“You want me to guess?” the doctor from the ME’s office says, snapping shut his black case. “I’d guess a sharpened ice pick. Most of the holes look to be no more than an inch deep. Painful but not fatal.”
“I saw something like that before,” Nick Galanis says. “Jabs from the little blade of a jackknife. To get a guy to talk. But why did they cut off her nipples?”
“Maybe she wouldn’t talk,” Cone says stonily. “Then they really went to work on her.”
“She was tied up and gagged when she was found,” Harry says. “The legs of a pantyhose was shoved down her throat.”
“I can’t say definitely until the PM,” the doc says, “but I think that’s what killed her. Probably choked to death on her own vomit. Not a nice way to go.”
“At least they spared her face,” Cone says, staring at those pale, pinched features. The little mouse, trapped and destroyed.
“How do you see it, Harry?” Davenport asks.
“A junkie,” the plainclothesman says promptly. “Trying to score. Maybe he heard she had money up here. When she wouldn’t talk, he tortured her. Then, after she died, he tore the place apart.”
“It’s all yours,” Davenport says, nodding. “Lots of luck.”
Back on the sidewalk, the three men take deep breaths. Even the grimy city air tastes good.
“A nice way to start the day,” Cone says.
“I’m hungry,” Davenport Says. “What say we go over to Amsterdam and get us some breakfast?”
Ten minutes later they’re sitting at a table in a white-tiled dairy restaurant on West Seventy-second Street. They’re all having the same thing: tomato juice with a wedge of lemon, scrambled eggs with lox and onions, french fries, toasted bagels, and more black coffee. They eat busily.
“Do you buy what Harry said about a junkie?” Cone asks.
“Harry’s a good cop,” Davenport says, smiling, “but when God was passing out brains, he was pretty far back in the line. I think the woman was tied and gagged, and then the place was torn apart. When the killer couldn’t find what he was looking for, he went to work on her with ice pick and knife. She croaked before she talked.”
“What was he looking for?” Galanis says, wiping ketchup from his mustache with a paper napkin. “She couldn’t have had much cash or jewelry. Look at that apartment. You know you’re not going to strike it rich in there.”
“Poor Harry,” Davenport says, unwrapping a stick of Juicy Fruit and sliding it into his mouth. “I got a feeling this is going to be an F and F case. File and forget.”
“I know who killed her,” Cone says in a low voice.
The two NYPD men look at him, blinking.
“Who?” Galanis says.
“I did,” Timothy Cone says, pushing back from the table and taking out his pack of Camels. “Because I’ve got no more brains than Harry. I questioned the poor woman in the Doctors’ Lounge. Someone saw us talking and told someone else. And that was the end of Jessie Scotto.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Davenport wants to know.
“Just blowing smoke,” Cone says, lighting a cigarette.
They drive him back to John Street. But before he goes into the office, he walks around the corner to a discount bookstore on Broadway. After searching the shelves, he buys two more books on new techniques in laboratory conception. He has a vague idea of what Jessie Scotto’s killer was looking for.
But it doesn’t make him feel less guilty.
They’re in Hiram Haldering’s office.
“Now tell me,” Hiram is saying, stubby fingers laced across his pot. “How are we coming along on the Nu-Hope deal? Everything hunky-dory?”
“We’re coming along fine,” Samantha says. “No red flags have turned up yet. Have they, Tim?”
“No,” Cone says, “not yet.”
H. H. stirs restlessly. “The Preliminary Intelligence Estimate from the accounting section just came in. The CPAs give the deal a go-ahead. Ditto from the legal section. So all that’s missing is an okay from you people.”
“I’m working it,” Cone says.
The benign smile disappears. “How much more time do you need on this, Cone?”
“Hard to tell.”
“Well, Pingle Enterprises is getting anxious. I got a call from Lester this morning. They want our evaluation so they can get rolling.”
“Rolling on what?” Cone asks.
“On the expansion plans for the Nu-Hope Clinic,” Haldering says, staring at him like he’s an idiot.
“I mean how are they going to handle it?” Cone explains patiently. “Did Lester say? A limited partnership, public or private? A franchise setup or a public offering of stock?”
Haldering leans forward, frowning. “They didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. What the hell business is it of ours? Listen, I want you to know I’m under considerable pressure to complete this investigation.”
“I’m sure Tim is giving it every priority,” Samantha says. “Isn’t that right?”
“Sure,” Cone says. “Every priority.”
Haldering looks at him suspiciously, then turns to Whatley. “I’ll give you one week, Sam, and that’s it.”
They walk back to Samantha’s office. She motions him inside but leaves the door open.
“I love the way you show respect for your employer,” she says.
“What the hell was that all about?” he asks her. “He’s never been so antsy.”
“Well, he said Lester Pingle called him.”
“Yeah, but I got the feeling someone else is leaning on him.”
She stares at him a long moment. Then: “I told H. H. that no red flags had turned up on this deal, and you agreed with me. Was that the truth?”
“No,” Cone says. “Red flags are flapping all over the place.”
Samantha groans. “I know it’s hopeless to ask what’s going on—you’re such a closemouthed bastard.”
“All I’ve got are bits and pieces,” he tells her. “Nothing you can take to the bank. When I’ve got something I can put on paper, I’ll do it.”
“Can you give me a glimmer, for God’s sake? Do you think the Nu-Hope deal stinks?”
“To high heaven,” he says.
He goes back to his office and finds, on his desk, a PIE from the accounting section.
According to Sid Apicella’s gnomes, Nu-Hope is in great shape. They’ve got a couple of low-interest bank loans they’re paying off on the button. Their cash flow is being smartly managed, and gross income shows a satisfying year-to-year increase since they converted from an abortion clinic.
But their operating expenses have also increased. Part of that is due to an enlarged staff. But a lot of it, Cone notes, is because of ballooning expenditures on research and development. The present and projected allocations for R & D seem inordinately high.
That night Cone heats up two cans of chili con carne, sparked with an extra sprinkling of chili powder. He eats that with a package of soda crackers and a cold can of Heineken. Cleo has the same thing, except for the beer. The cat sniffs at that, then wrinkles its nose and turns away.
“You’re no son of mine,” he tells the castrated tom.
He spends the evening reading and trying to understand the first of his two new books on artificial conception. He smokes half a pack of Camels and drinks three vodkas and water. Near two o’clock, he’s dizzy with nicotine, alcohol, and all those long words in the book. What, in God’s name, is ectogenesis?
He gives Cleo fresh water and promises the cat new litter in the morning. He’s just beginning to undress when the phone rings.
“Yeah?” he says.
“Timothy Cone?”
“That’s right. Who’s this?”
“I’m the super in the building where Samantha Whitley lives.”
“Whatley,” Cone says. “Samantha Whatley. Is anything wrong?”
“Well, we had some excitement here. Someone tried to break into her apartment. The cops are here now.”<
br />
“Jesus Christ,” Cone says. “Is she all right?”
“Well, she got banged up a little. She asked me to call and see if you’d come right over.”
“Sure,” Cone says, thinking of Jessie Scotto. “Tell her I’ll be right there.”
He hangs up, rebuttons his shirt, pulls on corduroy jacket and parka. He straps on his ankle holster with the shortbarreled .357 Magnum.
“Hold down the fort, kiddo,” he tells Cleo, then goes clattering down the six floors of iron staircase, trying to figure his best bet at finding a taxi at that time of night.
But he doesn’t have to worry about a cab. He trots about twenty feet toward Spring Street when two men come out of the shadows and close in on him.
“Suckered,” Cone says aloud, knowing Sam is okay. He backs slowly away, arms half-lifted, palms turned outward.
They’re not tall guys, but they’ve got heft. They’re not wearing overcoats or topcoats or raincoats or hats. Just dark suits. They look like twin undertakers. They’re both smiling, like they came to escort him to a surprise party.
“You Cone?” one of them asks.
“I gave at the office,” Timothy says, hands still raised.
“You hear that, Sol?” one of them says. “He gave at the office.”
“Funny,” Sol says. “The guy’s a comedian. Ask him if he’s got any other jokes.”
“Look,” Cone says, “I don’t know what—”
The punch comes out of nowhere, and he’s not fast enough to slip it. It catches him at the corner of his mouth and splits his lip open. He tastes the blood, and Sol steps in with a short, hard jab to his gut. These guys are real bullyboys.
They swarm all over him, jackhammering with hard fists. The pile-lined parka helps, but not enough. He tries to tuck in his head and cover up, but they straighten him with stiff pokes, then bend him over with hooks to his kidneys. Professionals.
Before he knows it, he’s down on the sidewalk. He vaguely remembers a lecture on unarmed combat at Quantico. “Your eyes and your nuts,” the instructor had cautioned. “Always protect your eyes and your nuts.” So Cone curls into a fetal position on the cold pavement, arms across his face, while the two thugs give him the boot.
They don’t intend to kill him, he knows that; they just want to hurt. And they do. He takes a kick to his temple that almost chills him. And finally they both jump in the air and come down hard on his ribs.
Meanwhile they haven’t said a word. Just breathing heavily. Doing a job of work. When the punishment ends, he stays curled up, eyes closed. Then, suddenly, the chili comes up.
“Jesus Christ,” one of them says disgustedly, as if it’s all Cone’s fault.
“You got the message?” Sol says to Cone. “From now on do what you’re told. Be smart. Play along.”
He hears them moving away. He’s almost out, but hangs on to consciousness, telling himself those are the two cruds who cut off Jessie Scotto’s nipples. That gives him strength to open his eyes and lift his head from the concrete.
He sees them moving away in a misty haze to a parked car. He makes it to be a four-door, black Pontiac Bonneville, but can’t be sure. He knows they’ll have to drive by him down Broadway. He slides a hand to his ankle holster.
When they pull out with a squeal of tires, he’s ready for them, forearms propped on the sidewalk, gun held in both hands. It’s wavering, he knows, but at that distance he can’t miss.
He shoots steadily, following the car, pumping off rounds like he’s on the range. The damned car seems to absorb his shots with no effect until, thirty feet down Broadway, the Pontiac suddenly veers, climbs the sidewalk, and smashes through the plate glass window of a trendy new restaurant that serves quiche and spinach salad.
The car plunges into the darkened interior with a screech of torn metal and a crunch of splintering wood. Cone is hoping for an explosion and fire, but no such luck. Now he sees a few people on the street, running toward the crash.
Cone drags himself slowly to his feet. Stands wavering. Everything seems to be working. He goes back to his loft. It takes him almost twenty minutes to climb those six flights of iron steps, resting on every landing. Finally, he gets inside, turns on the lights, locks and bolts the door. Cleo takes one look at him and retreats under the bathtub.
“C’mon,” Cone says, “I don’t look that bad.”
But when he strips and inspects himself in the medicine cabinet mirror, he calls to the cat, “You’re right.”
He knows he was conned, but he’s got to make sure. So before he doctors himself, he phones Samantha. She picks up on the sixth ring.
“Wha’?” she says sleepily.
“Cone. You okay?”
“Of course I’m okay. What time is it? Oh, my God. What are you, drank or something, waking me up at this hour?”
“Just checking,” he says. “Go back to sleep.”
“You sound funny,” she says. “You’re not talking right.”
“I think I got the flu,” he says. “Maybe I won’t be in tomorrow. Good night. Sweet dreams.”
He takes a healthy belt of vodka and uses a little soaked in a paper towel to swab off his torn lip and assorted cuts. The adrenaline is wearing off and he’s really beginning to ache.
Finally he hears the sounds of sirens and buffalo whistles, and knows that the police have come to investigate the car that crashed into the restaurant. He hopes it’ll be a job for Homicide.
He finishes washing up and puts his parka in a plastic garbage bag, ready for the dry cleaners. He tries stretching, cautiously. No permanent damage that he can find. Just a bad beating. He’s had that before.
He bends down slowly and collapses onto the mattress. After a while Cleo comes padding over to him, sniffs at his wounds, and whimpers.
“Yeah,” Cone says drowsily. “I know.”
Getting up in the morning is something else again. Every joint stiff, every bone ready to snap. He turns on the shower and stands under hot water until he begins to look like a six-foot prune. Then steps out and inspects himself in the mirror. Beautiful. Yellow, red, black, purple, blue.
“Just call me the Rainbow Kid,” he tells Cleo.
He pads naked around the loft, reflecting that it might not be the Taj Mahal, but there’s always plenty of heat and hot water.
The cat gets fresh water and a chunk of kosher salami. Cone has black coffee and a Camel. Because he has no intention of going into the office, he sees no point in shaving. Especially since his face is lumpy with welts, and that split lip wouldn’t take kindly to a razor. So he pulls on a grungy costume of Jockey shorts, faded jeans, and a Stanley Kowalski T-shirt.
It’s about nine-thirty, and he’s settling down with another black coffee and another cigarette when Davenport calls.
“Taking a day off, sherlock?” the city dick says breezily. “I tried you at your office, but they said you’re not coming in.”
“Yeah, that’s right. I think I’ve got the flu or something.”
“Well, there’s a lot of that going around these days. And you sure sound funny. Like you got a mouth full of marbles. Hey, what do you think about the excitement in your neighborhood last night? On your block, as a matter of fact.”
“What excitement?”
“A car plowed into a restaurant. You didn’t know about it?”
“Not a thing. What happened?”
“Just what I said: A new Pontiac Bonneville drives through the plate glass window of a restaurant. You didn’t hear anything?”
“What time did this happen?”
“About two-thirty in the morning.”
“I was asleep. Dead to the world.”
“Sure,” Davenport says. “Anyway, when they dug out the car, there was a stiff in the front seat. He was ID’d as Bernie Snodgrass. How do you like that for a moniker? Bernie had a rap sheet as long as your arm, so good riddance. Guess what killed him.”
“The crash?”
“Nope,” the NYPD man says cheeri
ly. “A slug in the back of the head. Fired from maybe twenty or thirty feet away. There were some other bullet holes in the car and we recovered a slug from a three-five-seven Magnum. You pack a piece like that, don’t you, Cone?”
“Yeah,” Timothy says. “An S and W.”
“I thought so,” Davenport says. “Interesting. We’ve got statements from witnesses who say they saw a second guy running away from the scene. I thought you’d like to know.”
“No skin off my ass,” Cone says, “but thanks for telling me. Did you ID the car?”
“Now that is interesting. It’s a company car, registered to Rauthaus Industries. They’re on Wall Street. Ever hear of them?”
“Yeah, they make robots and industrial computers for assembly lines. A division of International Gronier, a conglomerate that owns half the world.”
“Well, Rauthaus Industries claims the Pontiac was stolen from their company garage on Cedar Street. They say they weren’t even aware it was missing until we called them.”
“Uh-huh,” Cone says, grinning at the phone. “There’s a lot of that going around these days. Listen, will you do me a favor?”
“Will it cost me?”
“Nah. Just a phone call. You know the guy Harry who’s handling the Jessie Scotto kill?”
“Yeah.”
“Could you find out if they picked up any prints in Scotto’s apartment.”
“I doubt if they did, but I’ll ask him.”
“Well, if they did, will you ask him to check them against Bernie Snodgrass’? You said he had a record.”
Silence. Then:
“You son of a bitch, Cone!” Davenport yells at him. “You’re holding out on me again, aren’t you?”
“Why should I do that?” Cone says mildly. “We’re both working the same side of the street, aren’t we?”
He hangs up softly.
He inspects the ancient, waist-high refrigerator, hoping it’ll contain enough rations so he won’t have to make a trip outside. But it’s hopeless. There’s some dried-out Havarti with dill, a chunk of moldy kielbasa, an opened tin of brisling sardines, and two cans of Heineken. That’s about it. And there’s that smelly parka in the garbage bag that has to be taken to the cleaners.
Timothy Files Page 18
