by Marc Strange
Whoever originally designed what became Leo’s penthouse fortress must have had a whimsical streak. The penthouse roof is cantilevered, dormered, cupolaed, and chimneyed. The cops have probably been up there. Not sure how they made the climb. Probably brought a ladder. Or stood on a planter. Or knocked one over.
Not as easy as I thought it would be. The planter isn’t tall enough. There’s a table that gives me another step. After that it’s a matter of arm strength. I always hated chin-ups; they weren’t part of my regular workout. Biceps aren’t the most important arm muscles to a boxer and you definitely don’t want them bulging and slowing punches down. Morely Kline considered weight-lifting to be one of the Seven Deadly Sins for a fighter.
Nevertheless, it looks like I still have enough residual curling strength to haul my bulk over the eaves and onto the penthouse roof.
No crime scene tape up here, nothing marked off, no sign that the police have crossed these peaks and valleys, hiked this expanse of slate, skirted these copper-sheathed cupolas. All the evidence said the crime happened inside Leo’s domicile, and then I was helpful enough to focus things elsewhere by chasing footsteps down the fire stairs. They might not have checked up here at all.
Not enough moonlight to make searching worth-while. I’m just happy I make it to the south end without breaking my neck. It turns out that Leo’s aerie is a citadel taking up less than a quarter of the hotel. I stand at the roof’s edge looking down on a wide expanse of tar and gravel occupied by massive air-conditioner and elevator housings, vents and pipes, aerials and satellite dishes. That much equipment needs regular maintenance.
There will be a service access somewhere.
It’s a long drop to the roof of the fifteenth floor but, hey, damned if there isn’t a handy iron ladder bolted to the wall to make for a smooth climb. Who needs special keys and security codes? Simple, if you know where you’re going.
People have spent time up here. Impossible to tell who and when but it looks like a popular gathering place. Cigarette butts, Styrofoam cups, discarded rags, a rank of dubious plastic lounge chairs aimed to catch the afternoon sun, a gas barbecue, a picnic table, an awning swollen with collected rainwater. I recall Gritch mentioning the summer lunch breaks on the roof, maintenance staff cooking burgers and steaks in the afternoons. He suggested that it was a tradition. I’d never been invited.
Housings for the six passenger and two service elevators are barnlike, padlocked from the outside. So? So, no one came or left through them. What does that leave? The other fire stairs. That door has a lock as well. It is conveniently broken. Light switch inside the door. This stairwell descends to the fifteenth floor and opens near the service elevators.
And Gritch is climbing the stairs.
“Thought crossed my mind, too,” he says.
“Did you know there was a ladder up the back of Leo’s castle?”
“That’s what crossed my mind,” he says.
“I don’t think Pazzano and Mooney have been up here,” I say.
“Probably right. Otherwise they might have noticed the pair of gloves at the bottom of the stairs.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I say.
“Check it out,” he says.
Sure enough. A pair of black gloves, one lying on the bottom step, the other a level higher.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s get Maintenance to padlock this door until the police are inclined to do a thorough search of the premises.”
“They’re going to just lo-ve you to death,” he says.
Brian Bester is looking for me when we get to the lobby. “I’m clocking off, Joe,” he says, “but I thought you might want this stuff.” He hands me a printout. “I left the medical tag on your desk.”
“Thanks Bri, I appreciate it.”
“My pleasure,” he says. “Good night. Good night, Mr. Gritchfield.”
“Yeah, right,” Gritch says. He watches Brian leave. “Probably running off to get a shoeshine and a trim. They always have fresh haircuts, you notice?”
I’m looking at the printout.
“What’cha got?” he asks.
“I found a thing at the construction site. Computer thing. Medical alert tag. He’s got allergies.”
“Who has?”
“Jesus Santiago.”
Gritch says. “Jesus was camped out next door?
“He’s from Fresno, California. He’s in the Army.”
“Our army?”
“American,” I say. I take the Bronze Star out of my pocket. “Maybe a hero.”
“Maybe just a thief,” Gritch says.
chapter ten
Midnight. I’ve made the late walkabout. I usually have a beer around this time. Once or twice a week lately I’ve had company. Sometimes I find her waiting for me at the foot of the handsome new staircase leading down from the lobby. That’s where she is tonight, watching me descend, her curly head cocked to one side and her bright eyes squinting.
“You’re all backlit,” she says. “Can’t see your face. Are you smiling?”
“Always, when you show up.”
“You don’t look very smiley.”
She puts her arms around me. It feels good and I wrap her close. Her tousled head is under my chin and I inhale the scent of her hair.
“This helps,” I say.
“That was a big sigh,” she says. She looks up. “More groan-like.”
“It’s been a dreary day. You?”
“Not so bad,” she says. “Come on. Let me buy you a beer.”
“Not so bad? Is that akin to good?”
She takes me by the hand and leads me into Olive’s. Olive herself is sitting in her private corner with her bassist and long-time friend, Jimmy Hinds. They must be reminiscing; they both have faraway smiles. Olive looks up and blows me a kiss as we pass.
“I hesitate to be overly cheery,” Connie says. “Seeing as how you are swathed in melancholy.”
“Maybe some cheery news will unswath me.”
“Maybe not,” she says. She parks herself on a barstool, pats the vacant one next to her, grins at me as I sit. “I’m going to China,” she says.
Barney shows up with a beer for me and a red wine for her.
“Hi, Champ,” he says. “Hi, TV-star.”
Perfect time for an interruption. Gives me time to digest, or at least swallow. I spot a distraction at the far end of the bar.
“How long has Weed been here?” I ask him.
“Just showed up,” Barney says.
“He ask for me?”
“Wanted to know if Olive was doing another set.”
“Is she?”
Barney looks around the room. It’s not crowded.
“I doubt it,” says Barney. “But you never know.”
Barney departs to pour beer for someone else and I turn to look at Connie. She is sitting somewhat primly with her lips pursed and an innocent pussycat smile that says What canary?
“China,” she says again.
“Good,” I say finally, with conviction. “That’s good because I was worried to distraction you were being sent to Afghanistan.”
“I’m still angling for that.”
“Fills my heart with dread,” I say.
“I’ve been on the list for a year,” she says. “I’ve had my familiarization course. I know how to make a splint out of a Hustler magazine. It’s only a matter of time, big boy. Better get used to it.”
“China is the thin edge of the wedge.”
“This one is easy-peasy,” she says. “Big trade delegation, governor general’s coming along, press corps, hotels, buffets.”
“Somebody drop a camera on Anchor Girl, what’s her name, the Number One?”
“She’s having a baby.”
“Oh.”
“What did I say? Your face went all sour again.”
“It’s all right.”
“You want to stay here or go somewhere else?”
“No. No, this is good.”
“
I meant back to your room.”
“I know what you meant,” I say. I squeeze her hand. “There’s a cop at the end of the bar I need to chat with for a minute.”
“He looks a bit swathed himself. Maybe I should buy him a beer, too.”
“Rum and Coke,” I say.
Weed looks up as I grab the stool beside him.
“You behaving yourself?” he says.
“Oh, yeah.”
“I heard you were poking around the crime scene.”
“Wasn’t a crime scene anymore.”
“Find anything interesting?”
“Pazzano didn’t mention?” I say. “Mooney?”
“I heard something.”
“Nobody thanked me.”
“Yeah, well, you didn’t do them any favours. List of suspects went from who had a key to who knew the Lord Douglas had a roof.”
“News to me, too,” I say.
“You didn’t have to rub it in.”
I shrug. “The gloves were a bonus.”
A rum and Coke is placed before him. He looks up. Connie has been invited to join Olive and Jimmy. She waves the length of the bar before she turns her back on us. Weed eats a few peanuts. I sip my beer.
“There was a knife missing,” I say.
“Oh?”
“Was it the murder weapon?”
“Still waiting on the Medical Examiner,” he says.
“Sure you are. Well, maybe you could let it slip if she was stabbed or shot or strangled.”
He looks around the room like he’s about to betray his government. “She wasn’t shot or strangled.”
“So, then Mooney and Pazzano might be thinking that it was a confrontation that got out of hand,” I say.
He adds more Coke to his rum and looks wistfully at the bare stage and the vacant piano stool. “Who knows
what they’re thinking?”
“They might be thinking that if the murder weapon came from the kitchen, whoever did it didn’t bring a weapon of their own, and that the murder wasn’t premeditated.”
He concedes the point, grudgingly. “They’re probably considering that. Along with everything else.”
“And they’re probably checking to see if there was anyone else’s blood around.”
“That’d be lab stuff. Sometimes it takes awhile.”
“How about a time of death?”
“Lab stuff.”
“Right,” I say. “How about the fallen man? You got an ID yet?”
“You’ll have to check with the guys running the case. I’m here for the music.”
“When did we stop being on the same side?” I ask him.
“You withheld evidence, you big palooka.”
“Speaking of which,” I start. “Here’s something your search party at the construction site didn’t find.” I hand him the MedicAlert fob along with the printout.
He has to put on his reading glasses. “Who’s this Jesus guy?”
“He’s the one with the motorcycle. Army, or ex-Army, or AWOL, or deserter. Used to get a lot of them up here at one time.”
“Those were draft dodgers,” he says. He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes with both hands. “If this wasn’t the best piano bar in the city,” he starts, “and if Barney wasn’t the best bartender, and if Olive didn’t occasionally do a late set, just for me, I might consider taking my custom elsewhere.”
“Just doing my part,” I say. “Wouldn’t want anyone accusing me of withholding.”
He blots a few rum and Coke droplets from his orange and yellow tie. “Bugger off now,” he says. “Olive’s going to sing.”
“You’re welcome,” I say.
“I guess the renovations didn’t extend to your end of the building,” Connie says.
We’ve had this discussion before. She hates the wallpaper, dislikes the hand-me-down art on the wall. “I get fresh bed linen every day,” I say.
She concedes the point. “Yes, you do,” she says.
“And you will notice they supply me with two robes these days.”
“Those maids are so canny,” she says as she wraps white terrycloth around herself.
“You think if they send you to Afghanistan you’ll get clean towels every day, and scented soap?”
“When did you start getting scented soap?”
“I could get scented soap if I asked for it. I just happen to like that other stuff.”
“Which is why I bring my own.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“Six days.” She drops the robe and climbs back into bed. “Relax, big guy. This is a joyride. I’ll attend a few briefings; get my face in front of the camera.”
“I’m happy for you, Connie, really. You want this.”
“Okay,” she says. “Your general aura of gloom notwithstanding.”
I put an arm around her, pull her close to my chest.
“Raquel was pregnant,” I say. “Raquel and Leo were going to have a baby.”
“Oh, dear,” she says. “That makes it so much sadder.”
Connie Gagliardi rises in the dark these days, even when she sleeps over. A quick kiss on the forehead and she’s out the door, heading for Channel 20 to tell the world what’s happened overnight. Her new job on the morning news desk is a promotion she tells me, and a definite step toward prime time, but it’s a relentless schedule and doesn’t leave much room for cuddling. She’s hoping she’ll get to sleep in during the China junket. A lot of good that’ll do me. After I hear the door close, the bed feels empty, her scent lingers, I worry about traffic, and I can’t get back to sleep. I’ll be a basket case if she ever makes it to Afghanistan.
Having Connie in my life this past year has been a big change for me. A good one. I’m eating more vegetables. But she’s younger than I am, has ambition, and a definite plan for where she wants to be in ten years. If she winds up with a big network back east, or even south of the border where she’d like to be, I won’t be part of her life. Gritch tells me to enjoy it while I can. Rachel says I should put a ring on her finger, buy her a house, and get her pregnant. Mostly I just try to count my blessings, cheer her on as she makes her run for the roses, and avoid thinking about Afghanistan.
chapter eleven
The Lobby Café doesn’t open until eight o’clock but Hattie spots me lurking by the newsstand and lets me in through the kitchen.
“It’ll take a minute for the coffee, Joe,” she says.
“You want some juice?”
“No, thanks. Wait. Yeah, juice is a good idea.”
“Orange, grapefruit, V8?”
“What’s best for a man of my years? Nutritionally?”
“Grapefruit,” she says. “Connie spent the night?”
“Yes.”
“So you’ll be wanting whole-grain toast this morning.”
“I suppose.”
“She’s good for you, Joe. Got you running again, taking better care of yourself.” She puts a large glass of juice in front of me. “Actually, eating a grapefruit is better than just drinking the juice.”
“I’ll remember that for next time.” I take a gulp of juice. It’s sour, bracing, probably good for me. “She’s going to China,” I say.
“For good?”
“Six days.”
“You’ll survive.”
The Emblem has the story on page three. HOTEL MAID STABBED. No mention of Raquel’s connection to Leo. The discovery of a dead body in the Warburton site has been treated as a separate item. That won’t last long.
Hattie puts a cup of coffee in front of me and nods toward the door. “Should I let him in?” she asks.
As if on cue, Larry Gormé, crime beat reporter for the very paper I’m dripping coffee on, is looking in through the glass. I check the wall clock: 7:53.
“Don’t do it on my account,” I say.
“Oh, well,” she says “The coffee’s ready.”
Hattie unlocks the door and Larry bustles in, tipping his fedora like a gentleman, grabbing th
e stool two down from me, craning his head to see which page I’m on.
“See that?” he says. “Circumspection. Restraint. Nothing about how she may or may not have had a romantic relationship with the head honcho.”
“You’re a credit to your trade,” I say.
“A shining example. Thanks darlin’,” he says as Hattie gives him a coffee at the same time she brings my toast.
“You having breakfast?” she asks.
“In the morning?” He looks horrified. “I’ll take a couple of aspirin if you’ve got ’em.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” she says.
“I tried to track you down yesterday,” he says.
“I was out.”
“Working this case?”
“Nope.” The toast is full of whole-grain goodness.
All I need now is yogurt and I’ll be too healthy. “You know Mooney and his partner?”
“Pizzaria? Sure.”
“I don’t think that’s his name.”
“What we call him in the city room,” he says.
“He’s broken a few noses. Not mine o’course. My nose is clean.”
“And your heart is pure.”
“Here’s your aspirin,” says Hattie.
“Life saver. How’s the little bingo-caller?” he asks.
“Packing.”
“You two taking a trip?”
“She is. Going to China with the governor general and a trade delegation.”
“Hey. Next stop, Canada AM.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” I say. “She’s good enough.”
“Good-looking enough, too.” Larry washes the aspirin down with his coffee. “Networks have a strict no-mutts policy. It’s what’s kept me out of the big time.”
“I can’t give you anything you can publish, Larry.”
“Sure, sure, I know that. I don’t want an interview, but I know you, you’ll be poking around even when you say you’re not poking around.”
“I have been warned, in no uncertain terms, that if I ask too many questions the cops will make my life semi-miserable.”
“That’s you. They can’t tell me to keep my nose out of it; asking questions is what I do for a living. What do you want me to ask?”
