He got up, reached into one of the jean pockets, took out a key ring and threw it to her. “Knock yourself out. Just be back by midnight.” He grinned.
The Mustang was almost to Atlantic Boulevard when she put the Ford F 150 in gear and pulled out. She floored the accelerator, and the tires squealed. She caught up to the Mustang at A1A, still thinking about Fish lending his truck to a stranger. She wouldn’t have been so trusting.
She followed the Mustang west to Dixie Highway and then south to Dixie Guns and Ammo. Cobb parked and went in. She waited in the truck, listening to outlaw country. The DJ said, “We’re bringing you the best of Waylon, Willy, Merle, Billy Joe, and more,” cold air blasting her. Diane hated country music but didn’t want to change Fish’s station.
Half an hour later, Cobb reappeared, carrying something wrapped in brown paper a couple feet long. Next she followed Cobb to a hardware store, waited till he came out with something in a paper bag, then to a uniform supply store and back to the motel, giving him time to get out and go to his room before she parked the truck.
Fish was where she’d left him, four beer cans next to his chair. “That was quick.”
“I told you.”
“Listen, you’re not doing anything this evening, I’d like to buy you dinner.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I am going to relax, take it easy.”
“Change your mind, you know where to find me.”
Half an hour later, Diane put on running shoes. She looked at herself in the mirror, still not used to the short, dark hair, and fit the Mets cap on her head.
Fish was picking up empties, dropping them in the cooler, when she walked back out by the pool. He had finished the six-pack and was holding another beer, looked like number seven.
“Where you going?”
“For a run.”
“What do you want to do that for?” He sounded buzzed now. “Don’t tell me you’re a Mets fan. They ever won anything?”
Her dad had been a diehard Mets fan, keeping the faith even through the lean years. “How about the World Series in sixty-nine? They beat Baltimore in five. Won again in eighty-six, beat the Astros. You obviously don’t follow baseball.”
“Not the National League, if that’s what you mean.” Fish fit the top on the cooler and slid the handle up from the side and lifted it. “So you gonna have dinner with me or what?”
Diane jogged down to the pier and came back along the ocean, ran up past the Sands—no one out by the pool—and went back to her room to take a shower. She was drying herself in front of the fogged-up mirror, wiped it with a towel, but still couldn’t see her face well enough to put on makeup. There was a knock on the door, and then another one, harder this time, and louder.
“Hey, I know you’re in there. I seen you come back.”
Diane had a feeling Fish was going to be a problem. She slipped on shorts and a tank top, pulled a comb through damp hair, and stepped into her Jimmy Choo sandals. He knocked again. She went to the door and opened it. “I was taking a shower.” That would’ve been enough explanation for most civilized humans, but not Fish.
“Gonna invite me in?”
He was holding a can of beer and still hadn’t put on a shirt, his bleached skin now pink with sunburn. She got a gamey whiff of him as he pushed past her into the room, and sat on the twin bed with the floral comforter, staring at her suitcase.
“Ain’t even unpacked, huh?”
Fish patted the mattress next to his leg. “Why don’t you come over here, join me.” He had a drunk grin plastered on his red face and couldn’t have been more of a fool as he slurred his words.
“Listen, Fish. I like you, you’re a nice guy, but you’ve got to go. I have to get dressed.”
“That’s okay with me. I won’t look.” He grinned again, eyes swollen. “The hell I won’t.”
He drank some beer and fit the can between his legs, slid a half pint of whiskey out of his back pocket, unscrewed the cap, and took a drink. He exhaled and shook his head. “Lord almighty. That shit’ll set you free.”
“What is it you don’t understand?” Diane said, hands on her hips.
“Huh?” Fish held her in his bleary gaze. “Know what I think? I think you’re down here by yourself and no one’s coming to meet you, is what I think.”
Was it dumb luck, or was Diane giving off some kind of loser vibe? “You can think anything you want as long as you do it somewhere else.”
He drank the beer. “Oh, you got spunk, don’t you? I like my whiskey strong and my women feisty.”
“Fish,” she said raising her voice, “I’ve had it. I’m out of patience.” She opened the door. “Get the hell out of here. I see you again I’m going to call the police.”
“All you had to do was ask.”
He got up, staggered past her, and she closed the door.
THIRTY-TWO
“It’s a double,” Ted Lafrance said.
Coming into the room, looking at two naked white guys, bodies bent and angled in death on the blood-soaked king-size bed, Marquis Brown said, “How’d you figure that out?”
Ted Lafrance frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I’m fucking with you, rookie. Who are they?”
“Guy on the right’s Joseph Sculley, the condo owner. Other one’s Patrick Linehan, the building doorman.
Marquis studied the scene. The murders had the look of a pro, shot precisely, one round in the forehead, one in the heart. There was a window above the headboard, Marquis looking out at Lower Manhattan, still not used to the big opening in the skyline the Trade Center had occupied.
“I think it was a love triangle,” Ted Lafrance said. “Sculley’s wife came home unexpectedly, found them in the marital bed, lost it, pulled a semiautomatic.”
Marquis shook his head. “Why do you say that?”
“Knowing what I do, that’s what it looks like.”
Huh? Marquis was thinking. “You an expert on love triangles?” Ted—smart as he thought he was—was a dumb motherfucker when it came to solving murders.
“It’s an assumption, a supposition.”
“I know what it means,” Marquis said. “What else you got?”
“One of the tenants, Charlene Lemmer, remembers seeing two guys talking to the doorman in the lobby about six o’clock, and the three of them got in the elevator together.”
“Think one of them could be the shooter?”
“I don’t know.” Ted was five-five, the shoulders of his blazer covered with dandruff.
“Call Ms. Lemmer,” Marquis said. “I want to talk to her.”
“I suggest we divide and conquer. I’ll question Charlene Lemmer. You talk to the other witnesses.”
“Hold on. You said only one person saw them talking to the doorman? Now you saying they’re others?”
“There’s bound to be, don’t you think? I mean, it’s a busy time of day, people are coming home from work, people are going out for drinks and dinner.”
“How many tenants in the building?”
“No idea.”
“Why don’t you go find that out, leave the Q and A to me.” Marquis took out a notebook. “What’s Mr. Sculley’s profession?”
“He’s a lawyer.” Ted handed Marquis a business card. “Works for Baskin Williams, one of the top firms in the city.”
“Isn’t that what you were gonna be, a lawyer?”
“I am a lawyer.”
“What the hell you doing with homicide?”
“This is more interesting, and I want to make a difference.”
Ted walked out of the room, saying he was going to call the witness, set up a time to talk. Marquis wrote the crime scene report, noting the positions of the bodies, the gunshot wounds, the degree of rigor, the four shell casings on the floor that Ted had tagged with orange Post-it notes. A white shirt and dark slacks had been tossed on an antique trunk at the foot of the bed. There was no mystery. He could see the manner of death and ruled it a homicide.
“Charlene Lemmer’s gonna meet you in the lobby at four thirty,” Ted said, coming back in the bedroom.
Marquis glanced at him. “What’s she look like?”
“Bottle blonde, a little on the chunky side.”
Marquis pictured Patricia Arquette in True Romance. “I’ll look for her.”
The evidence tech showed up a few minutes later, a pale thin cadaver of a man with jet black hair. Marquis had never met him. The guy said his name was Staley. He walked into the master bedroom and went to work. Marquis went into the study and continued writing his report. He finished at four twenty-five and took the elevator down to the lobby.
When she showed up fifteen minutes late, he didn’t think Charlene Lemmer was chunky. Marquis liked women with curves and a booty. After introductions, Marquis said, “Tell me what you saw.”
“Pat, the doorman, talking to two men. I’ve never seen them before. I’m positive they don’t live here.”
“What’d they look like?”
“One was Puerto Rican or Mexican and rough-looking.”
The PR again, Marquis thought. The dude got around.
“His face was a mess. The other one wore jeans and cowboy boots. They didn’t go together, that’s the first thing I thought.”
“Where’d you see them?”
“Over by the entrance. Pat looked afraid, like they were threatening him, giving him a hard time about something.”
“Did you tell the manager?”
“I didn’t have a chance. I went over and got my mail and saw the three of them get in the elevator together.”
“Anyone else there?”
“I saw Al Melfi and Cindy Petty while the two men were talking to Pat.”
Marquis wrote their names in his notebook. “You know them?”
“I see them around. I talk to them at the Christmas party. Al’s an ad executive, works for one of the big agencies in town. Cindy’s a model. She’s from Bottineau, North Dakota, goes by her model name, Eden. She’s always posing but trying to look natural. She’s a little full of herself, thinks she’s entitled, the world owes her ’cause she’s skinny and good-looking.”
Across the lobby, the elevator doors opened; the bodies of Sculley and the doorman, in black body bags, were wheeled on gurneys through the entrance outside to a van parked on the street.
Marquis had Ted Lafrance set up meetings with Mr. Melfi and Ms. Petty for later that evening.
First he met again with Charlene, this time in the kitchen in her apartment. He stood on the other side of an island counter while she drank wine and made dinner. He could smell onions and garlic. She was sautéing vegetables and chicken in a wok.
“How about a glass of wine or a drink, Detective?”
“I’m still on the clock, got two more Q & As to do. Don’t want to interrupt your meal. Just a couple more things.” He took the mug shot of Ruben Diaz out of his shirt pocket. It was taken in 1979, when Ruben was seventeen. Now he was thirty-nine. Marquis handed the picture to Charlene. “This guy look familiar?”
She studied the black-and-white photo. “Yeah, I think he was one of them. But he looks a lot different now. Who is he?”
“Ruben Diaz, ex-fighter works for a loan shark with ties to the Mafia.”
“Do you think he killed Pat and Mr. Sculley?”
That’s what Marquis was asking himself as he rode the elevator up a couple floors to Cindy Petty’s apartment. If the medical examiner determined the time of death was around six in the evening the day before, Ruben and the cowboy were the most likely suspects.
Cindy, in her socks, was as tall as he was, a little under six feet. They sat in her living room, Cindy at one end of the couch with her long, skinny legs bent under her, Marquis in a chair on the other side of a glass coffee table. He wanted a cigarette bad, wondered what the model would do if he lit up. “I hear your stage name’s Eden? That have something to do with the garden?”
“I think of Eden as the epitome of innocence. There was no sin.”
“Until Adam and Eve went against God’s law and ate the fruit from the forbidden tree, and God booted ’em out.”
Cindy smiled. “You know your Bible, Detective.”
“I do okay. You know why I’m here?”
“I heard about the murders. I can’t believe it happened in our building.”
“Did you know Mr. Sculley and Mr. Linehan?”
“Not really.”
“What time’d you get home yesterday?”
“Five after six. I’d been at a shoot all afternoon. I was exhausted.”
“What was being shot?”
“It was a magazine cover.”
Marquis studied her perfect features and perfect skin, her perfect nose and perfect teeth. “So I’ll see you, huh?”
“If you look at Vogue.”
“My subscription ran out.” Marquis grinned. “What’d you see when you walked in the lobby?”
Cindy stared out the window for a while and looked back at him. “There were a couple people getting their mail, and two guys talking to the doorman.”
“Look to you like they was having an argument?”
“I didn’t pay that much attention.”
“Nobody talking loud?”
Cindy shook her perfect head.
Marquis got up and handed her the mug shot of Ruben. “This one of them talking to the doorman?”
She looked at it. “I think so.” And handed it back.
Marquis leaned forward in the chair. “Mr. Sculley lives right down the hall from you. Hear anything sounded like gunshots?”
“No. I came up here and went in my apartment.”
“Any kind of commotion?”
“What do you mean?”
“Somebody falling, banging into a wall. People yelling, shouting, angry.”
“Nothing like that. But I saw a man wearing gloves, I’d swear he came out of Mr. Sculley’s apartment. He was right there. It was the gloves that caught my eye. You don’t see men wearing gloves inside.”
“What’d he look like?”
“He was well-dressed. I saw his face, but he was far away.”
“Say anything to him?”
“No.”
“Ever see him before?”
Cindy shook her head.
“What time was that?”
“Five forty-seven. I had just returned after meeting a friend for a drink. My boyfriend called.” Cindy took out her cell phone, pressed a couple buttons, and showed him. On the screen, it said TOM. Under the name he saw: INCOMING CALLS and the date: SEPTEMBER 26, 5:47 PM, 01:12. “I told him I’d call back.”
“So you were in the hall at the time?”
She nodded.
“Show me, will you?” Marquis got up and Cindy led him across the living room to the front door and out of the apartment. He looked down the hall at Sculley’s door one hundred feet away, yellow crime-scene tape crisscrossed in front of it. “Where were you at?”
Cindy Petty walked down the hall to where the elevators were, stopped, turned and faced him. “I was right here. I heard a door close. Looked over my shoulder and saw him.”
“Maybe he came out of another apartment.”
“The closest door was Mr. Sculley’s.”
“I’d like to have a police artist come by, have you describe the man.”
“Like in the movies, huh?” Cindy looked like a little girl now, smiling. “But as I said, he was too far away. I didn’t really get a good look at him.”
Next Marquis visited Al Melfi on the third floor. He sat in Mr. Melfi’s wood-paneled study with framed ads on the walls. “These all yours? I’ve seen some of them.” There were ads for Absolut Vodka, one for “Coke the real thing,” “This Bud’s for you,” and Viagra. Headline said: “You need wood?” A gray-haired dude with a grin on his face was carrying a pile of logs he’d just cut, looking at a gray-haired woman like he was going to pounce on her. “Viagra for erectile dysfunction,” it said at the bottom.
Al M
elfi made a face. “What can I do for you, Detective?”
“You know Mr. Sculley and Patrick Linehan, the doorman?”
“In passing. I heard what happened.”
“In your profession, you must be an observer, always checking things out, looking for ideas. Tell me what you remember when you walked in the lobby after work yesterday.”
“The doorman was talking to two guys.”
“What were they talking about?”
“How do I know? It looked to me like he knew them. I stopped to pick up my mail. A few minutes later, they got in the elevator. I tried to get in with them but the doors closed. Are they suspects?”
“At the moment, prime.”
“When I was coming down the sidewalk from the subway, I saw them get out of a Toyota sedan, cross the street, and go in the building.”
“Sure it was a Toyota?”
“Positive. A Corolla, black and tan.”
“You see the tag?”
“No.”
Marquis handed him a card. “Call me, you remember anything else.”
THIRTY-THREE
It was Chet Karvatski’s crime scene. Chet, who everyone called Chetter, knew Marquis had questioned Frankie Cheech in connection with the murder of Vicki Ross, and called him. The room was big and ornate, with a high ceiling and a couple furniture groupings, a fireplace, and tall windows that faced the street. Marquis studied the positions of the three bodies: Frankie Cheech, white shirt soaked with blood, sitting on a couch with his head back, and the two bodyguards, one facedown, the other faceup on the Oriental rug. He tried to picture the scene, imagine what had happened.
“Who found them?”
“Housekeeper, broad’s in Frank’s office, crying.”
Across the room, Ted Lafrance, in a custom-made suit, said, “You ask me, the shooters stood here, came in firing.”
Marquis said, “Ted, go out back, look for any evidence of forceful entry.”
When Ted was gone, Chetter said to Marquis, “Who’s that?”
“New guy, Ted Lafrance. Graduated law school, decided to become a cop.”
“He’s full of shit. There was one shooter, stood in front of the couch. Four casings—all from the same gun. Let me show you something.”
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