“Why’re you following Phillip around, Brookie? Let’s get it all out in the open.”
“To see if he’s in touch with you, genius.”
“And now you can tell DeWeldt that I am in touch with Jackie Whitney’s son.”
Brookstone glared at Phillip. “Let’s hope he’s not telling you a lot of BS he can’t prove.”
“If DeWeldt wants to know what I know, have him call me. Here’s another business card for him.” I tossed a card at Brookstone’s feet. “Something else you can tell him is that we know all about his little retirement home scam.”
Brookstone stepped away, paced around a bit, then came back. “Listen, kid,” he said to Phillip. “I’m just trying to make sure your mom gets justice. That woman they arrested, she’s guilty, I know it. Landau and that public defender want to get her off, for chrissake!”
I laughed. “Come off it, Brookie. If you just tell me what he’s scared of, then maybe we can do things your way and I’ll leave DeWeldt alone. But as long as you keep harassing me, I’m gonna assume he’s hiding something.”
“How about you just do what I tell you so you don’t get hurt, huh? Isn’t that the easiest way to do things?”
“Your dedication to that scumbag is admirable. You getting a better health insurance policy than what the city gives you?”
Brookie shook his head with that annoying grin. “Are you too stupid to see I’m doing you a favor? DeWeldt can crush you. He’s got a lot of powerful friends in this town.”
“They sit behind raised benches. They’re called judges.”
“And you’ll just take ’em all on all by yourself. What do you think you’ve got on DeWeldt?”
“Tell me, Brookie. If I presented you with a solid case implicating DeWeldt or anyone else in Jackie Whitney’s murder, would you pursue it?”
“DeWeldt isn’t a killer.”
“He ripped off his niece’s estate just to pay his taxes! Someone like that would stoop to murder to save his own ass.”
Brookstone went through a few facial contortions. “I’m tellin’ you—”
“DeWeldt and Jackie Whitney spent a lot of time together. She gained his confidence enough to find out DeWeldt had a whole scam going with elderly citizens and his private rubber-stamping team at the Attorney Registration & Disciplinary Commission. All those complaints slithering off his back like Lake Michigan slime. Nothing sticks to this scumbag.”
“Old goddamn news. He’s a businessman—”
“Who’s scared of something—”
Brookstone shouted, “That don’t mean he’d kill someone!”
“It’s a long fall for guys like DeWeldt. They get scared of heights easy when someone gets a little information. Panic sets in. Just permanently close someone’s mouth and the problem’s solved.”
Brookstone rubbed his bald head. “I’ll be honest with you. Whether the rich broad knew more than she was supposed to know or not, I don’t care. Honest! I really don’t care.”
“And that’s why he hired you to muscle me, because he knew a guy who beats up women wouldn’t care. You’d be happy to take his money to make sure nobody gets in the way of Kate McCall going to prison.”
Brookstone struggled to keep cool. Phillip moved to the grass, just a few steps from the lobby window, and started fiddling with his phone. “The thing is, I really want to see justice. Sure, I want to make a buck too. But I really think Kate McCall is guilty and Kessler or Alvarez are in on it. Maybe both.”
“Sure you do, because everyone knows Kate McCall could not have moved the body by herself. So you gotta find an accomplice to help your story.”
“She fingered the doctor on the 911 call. Otherwise she was gonna take all the blame.”
“She was framed. Jackie Whitney’s keys, car registration, and prescriptions were thrown away in the dumpster that McCall knew her boss would check at work?”
“She knew, huh? Did she tell you she saw her boss checking the garbage? She’s lying about that too. She may have thrown it away thinking it was as safe as anyplace.”
Brookstone’s premise burned in my stomach. “You and your boys interviewed Kessler. You know as much as I do.”
“You better hope so.”
I glanced at Phillip and saw he held his phone down near his waist, facing us. “Or you’ll beat me up? Meanwhile, instead of digging around like a good detective would do, you sit on your ass waiting for Kate McCall to break down and tell you everything.”
Brookstone let his chin fall against his chest, mumbled something, then looked up. “Tell me something,” he said. “Surveillance cameras show McCall entering Jackie Whitney’s building on the eighteenth and then again on the nineteenth, the day she called the cops. What’s your excuse for that?”
“The eighteenth?” I said. “How would you know? You guys didn’t bother checking the CCTV.”
Brookstone smiled. “Oh, didn’t we? Who told you that?”
“Howard, the security—” I said, then remembered I had only inquired about the sixteenth and seventeenth. Since Jackie Whitney had been dead for at least thirty-six hours, I hadn’t considered the eighteenth. I also remembered Howard looking at Manny two different times before answering two different questions.
“Your good pal Manny Alvarez,” Brookstone said, “slips Mr. Security a few bucks to give out only so much info should a private investigator come snooping around. Manny Alvarez, the doorman who may have been the last person to see Linda Napier alive.”
“Oh, we’re back to Manny calling in a hit on Linda.”
Brookstone swore. “How did I know about McCall coming back on the eighteenth, Landau? Manny Alvarez told me she was there. Alvarez only tells the cops about the eighteenth because he wants McCall to go down alone for the murder. He knows if she fingers him, they could go down together for both murders.”
“But the coroner said Jackie Whitney had been dead at least thirty-six hours.”
“Well, it’s not an exact science, is it?”
No, I guess I should’ve known that. “I’ll have another talk with my client,” I said. “But I’m not done with DeWeldt.”
“Goddamn it, Landau! DeWeldt didn’t kill anyone. But if you’re collecting info on that doctor, you better tell me or I swear to God I’ll—”
My smile was involuntary. “Beating up civilians. You just can’t help it. Is that what they teach you at the police academy? Give it a try, tough guy.”
Brookstone moved toward me. I slipped my hand under my jacket. He stopped then laughed. “What? You’re gonna shoot me? I think you caught some of your old man’s brain crud.”
“Your reputation as a maniac is known far and wide, Brookie. I’d enjoy blowing you away. And I have a witness.”
He looked around for Phillip, who had positioned himself on our periphery, holding his phone at eye height, as if making a video. Brookstone’s petrified block of a head turned crimson.
“You know who I hate as much as bleeding-heart-dyke public defenders?” Brookstone yelled. “You cocky private investigators! Do you hear me, you son of a bitch?”
We watched the angry man trudge off in his ill-fitting sport coat.
Phillip walked over. “Would you have really shot him?”
“Probably not.”
“Then what?”
“Then I’d get beaten to a bloody pulp.”
Phillip studied me. “You were antagonistic with that guy.”
I found his sincerity disarming. I almost felt ashamed. “Hostile, repugnant people incite me to act that way. It’s a personality flaw, I guess.”
“A fatal flaw. Why aren’t you afraid Brookstone will lose it and beat the crap out of you?”
“I never said I wasn’t afraid.”
“Then why act like that?”
I stared at Phillip, feeling a bit unmasked. “Because I can’t help it.”
Chapter 25
It had been at least twenty-four hours since Linda Napier’s death. In the window of Verkakte Fas
hions, Hannah fitted a cobalt blue outfit over a mannequin. She probably recognized me from the previous week and guessed I wasn’t in the market for a dress.
“He’s in his office,” she said.
“How’s he—?”
She shook her head.
I walked to the back. The office door was open. George sat in a steno chair hunched over his desk. I knocked lightly. He looked up at me with red, puffy eyes.
“May I come in?”
He rotated his chair around and pointed to the small couch where I sat. “My two oldest friends are dead.”
“I’m sorry. I know that’s not much solace—”
“Am I next? Is someone going to kill me now?”
“Of course not.”
“Of course not? You say that as if you really know. Did you think Linda was going to get murdered?”
“Hang on. Linda had many years of risky behavior under her belt. Who knows what kind of people she had lurking in her past? Maybe it caught up to her.”
Neither of us spoke, then George said, “Jules, what are you doing here?”
I knew what he meant. “You and Linda aided my investigation and shared your personal lives with me. I can’t help but identify with your loss.”
“I would’ve thought a private investigator needed to be more callous about such matters.”
“I probably should be.”
George surrendered a small smile. “That detective who called, he thought Linda’s death was related to Jackie’s murder.”
“There are similarities.”
“Meaning what? Linda had some connection to Jackie’s death?”
“I don’t know what to think. Do you have any reason to believe Linda was using again?”
“You mean maybe this was a drug deal gone bad? Hard to believe. I could always tell when she was stoned. Did the cops find any drug paraphernalia?”
“No. But if the same person did kill Jackie and Linda, there had to be a reason. What the hell was that reason?”
“What about the renter? Linda was dating the doctor guy, right? She knew something incriminating about the doctor and he had to shut her mouth.”
“Linda said they broke up a while ago and were still friends. Besides, why would Linda have covered for him all this time?”
George massaged his temples. “Maybe she was obsessed with him. Linda used to glom on to men. A doctor would’ve been hard for her to resist. Every week a new guy was going to change her life. Jackie and I would tell her to chill out but she wouldn’t listen. The holidays were the worst. Every time Linda went to a party she would meet the perfect man. These were always short relationships, sometimes ending with threats of restraining orders.”
The word “holidays” tripped a switch. Holiday had been a recurring theme. “Think back to our first meeting,” I said. “You told me Jackie’s fight with her lawyer-boyfriend happened around the holidays. Probably a Christmas party, right?”
“Probably.”
Kate McCall told me it was the day after a Christmas party that Jackie Whitney went on her tirade about DeWeldt. Phillip said his mother stopped talking to DeWeldt and Lucille during the holidays. Another breaker tripped, this time with a spark. Henry was a doll, Lucille had said. A Francis of Assisi Champion whose privacy and reputation Lucille would stop at nothing to protect. And he was handsome.
“Something wrong?” George said.
“Do you know who Lucille Mackenzie is?”
“Of course. She’s the whore that Jackie’s lawyer-boyfriend was screwing.”
It was one of those moments when intense satisfaction descended over me and every impulse of my investigation made perfect sense.
“That’s what I thought,” I said, then stood up. “Thank you, George, and take care of yourself. I’ll let you know of any new developments.”
“I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”
“Believe me, you’ve been a great help. And that’s no BS.” I turned to leave then stopped. “Hey, George, real quick. Uh, the transman concierge. He would be attracted to women, right? I mean that’s the whole point?”
George looked at me with his head slightly askew, perhaps mildly amused. “And because I’m gay you assume I would know all about this?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine, it’s fine. I’m just messing with you. There are no rules designating gender with sexuality. The combination can be anything.”
I thanked George again for pointing something out that suddenly seemed glaringly obvious. Once outside the shop, I strolled the neighborhood, wanting to assimilate what I thought was a clearer picture of the investigation’s dynamic. Jackie Whitney’s final holiday season had been a festival of treachery. Who knew what betrayals the party revealed? I pictured a teeming, raucous affair with uninterrupted streams of Dom Perignon. As inhibitions deferred to the wine and season, so did the secrets and innuendo readily flow. Who knew what intimate details leaked out? Poor George. He might have been the only one who legitimately loved Jackie Whitney.
The phone rang with Debbie’s name. “I need the money for the DNA test,” she said. “We should have the results in a couple of days.”
I drove home, grabbed the eighty-five hundred dollars, but decided to watch a little television before heading to Twenty-Sixth and Cal. Punim sat in my lap as I fast-forwarded the CCTV video to the eighteenth. Kate McCall appeared at about four-thirty. For some reason Manny was still on duty. The two chatted a bit then Manny made a call from his desk phone. After he hung up, they chatted awhile longer before McCall signed the guest book and walked to the elevators.
—
Debbie locked the money in the top drawer of her desk, announced she was hungry, motioned for me to follow her out of the room, then locked the door to her office. From one of the many neighborhood Mexican restaurants, she ordered a huge chimichanga. I got a couple of vegetarian tacos.
“How will the evidence get to the lab?” I said.
“I’ll check it out from police evidence and take it myself. That way I can discuss the case with the lab’s forensics team. So what’s up, Jules?”
I told her about Detective Brookstone waiting for me in the loading zone. “McCall went to Jackie Whitney’s building on the eighteenth. It’s on the CCTV video.”
Debbie took a moment to absorb the implication. “Hmmm. The day before she reported finding the body, she could’ve been in the apartment. Not good. Why didn’t she tell us?”
“It doesn’t make sense. A murderer wouldn’t return to the scene and sign the guest book.”
“Maybe she had a reason for not telling us. It’s probably a shitty reason, but let’s give her a chance. Meet me on the courthouse steps at nine tomorrow and we’ll go talk to her.”
“By the way, how hard is it to subpoena somebody’s phone records?”
“If the somebody is not part of the cops’ investigation, we would need a damn good reason for a judge to allow it. Why?”
“Just curious. Anyway, Kessler has admitted to going back to the building during the murder time frame.”
Debbie straightened up. “No shit? You got him on the video?”
“I bluffed him. I told him a surveillance camera on the street caught him entering the building. He collapsed like a house of cards.”
“So what’s his story?”
“He came back with Linda Napier around two A.M. to get some stuff he forgot to pack.”
“Then he’s on the CCTV.”
“He would be, except there’s an eight-hour gap in the time stamp.”
Debbie’s eyes widened. “Interesting. And what was so important to come back at two in the morning?”
“He had to collect some very personal items.” I didn’t elaborate.
“Are you going to tell me what they were?”
“Prostate massaging devices.”
Debbie choked on a laugh then spit her food in a napkin. “That’s fucking brilliant!” she said. “Tell me more.”
“Three, assuming they both admit Linda Napier was there too. And I can argue the real killer is also the person who killed Linda Napier.”
“Kessler also said Linda saw Marv stepping out of the elevator before she or Kessler had arrived. He could’ve been up there alone.”
“Why didn’t Linda tell you this?”
“That’s an excellent question that will never be answered.”
“Look,” Debbie said. “Marv was in the apartment, that’s what matters. Alone or otherwise, I don’t care.”
“Just so you know, Marv is an old man. And he looks the part.”
Debbie stared into her plate while chewing. Without looking up she said, “He was in Jackie Whitney’s apartment. What else?”
Only halfway through my first taco, Debbie’s tone ruined my appetite. “Jackie Whitney was not the kind, benevolent soul I thought she was. Two of McCall’s neighbors said she mercilessly criticized McCall for all to hear. Linda Napier and one of Jackie’s neighbors said she treated Manny Alvarez the same way.”
“It doesn’t help McCall if the jury knows she was getting pissed on by Jackie Whitney, does it? What else?”
“Jackie Whitney had a trust that paid out to the animal shelter. Phillip said she was in the process of cutting the shelter out of the trust when she died.”
Debbie scooted her chair forward then returned to staring at her plate while chewing. “Why do I care?”
I wondered if I should’ve brought up Lucille Mackenzie stealing Jackie Whitney’s boyfriend, but realized I had never mentioned Lucille to Debbie before, and thought she would just chalk up another detail to wild conspiracy theories.
“C’mon, Jules, here’s your chance,” Debbie said. “Convince me why I should care about the shelter getting cut out of the trust.”
“I don’t know yet, but it’s a strange coincidence that Henry DeWeldt was Jackie Whitney’s estate lawyer and DeWeldt is determined to see McCall convicted.”
Doubt in the 2nd Degree Page 17
