Rice not only could, he would. I headed upstairs. Time to confer with my guru.
As I opened the door into the chapel’s little anteroom, I heard a rhythmic sound. I cocked my head, listening. A power saw, three blocks away? Some new kind of smoke alarm going off next door? A bus on Eleventh Avenue, periodically revving its engine? It took me about two seconds to figure out the answer: none of the above. What we had here was snoring, right in the sacred confines.
Regan’s chin was on his chest, prayerbook in his lap, one hand dangling at his side. It was a race between the beanie and the prayerbook which would hit the floor first.
I considered just letting him sleep, but he’d never forgive me if I went off to see Rice without telling him what was up. I approached and cleared my throat explosively.
His chin jerked up, eyes flew open, one hand automatically grabbed and reset the beanie. The prayerbook slid off his lap onto the floor. He glared at it, then at me.
I picked up his book and grinned. “So this is what you’re doing up here every morning when Sister Ernestine thinks you’re deep in prayer! Not to worry, though. Slip me a salary hike — say, fifty a week — and my lips are sealed!”
“You’ll clown at your own funeral, David,” the boss muttered disgustedly. He blinked and gave his head a doglike shake. “I suppose I should thank you for waking me. I didn’t come up here to sleep.” He shook his head again, even more vigorously. He eyed me.
“So, David. What news?”
“Paydirt!” I gloated.
34
That really woke Regan up. His eyes gleamed as I filled him in on the conversation with Rice. And when he heard the office had been sublet to none other than Steven Sarnoff, he got positively ecstatic. He insisted I give him every word of both phone conversations, both the one with the secretary and the one with Rice.
When I finished, the Bishop sat a minute, eyes closed, thinking. He came out of his trance, opened his eyes and rubbed his face. He looked awful. His eyes were bloodshot and he’d gouged his chin with the razor. Plus his hair was even more of a disaster than usual.
“All right, David. You’re meeting the realtor at that office building?” I nodded. “Fine. Inspect the office thoroughly. Meanwhile, I’ll try to pray. This looks promising. I think we’re getting close.”
I went to my office. Yesterday the Bishop had left four personnel files to be updated. They were still on my desk. I took one look at them and decided they weren’t going to get worked on. Not today. At least not by me. I took off. I still had fifteen minutes left in the half hour I’d given Rice, so decided to walk.
The sun was low to the southeast. If its job was to produce heat, it was malingering. The air was nippy. Good weather for walking fast. I strode up Tenth till I got to Forty-ninth. There I made a right turn and was on the long block that included 601.
I stopped in front of 603. The steps on either side of the stoop leading down to the fatal spot were blocked by makeshift barricades, on which was displayed a sign: ACCESS BARRED BY ORDER OF THE N.Y.P.D.
Coming down the block I’d noted that access to the below-stoop areas of all the other brownstones on the block was blocked by wrought-iron fences with locked gates. On both sides of the street. Not that the fences were high enough to stop an athlete from vaulting over; but it would’ve been awkward to lure a live lady or schlepp a dead one down any of them. The murderer had taken advantage of the one site on the block where he could do his work in seclusion.
I leaned over the barricade and peered below. No signs of violence — or anything else. I headed next door.
The lobby of 601 was old and gloomy. About half the bulbs in the four ancient chandeliers were burnt out. To the right was a shuttered newsstand, dust thick on the black Formica counter and gray metal shutters.
Three birdcage elevators with old-fashioned grille doors took up most of the rear wall. Above each one was the clocklike dial you never see any more, floor numbers going around in a semicircle, and a pointer to tell you where the elevator is. Only one seemed to be working, the arrow moving slowly from 10 to 9. Behind the cloudy glass under it a loop of cable jerked fitfully.
The left or west wall consisted mainly of a glass-enclosed alphabetical directory. The way it looked, the names on it hadn’t changed since the building was new, which had certainly been well before I was born. Or my father. Or his father.
Appearances notwithstanding, it had what I was looking for: INGRAM, JOSEPH B.: EXPORTS & IMPORTS…320. I quickly scoped the names of the other twenty or thirty tenants. Nothing I recognized. I was considering risking a ride up to Three on one of the ancient elevators when a thin guy about my age and height with thinnish blond hair and horn-rimmed glasses burst through the revolving door from the sidewalk. He approached me.
“Mr. Goldman?”
I nodded. “And you must be Rice.” He nodded back. We shook on it.
“So! Delighted to meet you, Mr. Goldman!” His eyes met mine with the exact degree of confidence they teach you in salesman school. His smile radiated sincerity.
“I assume Mr. Sarnoff told you all about the office, Mr. Goldman. It’s priced right in your range, and if you move fast I’m sure I can tie it up for you. Of course, as Mr. Sarnoff may have told you, you’d have to give it up in June. But we can have something else just as nice ready for you, then. In the meantime, we can dress this one up any way you say if the furniture arrangement isn’t everything you need. Shall we go up?” He didn’t explain how he knew what my price range was, and I was afraid to ask.
“Actually,” I said, speaking to his back as he pushed the elevator button, “I’m interested in knowing a little bit about the history of the office. Who is Mr. Ingram and how long has he been gone?”
Rice turned to me, puzzled but affable. After all, the customer is always right.
“Mr. Ingram? Well, he’s been gone since August. His wife had an opportunity for a sabbatical in Italy — she’s a professor at NYU — so he closed up the office and went along with her.” Rice grinned. A good grinner, this guy.
As we rode up, Rice talking a mile a minute, the elevator made some noises that made me question its longevity. But it got us to Three, which was really all I had any right to ask.
Three-twenty was a small, square office. Plaster walls, off-white, in need of a new paint job. Two desks, forming an L in the corner next to the single aluminum-sash window. Only one of the desks had a phone, a plain-jane black one. Leather couch. Three fluorescent lights in the ceiling. Your basic drab. Some signs of poor maintenance — cracks in the walls and dust on the floor — but nothing to send you screaming out into the street.
Where did this little gray office fit into Sarnoff’s plans? And how had its phone number got onto Laura Penniston’s palm? I sat down at the desk with the phone. Had Laura sat in this chair the night she died?
The instrument had a label that read 212/605-1111. I took out a handkerchief, draped it over the receiver and picked it up. Rice gawked. I put the receiver to my ear and heard a dial tone. Rice started to open his mouth but I frowned and raised a hand as I replaced the receiver. Why had Laura come here the night she was killed? And why had she written that number on her palm? My mind was doing a great job of coming up with questions; too bad it was so empty of answers.
I got up and walked around aimlessly. I wanted to explore. Privately. Rice was being courteously silent after his rapid-fire commentary all the way up on the elevator and down the hall. I turned to him. His eyebrows went up and his head thrust forward. He was so eager for me to rent, he looked like a dog ready to fetch.
“Yes,” I said nodding at him sagely and giving the room another slow scan. “I can see why Steven recommended it so highly. Oh! Did you bring that lease along?”
At that, Rice’s mood changed. He was suddenly nervous. Possibly my lack of sleep was making me a lousier liar than usual. Eyeing me suspiciously, he laid his briefcase on one of the desks and pulled out a document. He frowned at it for a moment and came t
o a decision.
“This really is a confidential document. Could you show me some identification, Mr. Goldman?”
“No problem.” I showed him everything in my billfold. He took a second look at the private investigator’s license, looked at me and started to ask a question. Then decided against it.
Semi-satisfied that I was who I claimed to be, he handed me the agreement. I made a show of checking it over. But I really just wanted a look at that signature. I’m no expert, but, to my eyes, it looked exactly like the Steven Sarnoff I’d seen scribbled on the Models for Hire signature cards at Mid-City National.
“It’s a fairly standard agreement,” Rice assured me. “It was only written for one month, as you can see. But I told Mr. Sarnoff originally I’d be glad to offer him a month-to-month option to continue. I was never able to get in touch with him after that. I guess he left town?”
I ignored the question. “This lease looks fine,” I muttered, folding the document and slipping it into my inside coat pocket. I glanced around. “One other thing. Mr. Sarnoff has been missing a couple of important papers, and he asked me to check around for them while I’m here. Would you mind?” Seeing the uncomfortable look return to his eyes, I added, “Oh, you can stay.” Rice looked relieved. “In fact, you can help me look.”
I’d have preferred to do it alone. If he hadn’t been with me, I could have given the place a thorough shakedown. Of course, that could still be done, if the boss wanted it. I’d paid attention to the lock. A Tinker. I can pick one of those in fifteen seconds on a slow day.
But my gut told me there was probably nothing there that would help. So much for my gut.
“Let’s look!” the realtor said. I got him started happily on the desks. I was going through the desultory motions of checking behind the cushions of the leather couch when dammed if I didn’t feel something.
I pulled out a small object wrapped in Kleenex and unwrapped it carefully. Even after I saw what I had, it took me a couple of seconds to realize it.
Like two eggs in a nest, in the tissue paper lay a pair of matching earrings. The settings looked intricate. Each was a cluster of tiny gems that looked like rubies and diamonds. The rubies (if that’s what the red ones were) formed a sparkling cross in each earring.
I could see how someone might call them red cross earrings.
*
Sometimes I’m almost as quick on the uptake as I think I should be. This was one of those times. I knew right away those earrings were Laura’s and, almost as fast, that they were important evidence in a murder case. And right behind that, the thought that I had to avoid compromising my find. I must have gasped or something because Rice was looking. And I was glad he was.
“Mr. Rice!” I said, surprising both of us with the loudness. Rice’s eyes widened.
“Did you see me find these in the couch?” Rice nodded, staring at the earrings in my palm.
“Yes, I did.”
“Good,” I said, thinking fast. Rice having seen me find them was good. Now I was coming up with an idea: how about Dan Rice as temporary custodian for the prize? I looked up from the jewelry into his frowning face. “These look valuable. Let’s think for a minute about what we ought to do.”
We looked at each other, then simultaneously back to the loot in my hand. Rice started babbling. “What do you think we —?”
I raised my hand. All kinds of thoughts were rumbling through my head but I now knew how I wanted this to go. The idea of Dan Rice taking custody was looking better and better every minute.
I wasn’t ready to go to Kessler — yet — but the inspector was almost certainly going to be in on it at some point. Meaning I needed to handle it so Kessler couldn’t charge me with tampering with evidence — that is, charge me and make it stick. Furthermore, and more importantly, I didn’t want to screw up the chance — the excellent chance, it seemed to me — that these trinkets could get Fanning sprung from his current address.
“Do you know any reputable gemologists, Mr. Rice?” I asked the realtor. He stared. I snapped my fingers at him. Rude, but it worked.
He blinked and shook his head. “Gemologists!” I repeated. “Experts on jewelry. Do you know any?”
“Gemologists?” The realtor was trying to get on track. I just smiled. Patience is one of my strong points, never mind what Regan tells you. Rice finally woke up.
“Gemologists. Gemologists. Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. There’s one next door to my office. Harold Brady. He’s a jewelry wholesaler. Why?”
“Well, these look valuable.” I examined the jewelry with a cop’s eye.
I could see no surface remotely large enough for even a partial fingerprint. The diamonds and rubies looked even more impressive from close up. They did strange things to light, even in this dingy office.
I eyeballed Rice. I hoped he was as innocent as he looked.
“Here’s what I think, Mr. Rice. I’m not going to touch them. And I don’t want you to, either. Would you take them, please?” Rice held out his hand and I placed the earrings, still in the Kleenex, into his palm. I wrapped the Kleenex around them again. “Just take them as they are to Mr. Brady, would you do that?” I was improvising, but I liked it.
“I’ve got a feeling,” I went on, “that these belong to a friend of Sarnoff’s. And don’t worry, I’m fairly sure they’re not genuine. Thing is, we need to be sure.” Rice looked willing. So I continued. “I take it you trust this Brady?” Rice nodded. “Good. Let’s leave the earrings with him — after he appraises them. Is he likely to charge for that?”
The realtor shrugged. He seemed back on track. “Just nominal, I’m sure. If anything.”
“Good.” I put my arm around his shoulders and started him for the door. “Tell Mr. Brady to guard them with his life. Uh, because Sarnoff’ll have a fit if anything happens to them. Oh, and tell Brady it’s a rush job.” Rice, closing the door behind us, looked at me, surprised. (Yeah, why was it a rush job?) “Umm,” I said, arm back around his shoulders, heading for the elevators, “because I’d like to be able to tell Mr. Sarnoff for sure whether they’re his, uh, friend’s.”
“But I thought —” Rice was all the way back. Thinking logically — too logically for comfort. I needed to end the conversation.
“I really don’t have time to talk about it, Dan,” I interrupted as we got on the elevator, “I’ve got an appointment. Just be a good guy and do it, will you, Dan? And rush it, please? Oh!” I said, as we got off the elevator. “And have Brady call me — at this number.” We were going through the revolving door. I handed him my card. “It’s very important.” I left him on the sidewalk staring at the card as I hailed a cab. I had to get to the Bishop before asking my brain to do any more improvising. It was starting to go into overload.
35
“But why in the name of Heaven did you leave the earrings with that realtor?”
Regan had been as excited as I’d been when he heard about the discovery of those earrings. But he about blew a gasket when I told him I’d given them away. He wanted to look at them. For which I couldn’t blame him. But, brilliant as he is, rules of evidence are not his strong suit. I had to set him straight.
“You’re not listening, Bishop. Let me repeat.” Regan rolled his eyes but I ignored it.
“Look. Bishop. Custody of those earrings is crucial. They’re absolutely vital evidence — certainly in the death of Laura Penniston and at least indirectly in the others as well. One way or another, those earrings, if they do nothing else, are going to get Jerry Fanning out of the slammer. But if they’re going to do that, I can’t let them get contaminated.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning I can’t permit the slightest suspicion to exist that they could have been switched or tampered with. The way the cops feel about me, the last thing I need is to have those things in my possession even for a second without a corroborating witness.
“Now, what I did wasn’t ideal. Ideally I should have put the earrings into an enve
lope, had Dan sign his name over the seal; me likewise. Then, both of us go straight to the gemologist and have him sign a receipt testifying to the manner of delivery. But I didn’t want to do it that way for a couple of reasons, one being that I wanted you to know about it as soon as possible.” I snuck a glance to see if he appreciated my concern. He didn’t look very thankful, the ingrate. I went on.
“But what I did will hold up in court — if it has to. No one’s going to doubt this guy Rice. He’s not involved and doesn’t suspect a thing. The only risk is that he’d pocket the jewelry and take off, but he’s not going to do that. Not the type. An eagle scout.
“The important thing is, I never laid a finger on those earrings without a witness present, and Rice will testify to that. He was there when I found them, and he’ll back me up that he’s the only person — besides me and Brady — who ever touched them. That might be important if we need to convince Kessler — or, even more so, a jury — that we’re not pulling a fast one.”
I took a breath.
“And that’s why I did it that way.” Regan glared at me for a few seconds, but I stared him down. For once, he didn’t criticize.
“All right,” he grumped, looking away. “What’s the next step?”
I stared at him. “The next step? Hey, don’t be that way. How would I know what the next step is? You’re the stepper. You tell me.”
“It seems you have taken care of everything. I’m at a loss. I have nothing to suggest.”
Talk about a big baby. “Okay,” I cajoled. “I apologize for making a decision on my own. But you can’t go into hibernation. We’ve got a buddy down at the old jailhouse, remember? Let’s get Fanning out of stir, then we can fight.”
He spun his chair around, pointed it at the windows, changed his mind and spun back to me. “You’re right,” he said in a more encouraging tone. “In fact, you’re probably right about the earrings. It’s just that I’m afraid to move forward without being certain they’re Miss Penniston’s. But you are? Certain, I mean.” I nodded.
The Fundamentals of Murder (Davey Goldman Series Book 2) Page 24
