VC04 - Jury Double

by Edward Stewart

  Cardozo hurried down the hallway to the bathroom. The door was ajar and the stink was overpowering. For a moment he had to brace himself against the door frame, fighting back a gag reflex.

  He snapped on the light.

  The bathroom was tiled in pink ceramic. A bath mat in matching pink had been crumpled against the toilet stand, and a pink towel lay across the sink.

  Cardozo’s eye flicked across a narrow dribble of caked rust running from the sink to the tub. There was a swaying movement at the edge of the shower curtain where water pattered softly on plastic.

  He pushed back the curtain.

  The showerhead had been left dribbling. The opening in the overflow plate siphoned off the excess. The bathwater had reached the color and consistency of gazpacho.

  A fully clothed woman lay in the tub on her side, an island of gray in the fetid dark slime. With gaping mouth and staring green eyes, the face had a look of abject terror.

  Cardozo felt a disorienting stab of recognition. The woman was Kyra Talbot.

  Cardozo’s stomach turned over. “Hey, Jerry!”

  Jerry’s head poked into the bathroom. His eyes recoiled.

  “Do you recognize her?”

  Jerry nodded. “She’s the owner of this apartment. Anne Bingham.”

  Anne turned at the sound of a key clicking in the lock. The door of the dusty little room flew open, and Mark Wells—hair flying and necktie over his shoulder—burst in. He wasn’t alone.

  “Anne, do you know Kyra’s boss, Nort Stanley?”

  She shook the hand of a bald man with Coke-bottle eyeglasses.

  “God,” he said, “you’re a dead ringer for Kyra.”

  “Here’s the deal.” Mark’s voice was a breathless rasp, as if he’d been running and negotiating at the same time. “Nort’s posting your bail, plus you get a fifty-thousand-dollar advance against two hundred fifty thousand.”

  “What am I getting an advance for?”

  There was a beat of hesitation, as if Mark was mystified that she should be mystified. “You’ll write a three-part series on the trial. For the Manhattanite.”

  “I’m not a writer.”

  “You are now.”

  “We want you, Annie.” Behind the wire-rimmed glasses, Nort Stanley’s eyes had a hungry, focused glow. “We want you bad.”

  Mark opened his briefcase and shoved papers at her. “Initial the bottom of each page and sign the last.”

  The corridor echoed with the pandemonium of a street carnival.

  “The next few minutes are going to be tough. So hang tight.” Mark sliced a path through the mob.

  Outside the courthouse, bodies crushed and voices hollered and minicams of five networks jostled. Anne and Mark broke loose from the crowd and ran.

  The sun was shining, the sky was a benevolent blue. The afternoon air was choked with exhaust, but to Anne it had the clean smell of freedom.

  Mark’s green Mercedes was double-parked in a no-parking stretch of Centre Street. He gunned the motor and the car was already in motion as she dropped into the seat. Soft beige leather cushioned her fall.

  Mark angled up Centre and turned right on Canal, smack into the middle of a honking traffic jam. Pedestrians and pushcarts clogged the sidewalks.

  Anne felt energy rippling out from the brawling, sprawling world of Chinese superettes and electronic hot shops and vendors and discount stores. It was fall. The season when the city geared up. New York was loud and bright and brash again.

  “Have you heard anything from Kyra or Toby?”

  Mark shook his head. “Not a thing.”

  “What if the Coreyites have them both?”

  “Now that Corey’s dead, there’s no reason to harm them. The Coreyites aren’t about to complicate their legal problems with another pair of murders.”

  “I wish I had your optimism.”

  “Not optimism—cynicism.” Mark patted her knee. It was an oddly unthinking movement, as though they had been touching one another for years. “Now, where can I give you a lift to?”

  “I’d love a nice long stop at my bathtub.”

  He swung a sharp left onto Bowery. “Coming up.”

  As they turned onto Anne’s block they could see two blue-and-white squad cars and an NYPD Emergency Service van nose-to-nose in front of her building.

  Mark braked.

  A group of uniformed officers had taken over the lobby. Anxious clusters of tenants milled. A redheaded sergeant told Anne and Mark he was sorry, but for the moment there was no traffic in or out of the building.

  Anne felt the pressure of Mark’s finger on her elbow. A signal. Let me handle this.

  “Mrs. Bingham lives in eleven-E, and I’m her lawyer. My client needs to get into her apartment.”

  For an instant of charged silence the sergeant stared at Anne. “Mrs. Anne Bingham?” As though there was something in that name that made her a celebrity; or a freak. “You can go right up, ma’am.”

  The sergeant cleared their way to the elevator. Anne could feel tenants’ eyes on her, resentful, wondering how she rated privileged treatment. They rode up in silence. Mark’s eyes were calm and she tried to feel calm in the hold of his gaze.

  The elevator opened at eleven. Their steps were soundless on the gray carpeting. She took out her key. Her hand stopped at the sound of men’s voices on the other side of the door.

  She caught Mark’s warning glance. He gave the door a push and it swung inward.

  There was only a split second to glimpse the figure crouched in the living room, holding a flash camera. An explosion of light blinded her.

  As the afterimage cleared, she saw a uniformed woman officer standing with a steno pad in her hands.

  “I’m Mrs. Bingham’s attorney,” Mark said. “What are these people doing in my client’s home?”

  The policewoman looked at Anne carefully, as if searching for a typo in a line of fine print. “Would you come this way, please?”

  They followed her into the living room. A man wearing plastic surgical gloves was scattering crystals from a blue glass jar. The air had a heavy smell of artificial violets, masking a heavier, more disturbing smell. A lamp had been knocked over and boxes and plants had been spilled. A long black bag shaped like a sofa bolster lay in the center of the room.

  A dozen men and women were crouching, crawling, measuring, marking, dusting, photographing. The policewoman led Anne and Mark around the outskirts of activity.

  “Lieutenant,” she said, “the owner of the apartment is here.”

  Anne recognized the police detective who had rescued her from the picketer and testified at the trial.

  “You’re Anne Bingham?” His expression was startled, almost incredulous.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I’m Lieutenant Vince Cardozo, Twenty-second Precinct.” He kept staring at her. “Tell me, Mrs. Bingham—when were you last in this apartment?”

  “Wednesday morning last week.”

  “Lieutenant,” Mark interrupted. “I’m Mrs. Bingham’s attorney. Could I ask what’s happening here?”

  “A neighbor reported smelling a gas leak in this apartment. Mrs. Bingham couldn’t be contacted. Con Ed came in and found a dead woman in the bathtub.”

  At that moment Anne had a helium balloon for a heart.

  “I wonder if Mrs. Bingham would be willing to identify her?”

  Mark took Anne’s left hand, protecting her. Her right hand went to her neck and touched Kyra’s locket.

  The detective crouched by the black bag. She could see the curves of a body. A zipper squeaked.

  She stared down into lifeless green eyes. Recognition hit like a boot in the skull. “My God—Kyra—no! Oh, my God—my God!”

  Cardozo spoke gently. “I’m very sorry.”

  Mark slipped his arms around her and held her close.

  “The man who kidnapped Toby,” Cardozo said, “had a letter. Kyra Talbot wrote that letter on stationery from this apartment. Which makes him the prime sus
pect in her murder. If you don’t mind, Mrs. Bingham, I’m afraid I have to ask you a few questions.”

  “You’re not going to ask Mrs. Bingham anything now.” Mark spoke in flat refusal mode. “She’s in no condition.” He pressed a glass of water into her hand. “Take some. You’ll feel better.”

  She sipped. His hand helped the glass up. A finger of fire stung her throat. It was brandy, not water. She pushed the glass away. “I’m fine. I’m all right.”

  She burst into body-racking sobs.

  “Vince?” Tess diAngeli on the line now, something skittery in her voice. “You were right. They conned me.”

  Cardozo had to put a finger to one ear to shut out all the crime-scene ruckus. “What? Who? How?”

  “In exchange for testimony, the Justice Department promised Mickey no prosecution for any previous crimes—and no surveillance.”

  Cardozo’s stomach felt as if he were trapped in a free-falling elevator. “Then what about those guards?”

  “They lied to me. They were running passive surveillance. Mickey phoned in three times a day.” In a tired voice, she reeled off the flat details. “It was a ruse to pacify me and a few other New York types who worried about Mickey being a danger to society. Vince—you were right and I was wrong and I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry too.” Cardozo’s tone held no criticism; he himself had been burned in more than one Justice Department power play. But this was obviously Tess’s maiden voyage. “Don’t brood and don’t take it personally. It’s not the first double-cross they’ve pulled. It certainly won’t be the last.”

  As he hung up the receiver, Greg Monteleone shoved his way into the apartment. “Hey, Vince, what the hell’s wrong with Bingham’s phone? I’ve been trying to call you for half an hour.”

  “There weren’t any rings here.”

  “Sometimes the line was busy, and sometimes I got a recorded Ding-a-ling spiel and a dozen beeps.”

  Cardozo glanced down at the phone and realized what had happened. “The machine’s set to pick up, but the answering tape’s full. Why didn’t you beep me?”

  “I did.”

  Cardozo pulled the pager off his belt and saw he’d forgotten to reset it after Tess’s beep. “My fault. What’s up?”

  “More activity on Catch Talbot’s MasterCard. The Organic Gourmet in Scotsville just attempted to post a charge.”

  Cardozo lifted the receiver and jiggled the cradle till Nynex finally yielded up a tone. He dialed northern New Jersey information and asked for the Organic Gourmet in Scotsville.

  “Organic Gourmet, may I help you?”

  Cardozo identified himself. “I understand you just posted an order from Catch Talbot?”

  “Last Saturday, the twenty-first, Mr. Talbot placed an order for organic venison. It came in today, and now we learn that he’s stopped his card.”

  “Was that order a delivery?”

  “Yes, it was—72 Turkey Lane, Scotsville. Is this man a criminal?”

  “A criminal’s been using his card.”

  “Who’s going to pay for the venison?”

  “It’ll be taken care of.” Cardozo broke the connection and dialed Bill Benton at the Scotsville precinct. They had a thirty-second discussion. As he hung up the receiver, he realized Mark Wells was blocking his way.

  “Did I hear you just mention Toby Talbot?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Mrs. Bingham and I are coming with you.”

  Cardozo shook his head. “Mrs. Bingham’s had a severe shock. You yourself said—”

  “Lieutenant,” Anne Bingham interrupted. “I’ve just lost a sister. That leaves me two living relatives left in the world—my father and my nephew. I’m coming with you.”

  FORTY-TWO

  2:55 P.M.

  THE STENCILED LETTERS ON the mailbox spelled 72 Turkey Lane, Sanderson. Cardozo slowed the car, reached through the driver’s window, and opened the mailbox.

  “The Sandersons have been renting through an agent,” Bill Benton said. “The name on the lease is Talbot. He signed Monday the sixteenth—paid cash.”

  “Figures.” Cardozo pulled out an ad for a rug-shampooing service, addressed to occupant. He put the flyer back and eased the car into low gear. The driveway needed weeding. The shrubs on either side needed cutting back. They rounded a bend, and there was the house—your basic two-story suburban white clapboard box. Strategically placed green trim and shutters gave an impression of asymmetry.

  Cardozo pulled to a stop. He got out and crossed the unmowed lawn. There was a flicker in one of the ground-story windows, and then another in one of the dormers. A shadow approached them in the panes of the door.

  “There’s someone home,” Bill Benton said.

  “He’s covered the windows in Mylar.” Cardozo pressed the doorbell. “It’s a reflection.”

  Something electronic went dingdong inside the house.

  They waited. No footsteps, no dog barking.

  Cardozo could sense Benton’s nervousness about trespassing. But they weren’t trespassing—yet. It could be an honest mistake, turning into the wrong drive, asking for directions.

  He dingdonged again. Silence.

  He slipped on a pair of plastic gloves and tried the door handle. Locked.

  He walked to the side of the house, shaded his eyes, and peered through the garage window. “No car. Guess no one’s home.”

  He went back to the house and hunkered down by a rear cellar window.

  “No Mylar,” Benton observed.

  “From this point on, we’re in violation.” Cardozo unhooked the flashlight from his belt and rapped the glass sharply with the battery end. The pane shattered.

  There was no alarm.

  He lifted out the shards. The window was double-hung and there was a second pane of insulating glass. He reached past the weather stripping and rapped again with the flashlight. Glass tinkled to the cellar floor.

  He cleared the shards, reached inside, and released the latch. He lifted the window, then lowered himself in feetfirst. “Be right back.”

  His feet touched down on concrete. He snapped the flashlight on. The beam swung past the furnace and water heater to a steep, narrow stairway. Wooden steps creaked beneath him.

  The Mylar certainly worked. Not a ray of light came through the first-story windows. The flashlight picked out Audubon prints on the hallway wall. The beam found a switch on the wall. He clicked it. A light came on.

  To the right of the hallway was a small living room with old-fashioned sofas and armchairs in heavy brocade. The tables were laden with beaded lamps, statuettes, marble eggs—each one upright on its own wooden stand.

  He went to the front door and slipped the two deadbolts. Mark Wells’s Mercedes had pulled up in the drive and Wells and Bingham were hurrying across the lawn. He waved them inside.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Benton reminded them.

  Cardozo led the way up a groaning flight of stairs to the second floor. He opened a door. A narrow bed was tucked into the dormer. A beat-up-looking computer game cassette had been tossed onto the thin white bedspread.

  He picked it up. Spider Man Scrabble.

  “One of Toby’s favorite video games,” Anne Bingham said.

  Cardozo lifted the bedspread. “Bed’s been slept in.”

  He led the way through a tiled bathroom into a room with a canopied double bed, chaise longue, huge Trinitron TV. The spread had been pulled over the bed without being straightened.

  “A man’s been keeping house,” Anne Bingham said.

  Cardozo studied the answering machine on the bedside table. He pressed the replay button. There were clicks, whirs, a beep. And no message.

  He pressed the outgoing message button.

  “You have reached area code 201-555-6789.” The woman’s voice had a vaguely Germanic accent. “No one is home at present, but if you wish to leave a message at the sound of the beep, your call will be returned.”

  Beep.

 
“That’s Juliana,” Anne Bingham said. “Kyra’s au pair.”

  Anne took a left turn into the kitchen. At the flick of a wall switch a fluorescent ring sputtered and lit. The dishwasher had been left open. It held dinner service for three, caked with food particles.

  Ripping a paper towel from the roll over the sink, she crossed to the fridge, gripped the handle with the towel, and opened it. The shelves held vitamins, mustard, yogurt, celery, bottled water.

  As she was closing the door, she dislodged a magnet. A half-dozen pieces of paper glided like a flock of butterflies to the linoleum. She stooped and collected them. They were mostly receipts, but one was a note: If you come back, we need some rug deodorizer, can buy it myself or you can get it—let me know—tel # 212-555-3037. The seven was crossed, in the European manner, and the note was signed Juliana.

  “Lieutenant Cardozo,” she called.

  Cardozo lifted the kitchen phone and tapped in the New York area code and the number. He held the earpiece so Anne could hear.

  There were three rings and then a pickup. “Condom Nation, Henk speaking.” The man spoke the flawless and slightly aristocratic English that they teach nowhere but in the state-funded grade schools of northern Europe. “May I help you?”

  “May I speak with Juliana, please?”

  “Juliana’s not here, but I can take a message for her.”

  “Is there any way I could reach her?”

  “You can leave a message.”

  “Would you tell her that Catch called—and I have the rug shampoo she wanted?”

  “Rug shampoo? What is that, code?”

  “Just tell her it’s rug shampoo. She’ll understand.”

  “Okay. I could tell her that. And how could she contact you, Catch?”

  “I’ll be downtown today—I could bring it by your store and maybe you could give it to her.”

  “I could do that.”

  “What’s your address again?”

  The sparkling showcases of the little store on Bleecker Street displayed hundreds of candy-colored designer condoms. Cardozo waited while a customer tried to make up her mind. She had narrowed her options to a salmon mousse-tinted sheath with spearmint-green stripes and a straightforward black latex model.