Caesar's Fall

by Dorien Grey

  “As it happens, I already did a couple, and have a good idea of the fabric. I’ll give them to you later, and you can tell me if Ted thinks they’re practical.”

  While Elliott drank his coffee, Steve wandered around the empty space and the two offices, taking everything in.

  “This is great, Ell. Really great. I never dreamed I might really have my own gallery someday. And I never could have if I hadn’t met you.”

  “That’s nice of you to say, but don’t sell yourself short.”

  Steve grinned. “Think we’ve got time for me to show you a little appreciation before I have to start dinner.”

  “Here?” Elliott asked, both a little surprised and instantly turned on.

  “Who’s to see? The windows are covered in paper. And we could step into your office so you could have a seat and make yourself more comfortable.”

  “‘Ya talked me into it.”

  *

  Ralph arrived a few minutes after six, a quilted black messenger bag over one shoulder and a bottle of wine in his hand. Elliott had only seen him twice before, at Bruno’s parties, but his recollected favorable impressions were verified. A little taller than he recollected, but with the remembered striking up-tilted eyes, flawless skin, and silky black hair.

  Steve fixed them all a drink.

  “Why don’t we take a run downstairs to show Ralph the ground floor before it gets dark? We can take our drinks.”

  Elliott noticed he hadn’t referred to it as a “gallery.”

  Ralph, after a “grand tour,” was duly impressed.

  “This will make a beautiful gallery. The whole building is fantastic. I remember it from when I was a kid and my grandmother lived right down the street. What a change!”

  It was pretty clear he and Steve had talked about the plans for the gallery, and that Ralph shared Steve’s enthusiasm.

  When they returned to the apartment, Steve excused himself to see about dinner and suggested Ralph show Elliott his portfolio while he was gone.

  “You don’t mind?” Ralph asked.

  “Not at all.”

  Retrieving his messenger bag from the chair where he’d set it when he came in, he followed Elliott to the couch.

  Though Elliott didn’t consider himself a connoisseur, he recognized Ralph’s talent and liked most of what he saw of his work; what he didn’t care for he chalked up to personal preference. As Steve had told him, Ralph was both a painter and a sculptor, working in several different media.

  Dinner went well, and Elliott decided he definitely liked Ralph. The conversation centered on art, and Steve brought up the subject of holding art classes in the gallery space, which Ralph thought was a great idea. They agreed there was a lot involved—and a lot of details to work out—before they could start, but they’d get together again to talk about it.

  Eventually, the conversation got around to Bruno.

  “I didn’t know him all that well,” Ralph said in response to Elliott’s question, “but I liked him, and I resented the fact Rudy was always trying to take advantage of him.”

  “You work for Rudy?” Elliott asked.

  Shaking his head, Ralph said, “No, but I did for a while. I really needed the money for school, and Rudy paid well. I’m sure not proud of having to hustle to make a living, and although he likes to sugar-coat it by calling his boys ‘escorts,’ they’re just glorified hustlers, and he’s just a pimp.”

  “I noticed that whenever I saw him he was always with at least two really good-looking guys.”

  “Part of his operating procedure. I met Bruno when Rudy took me and two of his other ‘escorts’ to one of Bruno’s parties. We were sort of an hors d’oeuvres tray. Rudy does that a lot at gatherings. If the host doesn’t find something he likes, maybe one of the other guests will.”

  “So, when did you leave Rudy?” Steve asked.

  “I got fired when I just couldn’t perform for some of the guys he set me up with. Now I schedule temp work around my class load, which just barely keeps my head above water. But I manage.”

  “Can you tell me what you know about Rudy and Bruno’s relationship?”

  “To be honest, I was getting a little concerned for Bruno. Rudy likes people to believe he’s their best buddy, but if he thinks you’re crossing him some way, he’ll tear you to shreds. Everything was fine with Bruno as long as he let Rudy lead him down the garden path, but I heard him making some really mean comments when Bruno wasn’t around. He called him ‘the fatted calf,’ and I’m pretty sure Rudy saw himself as the butcher.

  “I know he was really upset when Bruno started balking at the plan for him to finance some bar deal—and I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but I think Rudy blames you for that. I don’t know how involved you might be with him, but I know I wouldn’t want to cross him—he doesn’t show it, but he’s got a real temper.”

  “I never had anything directly to do with him, so I’m not worried. Do you know anything at all about the bar deal?”

  “Not much, but I do know he really was serious about buying it—he never mentioned which bar it was, but I heard it might be Sidekick or Roscoe’s or Spin. And I know he was really counting on Bruno to back it.”

  Elliott couldn’t help but wonder just how unhappy Rudy really was when Bruno made his announcement at the party the night he died.

  *

  Ralph left around ten, and Elliott accepted Steve’s invitation to spend the night. By the time he had finished reciprocating Steve’s earlier-in-the-day thoughtful gesture, it was nearly midnight before they got to sleep. Elliott was hoping to hear from John, and…

  I think Blanton lived in New York. And I think the guy he bought the Jennys from is also from New York.

  I remember Bruno telling me the original owner wanted them back, and that he’d been dunning Blanton. So maybe Blanton killed Bruno to steal the stamps and resell them to the original owner?

  That’s pretty much the impression I’m getting from Bruno. We’ve gotten to the point where we can actually talk—that is, use actual words and sentences—though there are still a lot of areas where he reacts rather than responds. Generally, Blanton is one of them. He’s still conflicted over the idea Blanton might have stolen from him—let alone killed him.

  Great. But now the question is, what do I do about it? Cabrera and Guerdon made it pretty clear they didn’t want me coming to them with every hunch.

  You could ask Brad, see if he has any suggestions.

  I could, but I hate to impose on him, and I’m not sure what he could do in any event.

  Hey, like chicken soup, it can’t hurt.

  I suppose.

  Oh, and Bruno says thanks.

  Chapter 11

  Cessy called Monday shortly after dinner to tell Elliott she’d heard from Steve.

  “He says he’s seriously considering conducting a basic painting class, and that he has a friend who might also do one on sculpting. I told him I’d spread the word, and that I thought it was a wonderful idea. Of course, I’d told him that before.”

  They talked for their usual five to ten minutes before Elliott, who had decided to follow John’s advice, asked to speak to Brad.

  When Brad came on, Elliott outlined his latest conversation with Cabrera and Guerdon, his contacts with the real estate agent handling the Wisconsin resort and the information that it had been sold to an organization called the Ferrell Group in New York, who planned to make it into a retreat. Then he told him about the missing stamps and the possibility that Blanton had lived in New York—he didn’t elaborate on how he knew—and his theory that it was Blanton who had stolen the stamps.

  “Since Cabrera and Guerdon say there hasn’t been any blip on the stamp market about a recent sale of Inverted Jennys—and Blanton is smart enough not to make any huge deposits in his bank account, even if there were—I’m wondering if he might not have made a deal with the original owner to exchange them for bankrolling his projects without having his name directly on any of them. Th
at way, there wouldn’t be any direct bank-to-bank money transactions. I’ve never heard of the Ferrell Group, but I’d like to know who’s involved in it and if Blanton has any connection to them.”

  “Hmm…possible. But Cabrera and Guerdon are right—they really can’t look into anything that isn’t a little more solid than possibilities and maybes. Contacting an individual is hard enough, but trying to track down a specific unknown individual in a company based strictly on conjecture is a real stretch.”

  “I understand. But where does that leave me?”

  “Well, depending on how deeply you really want to get into this, I do have an idea.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Bennie Lassiter, my first partner when I joined the force—I think you met him at my birthday party—retired and moved to New York. The retirement lasted about six weeks before he got bored and decided to take out a private investigator’s license. If you want to contact him, he might be able to check some things for you, and I’m sure he’d appreciate the business.”

  Elliott remembered that Brad had offered a toast to Lassiter and his retirement at the party, and while he couldn’t get a mental picture of the man, he’d undoubtedly met him in the course of the evening.

  “Yes! Definitely. Can you get me his number?”

  “Sure. Hold on a second. He sent me a business card. Be right back.”

  Elliott quickly went for a pen and piece of paper. Picking up the phone again, he could hear voices in the background but couldn’t identify them. Probably the kids.

  “Okay. Got a pencil?”

  “Yep.” He wrote down the information. “I’ll give him a call.”

  “If you talk to him, give him my regards.”

  “Will do. And thanks.”

  *

  During coffee break the next morning, Elliott called the number Brad had given him. The phone was answered on the second ring.

  “Lassiter Investigations, Ben Lassiter speaking.”

  Elliott introduced himself and quickly outlined the situation.

  “I don’t have any idea who or what this Ferrell Group is, but I suspect it or someone in it is acting as a cover for Clifford Blanton. I know it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack, but would you be willing to see what you can find out?”

  “Sure. No guarantees, but I can try.”

  “Great. Do you want to fax me a contract, and will you need a retainer?”

  “Let me do a little preliminary checking first and get back to you. No great rush on the contract. If you’re Brad’s brother-in-law, I can always go after him if something goes wrong.”

  Elliott laughed. “Yeah, he’d love that.”

  They hung up after Elliott had given Lassiter his phone numbers and his home address.

  *

  The week passed quickly in the usual flurry of details—moving the file cabinets from the condo to the new office, ordering office furniture, dividing the basement into storage areas, talking with Larry to set up appointments that coming Saturday to check out the two potential next projects he’d driven by.

  Ted built a free-standing panel to display one of Steve’s paintings once the paper was removed from the front windows, and Steve suggested they have a small party Sunday to show off the completed gallery space. After some debate as who to have over, they settled on just Brad, Cessy, and the kids, and Button and Paul—both of whom had asked to see it as soon as they could. They agreed on a much larger gathering when the gallery actually opened.

  John was notable by his absence, and Elliott was curious as to what was going on with Bruno, but knew John would tell him when he had anything he thought Elliott should know.

  He’d just gotten home Thursday night when his land-line rang.

  “Mr. Smith, this is Ben Lassiter. I’ve got some information for you.”

  “Elliott, please. What did you find out?”

  “The Ferrell Group is run by an Edmund Ferrell, who went through a messy and expensive divorce. Recently, the bulk of the divorce settlement was overturned when it was learned his ex-wife, who her lawyers had painted as a latter-day Mother Theresa, had been sleeping around on him for years. And it turns out Ferrell is a noted stamp collector. He’s on the board of the American Philatelic Society and has written articles for the Philatelic Literature Review.

  “And I was able to find out through their personnel department that one Clifford Blanton worked for the Ferrell Group from two thousand one to two thousand six.”

  Elliott noted a strong scent of Old Spice, which dissipated quickly.

  “Brad was right—you’re good. Look, Detectives Cabrera and Guerdon are a little tired of hearing from me. Would you be willing to talk to them directly to tell them what you found out?”

  “Sure. George and I go way back. Would it be easier if I gave him a call? It might speed things up.”

  “That would be great, I’d really appreciate it. As soon as you’ve talked to them, send me a bill for everything up to now—and a contract, if you need one for your files. We can go on from there if there’s anything you might do Cabrera and Guerdon can’t.”

  “I’ll do that. Give Brad my best.”

  *

  Progress!

  Finally. I gather Bruno’s aware of what’s going on. I caught a strong whiff of Old Spice while I was talking to Lassiter.

  Yeah, it’s pushed him back a step or two, I think, but hopefully he’ll recover fairly quickly.

  There are still a lot of questions I hope the police will be able to resolve.

  Specifically?

  If Blanton did throw Bruno off the balcony, how did he manage it? I mean, he was one of the last to leave the party, but neither Ricky nor Cage mentioned him coming back. I asked you some time ago if you could find out the last things Bruno remembers about the party, and you never told me.

  Sorry, that was while he was still in “swirling cloud” mode. I’ll try again.

  *

  His latest conversation with John set Elliott off on a chain of questions.

  While entering the condo building without passing the front desk wasn’t easy, it was possible. The rear service entrance was always locked, requiring anyone wanting to get in to either have a resident’s passkey or to buzz the front desk for admission.

  It was general knowledge the security cameras covering the service entrance were frequently out of order.

  As a further safeguard, there was a door between the lobby and the hallway to the service entrance, which also required either a passkey or a buzz-in, but this could be bypassed by entering at the same time as a resident or preventing the door from closing properly. The elevators couldn’t be seen from the front desk, and although the desk had a bank of security monitors, the attendant was often either busy or distracted and couldn’t watch them all at the same time.

  As for how Blanton might have gotten back into Bruno’s apartment without being seen, Bruno always left the kitchen and front doors unlocked during his parties, and probably never got around to locking them that last night.

  He’d not had any word from Cabrera or Guerdon by the time the detectives’ shift was over, so he resigned himself to waiting until Monday.

  *

  With only a few more days of work ahead for his crew, Elliott began shifting gears to prepare for his next project. Since there was always a lapse between projects, he began working on a list of needed maintenance and repairs for his other properties to keep the crew occupied.

  Again mildly concerned he was spending too much time at Steve’s, he suggested they spend Friday night at the condo. Since he was meeting Larry Saturday at eleven o’clock to look at the prospective new properties, he could get Steve home in time to spend the afternoon painting then go over later in the afternoon to start setting up his office.

  He waited for Steve to get home, then they stopped at the store to pick up some steaks for dinner. On the way, he filled Steve in on his talk with Lassiter and his hopes Lassiter’s call to Cabrera and Guerdon mig
ht spark some activity.

  Marco buzzed them into the main lobby, and Elliott took the opportunity to ask a question that had been niggling at him.

  “Marco, I’m curious. Have the police returned the security tapes for the night Bruno Caesar died?”

  “The lobby tapes, yes. Yesterday afternoon, as a matter of fact. Brian wasn’t in, so they left them with me.”

  “They kept the service entrance tapes?”

  “No, they didn’t take them. The back cameras were out of order that night.”

  Elliott wondered if it was a coincidence or something more sinister. “Those things really need to be replaced,” he said.

  “It’s been on the condo board’s agenda for the past two months, but nothing’s been done about it yet.”

  “Well, thanks for the information.”

  “My pleasure. Have a nice evening, gentlemen.”

  As they were about to turn toward the elevators, Marco buzzed the front door open.

  “Gentlemen!” a familiar voice proclaimed. “What a pleasant surprise. It’s been a while.”

  “How are you, Rudy?” Elliott asked as they walked to the elevators.

  “Things couldn’t be better.”

  One of the elevator doors opened just as they arrived, and an elderly man got off.

  “Cage and I are going to dinner with some backers for the senior condos project. There’s still time for you to get in on it, you know.”

  “Thanks, Rudy, I appreciate it, but my plate’s pretty full right now.”

  “Well, keep it in mind. I’ll give you a call.”

  The elevator stopped on 35, and Steve and Elliott got off, exchanging a brief wave with Rudy as the doors closed.

  “Ya gotta give him credit,” Elliott said, retrieving his keys from his pocket. “He never gives up.”

  Setting the grocery bag on the counter while Elliott opened the refrigerator door, Steve passed him the steaks, butter, and tub of sour cream, putting the baking potatoes aside.

  “So, he’s already got his hooks into Cage,” Steve observed.

  “Looks that way.” Elliott shut the refrigerator door and opened the freezer compartment for ice cubes as Steve fetched glasses.