by John Locke
… Creed … evil is … every … where … and … must … be pun… ished.”
CHAPTER 9
“I must see the Picasso,” Kathleen said.
“Then you shall,” I said.
“And the maître d’,” she said. “They have one, right?”
“They do indeed.”
“Is he stuffy? I hope he’s insufferably stuffy!”
“He will be if I don’t tip him,” I said. We were in the Seagram Building on East Fifty-Second, in the lobby of the Four Seasons restaurant.
She touched my arm. “Donovan, this is really sweet of you, but we don’t have to eat here. I don’t want you to spend this much on me. Let’s just have a drink, see the painting and maybe the marble pool. We can share a pizza at Angelo’s afterward.”
“Relax,” I said. “I’m rich.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
The Four Seasons is famous, timeless, and the only restaurant in New York designated as a landmark.
“Do you mean really, you’re rich,” she said, “or that you’re really rich?”
“I’m rich enough to buy you whatever you’d like to have tonight.”
She laughed. “In that case, I’ll have the Picasso!”
Did I mention I liked this lady?
I gave my name to the maître d’ and led Kathleen to the corridor where the Picasso tapestry had hung since the restaurant opened back in 1959. The twenty-two-foot-high Picasso was in fact the center square of a stage curtain that had been designed for the 1920 Paris production of The Three Cornered Hat. When the theater owner ran out of money, he cut the Picasso portion from the curtain and sold it. Now, with the economy in distress, Kathleen had heard the tapestry was about to be auctioned for an estimated eight million dollars. This might be her only chance to see it.
“Oh my God!” she said, her voice suddenly turning husky. “I love it!”
“Compared to his other work, the colors are muted,” I said. “But yeah, it’s pretty magnificent.”
“Tell me about it,” she said. “Impress me.”
“It’s a distemper on linen,” I said.
“Distemper? Like the disease a dog gets?”
“Exactly like that.”
She gave me a look. “Bullshit!”
“Well, it’s spelled the same way. Actually, it refers to using gum or glue as a binding element.”
She made a snoring sound. “Boring,” she said.
“Okay,” I said, “forget that part. Here’s what you want to know: Picasso laid the canvas on the floor and painted it with a brush attached to a broom handle. He used a toothbrush for the detailed work.”
Kathleen clapped her hands together. “More!” she said.
“It took three weeks to paint.”
She looked at me expectantly.
“He wore carpet slippers so he wouldn’t smudge the paint.”
I struggled to remember what else I’d read about the thing. I shrugged. “That’s all I’ve got,” I said.
Kathleen smiled and nudged up against me. “You did well,” she said.
We had a drink at the bar. Among the small crowd waiting for tables, Kathleen spotted Woody Allen, Barbara Streisand, and Billy Joel. I said, “See those two guys by the palm frond? That’s Millard Fillmore and Jackie Gleason!”
She sniffed. “At least the famous New Yorkers I’m lying about are still alive.”
A number of seasonal trees surrounded the white marble pool in the main dining room, and the head waiter sat us beneath one of them. Spun-metal curtains hung in rows against the walls, undulating softly as the air fl ow from the vents teased them.
“This is fantastic,” she said, looking around the room. “Everything is so elegant, especially the breathing curtains!”
“Especially those,” I said.
I tossed back a shot of bourbon and watched Kathleen sip her pomegranate martini. The waiter had brought us drinks and given us time to study the menus. Now he returned, ready to take our order.
“Of course I’ve never been here before,” Kathleen said, “so you’ll have to order for me.”
I nodded. “We’ll start with the crispy shrimp,” I said.
“Oops. No shellfish,” Kathleen said.
“Sorry,” I said. “How about the foie gras?”
“Goose liver pate?” she said. “Ugh!”
“Peppered quail?”
“Sorry,” she said. “Meat product.”
“Perhaps you should just pick something,” I said. She may have detected some annoyance in my voice.
Kathleen burst into a hearty laugh. “I’m just messing with you, Donny. I’d love some crispy shrimp.”
The waiter and I exchanged a glance.
“She might very possibly be insane,” I said, and Kathleen laughed some more.
Then she told the waiter, “Watch out for this one. He’s very grumpy in restaurants.”
The waiter left to place our order.
“Donny?” I said. I huffed a bit, and she placed her hand on mine.
“Okay, I won’t call you Donny,” she said. “But if we’re going to start seeing each other, I’m going to want a pet name for you.”
We looked at each other, and I rotated my palm so I could hold her hand. She cocked her head slightly and raised an eyebrow.
I said, “I have to admit there’s something special about you … Pablo!”
“Oh, God,” she said and laughed some more. “Okay then, no nicknames!”
I tried to remember the last time Janet and I shared a laugh.
“Something about me,” Kathleen repeated. Her eyes hinted amusement. She winked at me and sipped her cocktail. “Mmm,” she said. She touched the napkin to her mouth. You could add up all her looks and mannerisms and never total gorgeous, but you’d get to adorable pretty quick, and that was enough for me. Hell, I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
“Go ahead,” I said. “Ask me.”
“Ask you what?”
“Something’s bothering you. I can see it in your eyes.”
She twitched her mouth to one side and held it there, a sort of half-frown. “I don’t want to ruin the moment,” she said.
“The moment will survive.”
“Okay then, brace yourself.”
I took my hand away from hers and grabbed both sides of the table and pretended to hold on tight. “Let ’er rip!” I said.
She took a deep breath. “Last night at Starbucks, you told me about Janet and Ken dating. You were worried about his temper, what he might do to her if they decide to get married.”
I kept quiet.
“Do you still love her?” she asked.
“No. But I don’t want my daughter’s mother to marry a wifebeater.” She made a face, and I said, “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what it’s been like for you.”
Kathleen was wearing the same cloth coat she’d worn the night before. She’d been cold and hadn’t wanted to surrender it to the coat check girl downstairs. But now she stood and removed it and folded it over the back of her chair, revealing a white blouse, a tan faux suede skirt, and a wide brown belt with two gold buckles. She wore very little makeup, or maybe it hadn’t been freshened up in a while, since she’d come straight from work. It didn’t seem to make her uncomfortable the way most women would be. She sat back down and surprised me by taking my hand in hers and kissing it.
“I don’t wish him dead or anything,” she said. “But Ken is …” She sighed. “Ken is not a part of my life anymore. I mean, there’s not a day goes by I don’t think about him or the terrible things he did to me. But.” She paused and showed a bittersweet smile as the memories danced across her face. “There were some good times, too. In the beginning.”
I nodded.
Then she said, “I’ve heard he’s gotten treatment, and I’m glad. I hope he’s okay. I hope he finds peace.”
I nodded again.
I had already finalized a plan for handling the Ken and Janet situatio
n, and now I realized I’d been right all along not to involve her in it.
We had a wonderful dinner, and afterward, my driver took us to her place and she invited me in. Home for Kathleen was a modest duplex cottage with faded green siding. Her side of the duplex had three rooms: a kitchen, living room, bedroom—and a bath. A small stack of books sat on one end of a threadbare couch in the living room. She picked up the books and stacked them on the coffee table so we’d have room to sit.
“I’m sorry it’s not nicer,” she said.
“Don’t be silly.”
“It’s just, everything is so expensive here.”
“It’s wonderful,” I said.
And to me it was. When I’m in Virginia, I sleep in a prison cell. When I’m anywhere else for more than a day or two, I generally break into the homes of strangers and sleep in their attics. Sometimes I’ll live in an attic for weeks at a time. By comparison, Kathleen’s duplex was a palace.
“I can offer you a gin and tonic, bottled water, a hot chocolate with skim milk,” she said, “or a diet coke.”
I asked, “Do you have an attic?”
“What a strange question,” she said.
“No, I just meant, there’s not a lot of room for storage.”
“I have half an attic and half a basement,” she said. “Does that win me some kind of prize?”
I placed my hand to her cheek, and we looked at each other. “Don’t ask me to show them to you,” she said. “The attic is totally junked up, and the basement has rats, I think.”
I asked if I could kiss her. She said, “Okay, but just once. And not a movie kiss,” she added.
CHAPTER 10
“I’m not sure I appreciate your tone, Mr. Creed.”
“Why should you be the exception?” I said.
It was morning, a few minutes past eight. I was in the hospital coffee shop chatting with Addie’s Aunt Hazel.
“And just how is it you’re connected to Addie?”
“She’s my friend.”
After learning how special Addie was to Kathleen, I’d come to the hospital to check on her. During a discussion with one of the nurses, I learned that Addie’s father, Greg, had won ten million dollars in the New York State Lottery six months ago. I also learned that Hazel and Robert Hughes had originally planned to adopt their niece after her release from the hospital but had changed their minds after learning the money was gone. So when Aunt Hazel showed up, I ambushed her in the coffee shop.
“We’re not wealthy people, Mr. Creed,” Hazel had said. “Addie will require specialized care for the rest of her life, and yes, we were counting on the inheritance to provide it.”
“Perhaps your interest in Addie’s welfare extended only as far as the inheritance,” I’d said, and that’s when Aunt Hazel told me she didn’t appreciate my tone.
“What happened to the lottery money?” I asked.
“Greg used part of it to pay off the house, the cars, and credit cards. The balance, more than nine million, was placed in an annuity.”
I had a sudden revelation and immediately began experiencing a sick feeling in my stomach.
Hazel said, “The annuity was supposed to provide a huge monthly check for the rest of Greg and Melanie’s lives. But the way it was structured, the payments ended with their deaths.”
“Can you recall some of the specific provisions?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “But the whole business sounds crooked to me.”
“Who can tell me?” I asked.
She eyed me suspiciously. “I suppose Greg’s attorney can give you details.”
She rummaged through her handbag and gave me the business card of one Garrett Unger, attorney at law. I put some money on the table to cover our coffees.
“I’ll have a talk with Unger and let you know if anything develops.”
“We can’t afford to pay you,” she said.
“Consider it a random act of kindness,” I said. “By the way, can you give me the address of the house? I may want to poke around a bit.”
“Now who are you, exactly?” she asked.
“Someone not to be trifled with,” I said.
Hazel gave me a look of concern, and I smiled. “That’s a line from a movie,” I said.
“Uh huh.”
“The Princess Bride,” I added.
“Well it doesn’t sound like a wedding movie to me,” she said. I pulled out my CIA creds and waited for her to ooh and ah. Instead, she frowned and said, “This looks like something you’d find in a five and dime.”
“What’s a five and dime?”
“Like a Woolworths.”
I shook my head. “Doesn’t matter. As I said, I’m a friend of Addie’s. I met her through Kathleen, one of the volunteers here. I want to help.”
“What’s in it for you?”
I sighed. “Fine, don’t tell me.” I took out my cell phone, called Lou. When he answered, I said, “There was a fire two weeks ago at the home of Greg and Melanie Dawes.” I spelled the last name for him. “Both adults died in the fire. Their twin girls were taken to the burn center at New York-Presbyterian. I need the address of the house that burned down. No, I’m not sure of the state. Try New York, first.” I got our waitress’s attention and asked her to bring me a pencil and paper. By the time she fetched them, I had the address. I hung up and smiled at Aunt Hazel.
“Who was that?” she asked.
“Inigo Montoya.”
CHAPTER 11
Valley Road in Montclair, New Jersey, runs south from Garrett Mountain Reservation to Bloomfield Ave. Along the way, it borders the eastern boundary of Montclair State University’s sprawling campus. Coming west from NYC, you’re not supposed to see any of this on your way to the fi re station, but if you make the wrong turn off the freeway like I did, you get to see the sights. While I was doing so, my cell phone rang. Salvatore Bonadello, the crime boss, was on the line.
“You still alive?” Sal said.
“You call this living,” I said. It was still morning, not quite ten. I’d left the coffee shop, and Aunt Hazel, less than two hours earlier.
“I been hearing some things,” he said. “You stepped on someone’s toes big time.” He waited for me to respond, playing out the moment.
“Joe DeMeo?” I said.
Sal paused, probably disappointed he hadn’t been the one to break the news. “You didn’t hear it from me,” he said.
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of DeMeo,” I said. “Big, tough, hairy guy like you?” I turned left on Bloomfield, heading south east.
“I don’t gotta fear the man to respect the power. And I got—whatcha call—compelling evidence to respect it. Whaddya mean, hairy?”
“Figure of speech,” I said.
I hadn’t been certain that arson was involved in the Dawes’ house fire but figured if it was, DeMeo was responsible. The fact DeMeo knew I was looking into the fire confirmed my suspicions. Still, I was shocked at how quickly he’d gotten the word. “How long you think I have before the hairy knuckle guys show up?”
“You in someone’s attic or what?”
“Rental car.”
“Okay. You prob’ly got a couple hours. But I was you, I’d start checking the rearview anyway.”
“Thanks for the heads-up.”
“Just protectin’ my—whatcha call—asset.”
“DeMeo called you personally? He doesn’t know we’re doing business?”
Sal paused, weighing his words. “He knows.”
I was stuck in a line of cars at the intersection of Bloomfield and Pine, waiting for the light to change. I had nothing else to think about beyond Sal’s comment or I might have missed the clue. I kicked it around in my head a few seconds before it hit me. “DeMeo offered you a contract on me.”
“Let’s just say your next two jobs are—whatcha call—gratis.”
Two jobs? That meant … “You turned down a hundred grand?”
Sal laughed. “It ain’t love, so don’t ge
t all wet about it. I just don’t have anyone—whatcha call—resourceful enough to take you outta the picture. Plus, where am I gonna get a contract killer good as you? Unless maybe that blond fox you use. You tell her about me yet?”
