by Neal Baer
“Tragic, yes. But I assure you, it’s no mistake.”
Palmer blinked—the first time he’d done so.
“I’m not sure what that means,” Palmer said. “You can’t possibly think I was robbing my own neighborhood. I’ve never even gotten a parking ticket.”
“Our police department has a long memory, Mr. Palmer. You were arrested for first-degree assault in Queens in seventy-one.”
Palmer stared into Nick’s eyes—and then, burst out in laughter. “Oh, come on, Detective. That was over forty years ago. I was a kid. The girl was a liar. It was nothing.”
Nothing compared to the sick shit you’ve done since then.
Nick knew Palmer assumed he knew only of that one arrest, not the details. But in Claire’s all-night search, the police computer spat out the ancient assault case, which Claire said fit Palmer’s profile—a deep rage toward women.
“It was hardly nothing, Mr. Palmer,” Nick said, opening his folder, “so let me refresh your memory. You slapped a teenage girl three times in the face, knocking out most of her teeth and fracturing her skull,” Nick read from the file. “Cops who collared you said you were trying to pull her pants off.”
If Nick’s knowledge of the crime affected Palmer in any way, he didn’t show it. “Please, Detective,” implored Palmer, “if we’re going to spend all this time in here over nothing, can’t we at least be informal? Call me Victor.”
Nick closed the folder. “I’d be glad to, Victor,” he replied. “Unless you’d rather be called Vittorio.”
He looked into Palmer’s eyes to drive the point home. For the first time, the anger that Nick knew was boiling inside Palmer inched to the surface. This was all part of Claire’s plan. Just before Nick entered the interrogation room, she’d laid out the strategy that they hoped would lure Palmer into a trap. Now she watched through the one-way mirror as Nick put the plan into action.
“Vittorio Palmieri died a long time ago,” Palmer said, his words clipped. “And I’m not responsible for anything he did.”
Spoken like a true psycho, Claire thought.
Nick paused, then seemed to relax in his chair. “You oughta be proud of at least some of what he did. Or at least his parents. I couldn’t get enough of the food in their place.”
This struck a chord with Palmer. “You’ve been there?”
“Are you kidding?” Nick said, a slight grin appearing. “I practically lived there when I was a kid. My dad was a cop in the Fifth Precinct for a while. My mom would bring me and my sister downtown to grab dinner with him when he worked four-to-twelves. They always wanted Chinese but I would beg for Palmieri’s Pasta House and every coupla times they’d give in.”
“When would that have been?” asked Palmer.
“Seventy-five, seventy-six or so. My dad went there a lot more than I did, though. Six-two, dark hair—”
“The place was always filled with cops,” Palmer interrupted, his voice sharp, annoyed. Like Nick was wasting his time. “And back then I was working in the kitchen as a cook so I wouldn’t have known your father.”
“Sorry. Sounds like I hit a nerve,” Nick said. “But I swear on my parents’ graves the chicken parm there was still the best I’ve ever had.”
At this, Palmer seemed to soften. “No, I’m the one who should apologize,” he said. “I should be honored you have such fond memories of my work.”
You don’t know the half of it, thought Nick.
Claire knew this was part of the plan, to loosen Palmer up before pouncing. Part of her wished she could go in and shake Palmer up with a few more direct, pointed questions. But she knew Nick was a master at this.
Patience. He’ll get there. His own way.
Nick seemed to sadden. “Shame there were no cops there when those Genovese guys beat the shit out of your father,” he said.
A strange look crossed Palmer’s face. “You remember that?” he asked.
“My dad told us that night when he got home,” answered Nick. Claire couldn’t help but wonder if it was true.
Palmer found himself sinking in the chair and sat up, scratched his temple. “It was morning,” he said. “I was in school. He was setting up for lunch with my mother. I didn’t find out till later.”
“You mean that he was hurt or who did it?”
“Both,” Palmer said. “But everyone knew what was going on. Mafia owned everything north of Canal Street between Lafayette and the Bowery back then, and there wasn’t a restaurant owner in Little Italy who didn’t pay protection money. It was the cost of doing business. I thought it was stupid of my father to refuse.”
“Maybe,” said Nick, “but don’t you think going after that girl in revenge was a bit stupid too?” Nick asked.
“Not then and not now. My father walked with a limp for the rest of his life.”
“Your father should’ve told you that you don’t screw with the Mafia. It’s like the rules of fighting a war, you know? Soldiers do battle but family’s off limits.”
“They broke the rules first,” Palmer retorted. ”And that was my family they hurt.”
“They’re the ones with the guns and no conscience,” Nick said. “Did your father ever tell you how he knew they put a hit out on you?”
Palmer closed his eyes. He took the bait, Claire thought.
“Yeah,” Palmer said, letting out his breath, “after the charges against me were dropped. Mom picked me up from the precinct in Queens, and I told her I was proud I paid them back and got away with it. Then she slapped me in the face, called me an idiot. She said they only wanted me out of jail so they could kill me.”
“And that’s why your dad had to pay them ninety percent of the restaurant’s profits, isn’t that right? To keep your ass above ground?”
Palmer shifted in his chair, the spell down memory lane broken.
“How is any of this relevant to what happened last night?”
“I’m just trying to get all the facts straight,” Nick answered.
“Yes,” Palmer said. “He paid for the rest of his miserable life. Since you already know all this, you probably know we lost the house in Bay Ridge and had to move into an apartment above the restaurant.”
“So when your parents retired, they gave your brother the restaurant because you cost them their one true love,” Nick said.
“No, because I didn’t want it,” Palmer snapped.
“I don’t buy that,” Nick said. “Not from the guy who had all that natural cooking talent, got the place a four-star Zagat rating when he was just seventeen.”
“I got lucky,” Palmer said. “A guy came in and ordered scaloppine. I was on sauces that night. I didn’t know he was a critic. I’m flattered you read my bio.”
“It was interesting reading. You’re a fascinating guy, you know that? But you know what’s not in there that I was wondering about?”
“Please, I’d love to hear,” said Palmer, meaning exactly the opposite.
“Why you changed your name.”
“I thought Victor Palmer sounded a little more worldly,” he said.
“Maybe you would’ve thought differently if they had reality TV back then.”
“Huh?” asked Palmer, clasping his hands in annoyance. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Well,” said Nick, “I have two girls. You know what they love to do? Sit around and watch cooking shows. So when I’m home, I watch with them. And all of a sudden I’m hearing names like Bobby Flay, Jamie Oliver, Mario Batali. And I’m looking at you and thinking to myself, Here’s a guy who never even went to cooking school, makes it to the top of his profession, and changes his name? It’s too bad. Victor Palmer, he could be anybody. But Vittorio Palmieri? Now, he sounds like one of those celebrity chefs on the Food Network, don’cha think?”
Palmer’s eyes rolled skyward. He was getting tired of Nick’s routine.
“I suppose I can’t argue with that,” he said.
Nick leaned in. “You know what I think? That you we
re so pissed off when your parents gave the restaurant to your brother that you changed your name to disown them.”
To Nick’s surprise, Palmer didn’t even try to deny it.
“I was their firstborn. I put that place on the map. It was my birthright. You’re damn right I was pissed.”
“Not like you didn’t make out, though,” Nick followed, trying to keep Palmer on the positive side of off-balance. “I don’t know a lotta guys who own brownstones in this city. Must’ve taken a lot of hard work to get there.”
Palmer gave a flippant wave of his hand. “Another remarkable stroke of luck for me,” he said. “When Guillermo Rodriguez came into the restaurant one night.”
“Who’s he?” asked Nick, though he knew.
“My godfather,” Palmer replied, and let out a laugh that almost sounded like humility. “Like the Mafia, he literally made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Paid me a fortune to come down to his resort in Costa Rica and cook in his five-star restaurant.”
“And you got the place when he died,” Nick pretended to surmise.
Palmer smiled, and this time it was real.
“Guillermo had no children. He was like a father to me. He left me the resort in his will. I was as shocked as you can imagine. I had just turned forty. I still can’t believe he would be so generous to me. Go figure.”
“I hear Costa Rica’s gorgeous. Always wanted to go.”
“You should. While you still can—” He stopped.
“You were gonna say, ‘While I still can see,’ right?” asked Nick.
“Sorry, Detective,” Palmer said.
“Please, call me Nick.”
“Well, Nick, if you ever want to go, I’m on excellent terms with the folks I sold out to. On my say-so, they’ll comp you for the hotel and meals. All you have to cover is the plane fare.”
“Sounds like an offer I can’t refuse,” Nick said, smiling. “And I wish I didn’t have to. My girls and I, we really need a vacation. Been a tough year for us.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Palmer said.
“Thanks. Two years ago they lost their mother, and my mother, who took care of them, passed this year.”
Claire loved where Nick was taking this. In another life, he’d make a great shrink, she thought.
“I know what you’re going through,” Palmer said. “My wife died just before I moved back here.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” said Nick, sounding as sincere as possible. “What was her name?”
“Martha,” he said.
Nick played off the longing in Palmer’s voice. “Fourteen years we were married,” he said.
“What happened?” Palmer asked, sitting up with real interest. “Cancer?”
“Suicide,” Nick said, surprised at how fast it came out.
“My God,” Palmer blurted.
“Surprised you didn’t read about it,” said Nick. “It was all over the papers.”
Palmer looked at him, a grin of realization crossing his face.
“Yes, I do remember now. They suspected you of murdering her,” he said.
“Yeah, it sucked,” Nick said, shifting in his seat. “Thought I was going to prison for a while there.”
“How did you prove your innocence?” asked Palmer.
“It was more like the DA didn’t have enough to charge me.”
Now Palmer’s interest was piqued. “Am I listening to a police officer confessing to murder?” he asked.
“Nah,” Nick said, waving him off, though he wanted Palmer to believe they might have murder in common. “She shot herself with my gun. Automatically made me a suspect.” He pretended he wanted to change the subject. “But what happened to your wife?”
“That’s a good question,” said Palmer, sitting back as if comfortable with the common ground they’d discovered. “She went out for a walk on the beach one night four years ago and never came back.”
“Then how do you know she’s dead?”
“The police found her bones on a beach on the other side of Costa Rica about two weeks later.”
“Just her bones? That’s all?”
Palmer looked down as if that would shake the memory away. Nick knew he didn’t want to talk about this anymore, and needed an out.
“It’s okay. We can discuss something else,” Nick said.
But Palmer’s eyes grew distant. “I met her when she was fourteen,” he said. “I was working in the kitchen at the hotel. She was a beauty. Long, brown hair, eyes like almonds that could look right through you. It was like we’d known each other all our lives the moment we met.”
“Was she from Costa Rica?” asked Nick, who just wanted to keep him talking.
“Chicago,” said Palmer. “Her parents brought her and her brother down to the hotel every year on vacation.”
“So you kept in touch,” Nick surmised.
“Even after she got married,” Palmer said.
“She was married before you?”
“To a lawyer from Detroit. They met in college at Michigan. They came to the hotel together. Nice guy. He died in a car accident. Very young. A tragedy.”
“Yeah, that’s horrible,” said Nick, looking down and nodding in agreement. Palmer would’ve never suspected that not only did Nick already know this, he also knew the accident wasn’t really an accident. It was a hit-and-run that occurred when Martha’s first husband, Bruce, stepped off a sidewalk outside his law office in Chicago’s Loop. And it was still an open homicide case. Nick wondered if Palmer had somehow engineered this murder as well, but didn’t want to steer him too far off track.
“Mind if I ask how you two finally got together?”
Palmer mused for a moment. “Martha’s girlfriends brought her down to Costa Rica a few months after Bruce died. I was CEO of the hotel by then, and I made sure she had only the best. I put her in our Presidential Suite, and comped her entire stay, including meals. Her friends too.”
“That’s a helluva gesture,” said Nick, sounding impressed.
Palmer wasn’t even looking at Nick. “Apparently she thought so too, because she came down again a few months later. And that’s when we . . . got together.”
“It didn’t seem like a . . . rebound thing?” Nick asked. “For her, I mean.”
“We talked about that, but she said she’d been in love with me from the day we met.”
“I’ll bet you had a beautiful wedding.”
Palmer smiled at the memory. “Five hundred guests, on the beach at the hotel. Even the president of Costa Rica was there,” he said.
Nick needed to steer the conversation back to the matter at hand. “Do the police know what happened to her?” he asked.
“No,” said Palmer. “They have no idea.”
Finally, thought Nick. He’d caught Palmer in a lie he could actually prove.
“Victor,” he said, “we both know that’s not true.”
Palmer’s eyes darted up and right, the unavoidable sign of someone trying to create a story in his head. “What are you talking about?”
“The Costa Rican police say she was dismembered.”
“Of course I know that,” Palmer snapped, trying to cover himself. “I mean, they don’t know who did it or why. And if you think discussing it is pleasant, then think again.”
“I’m sorry,” Nick said. “I didn’t mean to upset you—”
“Why on earth would you talk to the Costa Rican police about me?” he interrupted.
“I didn’t,” Nick lied. “I just Googled you and the information came up.”
This brought Palmer pause. Nick could see him breathing easier, placated. But he knew he had to work fast. It was time to begin Act Two of the play he’d scripted with Claire. He leaned back in his chair as if he was discussing the crappy weather.
“Victor,” he said, “I just have to take care of a little piece of business before we continue talking. I need to tell you that you have the right to remain silent, and that if you give up that right, anything you s
ay can be used against you. That you have the right to have an attorney here while I’m questioning you, and that the court will appoint one if you can’t afford one. But we both know you can, don’t we?”
Palmer smiled. “Of course. But only guilty people need attorneys, Nick.”
“Then you understand your rights and you’re waiving them?” Nick asked.
“I don’t need a lawyer for this. I have nothing to hide. I’ve already told you I didn’t believe you were a police officer when I hit you. And I’m sorry. I was scared and acted inappropriately.”
“I’ll need to get your signature on a form a little later.”
“I’d be glad to do it as soon as you let me out of here,” Palmer replied pleasantly, but with an undertone of impatience.
“We just have a few more things to talk about.”
“What else could there possibly be to talk about?”
“Why you pulled a knife on me and that woman in the street.”
“I told you. I was scared,” he said, a tinge of the edge returning to his voice.
“Sorry. I mean, why were you carrying a knife in your bag?”
Palmer sighed. “You know I’m a chef.”
“Yes,” said Nick, “but you’re not working as one now.”
“When I saw that glow through my window and decided to get out, I thought of bringing one with me. If someone was watching me and wanted to attack me for some reason, I can certainly defend myself with a knife.”
“Why do you think someone would want to attack you?”
“I don’t know,” Palmer retorted. “I have a lot of money. For all I know, you could’ve been someone trying to kidnap me for ransom.”
Nick smiled. “But, Victor,” he began, “if someone was gonna kidnap you, who’d pay the ransom?”
Palmer remained silent. Nick knew it was pure bravado. He had Palmer on the ropes, if only temporarily. It was the moment he’d been leading to, the climax of his second act, the knock now sounding on the door akin to the curtain rising on Act Three.
“What is it?” Nick shouted.
The door opened, and Claire strode in.
“Detective,” she said, their prearranged greeting, her curt tone bringing Palmer’s head up in shock.
