonchalance was the best defense. He checked the time on his phone—the real time, not bar time. Ten of twelve.
“What? I’m holding you up? Keeping you from something? My Richie’s dead!” The tears began to flow. They were quiet tears, but copious. Her body, a moment before taut with anger, shrank in defeat.
“I don’t know what you want from me, Mrs. Rubiano. Richie told you some things that simply don’t apply. I’m sorry for you.”
“You gotta help me,” she said, rallying. The tears were gone, and her body had transformed again. The fireball was back. Ted might have admired her tenacity if he hadn’t begun to think she was nuts. One moment all she cared about was the money; the next she was weeping uncontrollably for the dead husband.
“What do you think I can do for you?”
“Get me that money.”
“If I thought you would leave me alone, I’d agree to almost anything.”
“And you can find out who killed him.”
The best way to proceed with crazy people is to stick to facts, speak cautiously, and make no sudden movements. “Actually, that’s not something I can do. That’s for the police to handle. We should let them take care of that.”
“No way. The cops don’t care. I talked to one of them. Duran his name was. Guy acted like I did it, fahchrissakes.”
Tower of Babel Page 2
