“You were a cop!” she exclaimed. “That’s what this place is—a cop’s hangout. I should have guessed.” She seemed pleased at having solved the puzzle of why we were at Muccio’s.
“About Cassie,” she continued quietly. She was looking at me with new interest: What kind of friend was I to Cassie? “I don’t see what more I can contribute. We never got personal. She did clean my place once last fall. She was good, too, but she didn’t have that much to say.” Her eyes slid off me for a moment, then back. I didn’t like that.
I said, “That doesn’t sound like the Cassie I knew. She was a nonstop talker.”
Again she didn’t meet my gaze. “If I had to guess I’d say she was more open with men.”
I said, “You may still be able to help.” Here it came again: I was beginning to obsess about that damn bed.
“Yes?” Now I had her full attention. Good-looking woman; I almost forgot my point.
But I hung in and made my pitch. “Somebody made the king-size bed in Sharanov’s bedroom when he left the beach last weekend. It wasn’t Kitty—she hasn’t been there in weeks—and I’ll bet my house it wasn’t Tess Turkinton—”
“You’ve met her?”
“Long enough to know she wouldn’t make anybody’s bed except under a court order. Do you have any ideas?”
“The Turkintons were Misha’s only house guests last weekend. If you were wondering if it could have been Cassie, I don’t see why. And I certainly don’t see how. Misha heads back to the city on Sunday morning. I know this much about Cassie—she goes to church with her mother Sunday morning. Anyway, why does it matter?”
“I’m not sure it does. But that made bed—complete down to the spread, the throw pillows, the works—is the only thing about the murder scene that doesn’t belong. It’s a What’s Wrong with This Picture, and it bothers me.”
She was studying me frankly. “Because you are afraid Cassie might have been in that bed.”
“I don’t know.”
I wasn’t about to protest that I had no sexual interest in Cassie. It would sound self-serving, and anyway, it was a no-win position; the denial itself would be a sign of interest. So I changed the subject.
“You agreed to meet me for a drink only. Can I expand the invitation? Will you stay for dinner?”
She was not in the least surprised. “Now that you’ve checked me out?”
“Not really,” I lied. “I’d have asked you on the phone, but I was afraid of scaring you off.”
She looked amused as she weighed the offer. “Dinner with a bunch of cops? Sounds safe.”
“The company will be safer than the veal. So that’s a yes?”
She looked even more amused. “Only because I can’t trust myself to navigate alone after this ocean of martini.”
Mona had just plunged into a spirited “Funiculi Funicula.” What timing.
TEN
IF THIS BUNCH of mostly bruisers had shown up on your street you might have called the cops, but they’re the cops. Red Buchanan sported an ear that had been redesigned in the Golden Gloves. Tom Ohlmayer wore a scar from his jaw to his collarbone, souvenir of a bomb squad screwup. Tony Kump had two joints of a finger missing; somebody had tried to keep him out of an apartment, never mind the search warrant. There were a few size-eighteen collars, although there wasn’t much collar-wearing in this crowd. Some of these guys wore a suit only as a disguise, and to weddings. And not all weddings.
The cast at the Friday night cops’ gathering in the noisy backroom at Muccio’s had evolved over the years and it changed from week to week, depending on the demands of duty rosters and wives. I recognized only seven or eight of the dozen or so guys at the long table, which could be expanded as needed by joining more tables at either end.
Rocky Peretti and a couple of others were from the original group I knew as far back as the Police Academy; Steve Stavrianos had been my partner for three years, and so on. They were mostly detective firsts who had earned their gold shields the quick but dangerous route—undercover in narcotics. They had not been totally at ease with me when I first made lieutenant, but we soon went back to the old gang feeling, at least here at Muccio’s. I was reminded of that now.
“Yo, Picasso, over here!”
“Beach bum, where’s your tan?”
“Look who showed—it’s the poster boy for the shuffleboard league.”
And more of the same. When they simmered down I introduced Cooper. A woman did occasionally show at these gatherings—even an occasional policewoman—but women were not encouraged. I could see right off that there would be no problem tonight. The guys had registered their unspoken approval.
Stavrianos said, “Miss, if you’ve got your eye on this one, forget it. He’s got a very small p-p-p”—he pretended to struggle with the word while the others held their breath—“pension, and he paints with his feet.”
“His feet?” Buchanan objected, through the laughter. “His teeth—when they’re in.”
This got the required hoots of derision. That was the way the guys did it; I had been out of touch, and I had to be folded back in. Slowly. After more ragging and some general catching up they were satisfied, and Cooper and I were waved to the next two places at the table.
She was feeling the martini and she ran her eye hungrily down the menu, not that easy to read through the stains. Finally she murmured, “I have an itch for linguini with clam sauce, but I can’t find it.”
“It’s called linguini il salvatore here, because it once saved someone’s life, but if you ask me how, you may not order it.” I turned to Rocky, sitting next to me. “How’s the ziti?”
“The same. Try the osso bucco.”
A guy down the table called, “I’ve got the osso bucco. Have the ziti.” And so it went.
I had been giving Tom Ohlmayer eye signals, and after I grabbed one of the overworked Muccio cousins waiting table and Cooper and I ordered, I excused myself to pull up a chair next to him at the head of the table. Tom and I hadn’t worked together in years and rarely saw each other anymore, but when we did it was as though the last time was yesterday.
I asked about his kids, he asked about mine, and I said, “You heard about the homicide out at Mikhael Sharanov’s beach house?”
“Yeah. Doesn’t that scumbag live near you?”
“My good neighbor. Do you know what he’s up to these days?”
“Aside from milking his cash cow in Brooklyn?” Tom had once given me a pop-eyed description of a drunken evening at the Tundra with his wife and some friends. “I have no idea.”
“Wasn’t a rackets team put on his ass a couple of years ago?”
“That’s over. Couple of damn good detectives. They’ve been reassigned.”
“How come?”
“In the first place, after two years they couldn’t even find a way to ticket him for spitting on the sidewalk. Do you need a second place? The order to knock off came from the commissioner’s office, no explanation.”
I said, “The Department’s wrong to give up on Sharanov. He’s smart, but he’ll make a mistake. Don’t his kind always?”
“Has he already made his, Sid? Did he do that young girl out there?” He raised his thumbs prayerfully. “Wouldn’t it be sweet to tag him for murder?”
I had gone over this ground before. “A killing in his own home? Would he take that chance?”
“He would if he had to. Remember that homicide at the Tundra three years ago?”
“The body in the coatroom. They never touched Sharanov with that one.”
“Or anyone else. There were five hundred Russians in the place. Half of them owed the victim money, every one of them was juiced to the scalp. The suspect list read like the Brooklyn telephone book.”
I said, “You mean, whereas at his beach house Sharanov is the only suspect?”
“Who better? Suppose the girl was dusting the furniture or vacuuming the drapes, and she found the gizmo that could put him away forever? Could he avoid cutting
her throat? Or having it cut for him?”
“What is this gizmo you’re talking about?”
“Who the hell knows? Not our problem. Suffolk County will have to sort it out.”
Cooper was signaling. They were delivering our dinner. Time to face the ziti.
* * *
COOPER PASSED ALL tests as a dinner companion. She gave the guys as good as she got, and she managed to choke down most of her linguini il salvatore. We were on coffee and cannoli when I spotted a wide-eyed Enzo beckoning me from the entrance to the bar. I mimed that if he wanted me he would have to come to me, and he did, dragging his feet. His body language was, This is entirely on your head.
He bent to my ear and breathed, “In the bar.” And waited.
“What, in the bar?”
“A lady.”
“For me?” I said stupidly.
“She would have come in here but I told her I would bring you out.” He spoke in a respectful whisper. To invite a lady to Muccio’s was something; to follow with a second was awesome.
Enzo was glancing at Cooper, who pretended not to listen. He went on, “I figured you wouldn’t, you know, want this one to see…”
Too late; the second lady was in the doorway. Tess Turkinton. Her eyes swept the room like a prison yard searchlight, and she made right for me.
I murmured to Cooper, “Excuse me a minute?” and went to head her off.
We met midroom. “Hello, Tess, what a surprise.”
She was still taking in the place. “What a dump,” she said in a try at a Bette Davis reading that was spoiled by her Texas drawl. “And you turned down a steak at Gallagher’s for this?”
“Didn’t I tell you I was meeting friends?”
She was focused on the cops’ table. “I noticed. Isn’t that Olivia Whatever?”
“Cooper.”
“Whatever. She does get around. I suppose you know her from the beach…”
I had her by the elbow and was steering her to an empty table near the door. It wasn’t easy; I had met less resistance from suspects reluctant to enter a police car.
I said, “What’s on your mind, Tess?” Lonnie must have told her where to find me. I was hip deep in women tonight, not necessarily a plus.
We sat down and Tess snapped her fingers at a passing waiter, Angelina’s son Benno. She may have planned on linking up with me for some after-dinner pub crawling—she had, after all, shown up without her father—but since I appeared to be here with a date, she was regrouping.
“I have to talk to you,” she said. And to Benno, “Do you serve any wines by the glass?”
Benno looked confused. I said to Tess, “Not many people here order the entire two-gallon jug. Benno, a glass of red. On my tab.”
He nodded and took off. This woman’s father had bought my painting, so I tried to sound politely regretful. I said, “Tess, I’m afraid you’ll have to drink that either fast or alone. I can only give you five minutes.”
“You’re not going to introduce me to your friends?”
“It’s a sort of club, and they’ve got an ironclad rule. You’re allowed to introduce a woman once a year. Two women, never.”
“They’re policemen, aren’t they?”
I nodded.
She nodded back. “That’s what Leona said. And you’re a policeman too? A detective?”
“Used to be.”
“That’s what Leona said.” She was testing to see if my story matched Lonnie’s; she must have laid on the power of a tornado to get Lonnie to admit that she was peddling the oeuvre of an ex-flatfoot. She said, “How long are you off the force?”
“Going on two years.” Why the question? Was she looking to renegotiate my price downward on the theory that I had painted Seated Girl on the taxpayer’s dime? “Painting is my day job,” I said firmly.
She got my drift. “Oh, I’m not here about your painting,” she said. “That’s a done deal.” That was a relief. “I came to ask about a possible police matter.”
The upward slant at the end of that sentence invited me to inquire further. I didn’t.
Okay, she would have to do it herself. She said, “The thing is, the business my father’s engaged in with Mikhael Sharanov? Where Daddy’s going to have to invest a great deal—I mean, a great deal—of money?” She was searching my face for a clue to I wasn’t sure what.
She said, “I mean, you’re a policeman…”
“Was.”
“But you’d know.”
“What?”
“Whether this Sharanov is some kind of crook. Whether the police are investigating him. Because Daddy is starting to hear rumors that are … well, they’re just a little bit unnerving.”
It was hard to tell whether she was worried or merely trying to appear worried. She and her old man, a pair of big winds out of big D, were almost too good to be true.
I quickly reviewed the bidding, not for the first time. These two could be naive straight shooters. But if they were pulling a confidence stunt, they hadn’t done enough research and they were zeroing in on the wrong mark; Mikhael Sharanov would eat them for lunch and feed their bones to his dog. Then again, they were buying my painting to give to Sharanov, and I couldn’t afford to alarm them into stopping their check to the Leona Morgenstern Gallery, the check that represented an investment in my daughter’s future. I had a fine ethical line to walk.
I said slowly, “Since I’m no longer on the police…”
“Not at all? No connection?”
“The NYPD doesn’t have part-time employees.”
“Are you telling me you don’t know anything about Misha?”
“I’ve been out to his club in Brooklyn…”
“The Tundra.” Impatiently, “So have we, of course.” Benno had set down her wine and she pulled it close to her.
“It looked to me like a good business,” I said. “But your father would be a better judge of that than me.”
Even more impatiently, “Daddy says it’s a gold mine. So you think, as a cop—okay, an ex-cop—that he’s legit? We can do business with him?”
“Your father must have checked his credit standing and so forth. He’ll have to go with his best assessment.” And then I felt honor bound to say it. “But watch your back.”
Her eyes widened in alarm. Or, again, was she faking it? “Damnation,” she said and took a long pull on her wine.
I said, “I’m sorry, Tess, I don’t see how I can help. And now I’m afraid I am going to have to get back to my table.” I stood up.
I could see her eyes boring in on Cooper. Her mouth was set in a grim line. “Let me give you tit for tat,” she said. “Watch your back.”
She put down her half-finished drink, pushed back from the table, and strode out of the room. Trailing smoke.
I counted to ten, in case she decided to come back. Then I draped the napkin loosely over her glass and picked it up carefully by the stem. As I started back toward my table with it, Benno appeared at my shoulder and shuffled along beside me.
“Here, let me have that,” he said, reaching for the glass. “No way can you get lipstick off with a napkin. I’ll put the wine in a fresh glass for you.”
I had to switch hands to keep the glass from his eager grasp. “I don’t want the wine, Benno, I want the glass.”
“Why?” He looked astonished.
I couldn’t think of a reasonable explanation. I shrugged. “Sentimental reasons.”
I left the bewildered Benno behind and delivered the glass to Ohlmayer. I was pretty sure the prints were unsmudged.
ELEVEN
BY 11:25 P.M. eastbound traffic on the Long Island Expressway moves at a good clip, even on a Friday. I would be home in near record time, if I could keep my eyes open. There is no sleeping pill half as effective after a few drinks as two hours behind the wheel on a limited-access highway.
Olivia Cooper hadn’t invited me up for a nightcap when I dropped her off at her Gramercy Park address. Thank God; one more Scotch would have
nodded me off by Syosset. Of course, if Cooper had invited me up not for a nightcap but for the night, the possibility of a road accident would have been avoided. But there was no hint from her that she was interested in playing house, and after Tess Turkinton’s dark “watch your back,” my guard had gone up again.
What was there about Cooper that stirred bitchiness in other women? I had gotten barbs about her from two in one evening. Cooper, for her part, had almost nothing to say about Tess Turkinton’s pushy visit to Muccio’s. She had looked mildly amused but asked no questions when I returned to our table with the boosted wineglass. She murmured, “Ms. Turkinton does get around, doesn’t she?” and never mentioned her again.
My trick for staying awake on that drive home was to dwell on thoughts angry enough to keep blood pumping to my brain. I thought of Lonnie nudging me into a one-on-one with Tess Turkinton: Lonnie the sales pimp. I thought of Misha Sharanov—unscrupulous and so far unindictable—and how Cassie’s death had left him totally unmoved. And when I felt my eyelids pressing like paperweights, I began to think back a couple of years to Ray Drummit, that piece of dirt who more than likely put a bullet in my father’s brain and might now collect a king’s ransom from New York’s taxpayers because my single outraged punch to his mouth had knocked out a couple of teeth.
And as I neared home I thought of Cassie Brennan, cut down in full flower, her blood crying out for justice in a long arc on Sharanov’s bedroom wall.
* * *
I DIDN’T EXPECT lights on Beach Drive at one-thirty in the morning at this time of year, but I did spy one in a distant window. A moment later I realized that the window was mine. I had gone to the city in daylight; I wasn’t likely to have left a light on. I floored the gas pedal and gravel flew.
A police car, its lights out, was pulled up at my front door beside my found-object sculpture. The light spilling from the house made Flotsam look like a weird sci-fi take on an Easter Island statue.
I peered through the windshield of the police car. Walter, the chubby village cop, was slumped over in the driver’s seat, his hat on the dash, his cheek mashed against the side window. For a moment I thought he might be dead, but he was only asleep. I couldn’t blame the poor blimp for cooping, he was running up hefty overtime. In aid of what?
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