“I was afraid you’d consider that some kind of domestic violence, you know? Especially if housekeeping reported the broken glass and guests complained about the screaming. Maybe I’m just being paranoid, Miss Cooper. Anyone who knows the two of us knows that all I ever wanted was to be together with Isabella again. I could never have hurt her.”
Haven’t I seen this scene in a thousand B-movies?
“Did you see her again, after that argument?”
“No, no. I wanted to, I really did. But I gave her the night to sober up, and when I called her room in the morning she had already checked out. I knew she was going to your place on the Vineyard. I didn’t know where your house was and, quite frankly, I didn’t even know your name. Iz talked about you a lot, but just by your first name—I never paid close attention, then I saw your name in all the newspaper articles, of course. It never occurred to me that she was taking someone to the island with her. She let me think she was going to the Vineyard alone.”
Me too, pal. “Did you hear from her after that?”
“No, that’s what I mean. I hung around for most of that day, then just drove myself back up the coast to home. It’s not a very helpful alibi, Miss Cooper. Eastport Harbor’s a pretty lonely place, and there aren’t any neighbors or deliverymen or camera crews to record my comings and goings.”
“Mr. Burrell, those things you’ve told me aren’t much to worry about. There’ll be hotel check-out records and garage receipts and a mini-paper trail to back you up, I’m sure.” He seemed much too frantic and concerned for the amount of information he had given me. “Is that really all?”
“I swear to you, Miss Cooper, I swear on Isabella’s life…”
That oath had a rather empty ring to it.
“You’ve got to tell these things to the detectives, and you’ve got to do it yourself.” I didn’t want to be alone with this man a minute longer than I had to. “There’s no use pleading your case to me. I can’t help you with more than an introduction to the police, please believe me.”
He looked desperate, not evil, but my instincts had been wrong on more than one occasion and I was not in a good position to figure this one out tonight.
“Where are you staying in town?”
“The Peninsula.”
“Go back to your hotel. You’ll get a call from a detective named Chapman in the morning. Just tell him everything you’ve told me.” Only Mike will be able to play hardball with this guy and maybe we’ll be on our way to a confession.
Burrell tried to thank me as he slouched out of the office and I noticed my hand was still trembling as I reached for the telephone to call for a cab.
As the cab crawled up Centre Street, which became Fourth Avenue, which became Park Avenue, I tried to think whether there had been anything memorable about the evening Jed and I had taken Isabella to dinner. It had been just before the Labor Day weekend, which Jed was going to spend in California with his kids. We had planned to meet for dinner on Friday evening, and as I was dressing at my apartment, Iz called from her hotel room. She was cheerful and pleasant—the second stalker hadn’t started to call or write yet—and she only wanted the name of my hair colorist for a touch-up while she was in town.
“Is this Elsa discreet, darling? The fans like to think I’m all natural,” she laughed into the telephone.
“She’s a dream, Isabella. I’m sure she’ll do it in your hotel room, if you’d like.”
“Marvelous, I’ll ask her. Is the D.A. a little house-mouse, tonight, Alex? No crime? No romance? None of those handsome detectives to drive you all over town?”
“Actually, I’m on my way out to dinner with a man I’ve been dating. You’re very welcome to join us.”
“Ah, this must be the rich one that Nina’s told me about. Would I be in the way? I don’t eat much.”
“We’d love it, Iz. Let’s surprise him, okay? I’ll pick you up at eight and we’ll meet him at the restaurant.” I knew Jed would get a kick out of meeting Isabella—what man wouldn’t?—so I called “21” and changed Mr. Segal’s reservation from two people to three.
Jed was seated in the middle of the front room when the two of us arrived. The puzzled look on his face changed to delight when he “made” Isabella vamping toward his table. He was a regular at the club, but his stock soared that night as the captain and waiters watched the glamorous movie star sweep over and embrace him with a loud, “Jed, darling, it’s been far too long.”
It was an easy mix. The good Isabella was performing—funny and charming and eager to be liked. She was the center of attention in the room, and she enjoyed that.
Jed had spent most of his life in California, so the two of them knew some of the same people and all of the same places. The law firm he had started out with in Los Angeles had done a lot of work in the entertainment field. He left it to move to Washington for a special securities commission, then returned to the West Coast to make his unsuccessful run for the Senate from California.
“A Democrat, no doubt? Alex would only get in bed with a Democrat, I’m sure. I’m strictly a Republican, Jed, although I must say if I had noticed your face staring down at me from a campaign billboard, I might have pulled your lever.”
Iz loved to flirt and reveled in making sophomoric comments about sex. I can’t say she was all talk and no action—if one believed her stories, then intercourse was to her what aerobics classes were to my working friends.
“What’s CommPlex, Jed?” she asked in her most sincere voice, but zoned out of the conversation and back into her Stoli as Jed proceeded to give a detailed explanation of the giant communications and computer operation that Anderson Warmack had built from his home office into a Fortune 500 corporation over the last fifteen years.
We had almost gotten through the meal without Isabella asking for a favor—a rare stretch of time for me—when something Jed said about money and business ventures seemed to spark her memory. She told us that she thought her business manager had been stealing from her investments, pilfering increasingly substantial sums of money from deals he set up, but she didn’t know how to hire someone to look over his shoulder to confirm her suspicions. Jed asked the captain for a piece of paper and gave Isabella the name and number of his accountant in Los Angeles, assuring her that his man would be able to refer her to the right person to check her records for a scam.
“He’s a good man, Isabella. And extremely trustworthy—he runs all Anderson Warmack’s personal finances.”
“And how many millions might that involve?”
“Three hundred, maybe three-fifty. That’s if the market had an average day today, Isabella. Even more if it was strong.”
Isabella was grinning now, licking her chops for effect. “And is he cute, this. Anderson fellow?”
“Well, did you think Charles Laughton was cute?” I asked her. “Like in the last three or four movies he made? We’re talking rich, old, fat, and usually intoxicated.”
“One out of four isn’t bad—especially if it’s my favorite one. Rich. Now that you two are so happy together, Jed will just have to introduce me to Anderson Warmack. I insist on it.”
Isabella and I left the table to go to the ladies’ room—like two girls at a high school prom—while Jed signed the tab—“21” had the best steak tartare, the best Dungeness crabs, and the most wonderful ladies’ room attendant in New York. She was smart and lively, and instead of sitting sullenly in a corner with a stack of paper towels, Marie was always reading. Current fiction—mostly mysteries—usually with a library dust jacket cover, and she was always eager to give me her opinion of the writer.
“Hey, dear, how are you? Haven’t seen you in weeks. Put anybody away lately?” she giggled.
I introduced her to Isabella, who rudely blew her off and wanted only to gossip about Jed.
“Darling, hang on to this one. Handsome, smart, rich—I’m not kidding, I really want to meet his boss.”
“The old guy does have a wife, Isabella.”
“Really, Alex. I didn’t say I wanted to marry the old coot, did I? I might just want to play with him for a while, see where he likes to spend his millions.”
“Good night, Marie,” I said, tripling my usual tip out of guilt and annoyance over Isabella’s display of vulgarity.
Jed’s car was waiting in front of the restaurant, so we dropped Iz at the Carlyle, then went on to my apartment together. We both agreed that once a year might be often enough for an evening like that, and put thoughts of La Lascar behind us as we undressed and made love to each other with great enthusiasm after ten days of separation.
Now, as the cab squared Grand Army Plaza and dropped me at the front steps of the Plaza Hotel, I wondered whether Jed had told Warmack about Isabella’s short-lived expression of interest in him… and whether I should suggest to Mike Chapman that her business manager be added to the list of suspects.
I realized that I was arriving almost an hour later than I had promised Jed, because of Burrell’s unannounced visit and the crush of traffic on the streets uptown. Cocktail hour was long over and I was grateful for my thin build as I wiggled and squeezed my way through the Grand Ballroom between two hundred round tables packed to the gills with CommPlex sycophants and rival business leaders, surrounded by surly waiters trying to serve platters of rubber chicken to the noisy crowd.
The program I had picked up at the entrance listed our names at Table 2. I could spot the top of Jed’s head as I plowed halfway through the room, waved to the mayor, who was working the tables near the podium, and stopped for a kiss from one of Jed’s partners as I neared my empty seat.
“Sorry, Jed, the usual complications and excuses,” I whispered to him as he rose to introduce me to the rest of the men and women at the table. Anderson Warmack grinned down at me from the dais on the stage, and it seemed that I owed Richard Burrell a small “thank you” for the timing that had made it possible for me to avoid any discussion of the late Lascar with the fat tycoon.
Jed was in a good mood, despite my failure to show up for the reception. “Warmack came into my office at the end of the day,” he explained, sotto voce. “He’s not ready to make any public announcement tonight, but he’s going to issue a press release right after the Christmas holidays, and I’ll probably be named to the presidency of the company by February. I’m going to plan a wonderful trip for us over New Year’s, to celebrate—it may be my last vacation for a year.”
I was thrilled for Jed, knowing how much he had wanted all this to fall into place and how hard he had been working for Warmack’s approval. I squeezed his thigh under the table as he tried to run his hand under my tight sheath and pinch me, winking at me with an enormous grin on his face.
“You’re not going to make me wait till New Year’s to celebrate, are you?” I teased. “Can’t we start sooner?”
“Of course, darling. We can get a room here tonight and go right upstairs after the speeches and…”
“Whoops, maybe tomorrow. That’s a wonderful offer, but I’ve got to leave after the testimonials, Jed. Chapman’s meeting me with some evidence that just came in from Massachusetts so I can, look at it tonight.”
“Evidence? What kind of evidence? I thought there was no other evidence.”
I laughed at Jed’s concern. “I’m not making that mistake again. My lips are sealed. It’s just a long shot, some things I want to look at, in case they contain any leads.”
“Will you come back and meet me later for a nightcap? Larry, Stan, and I are taking Anderson over to the Tap Room at the University Club for a more intimate toast when this is over.”
“Are you crazy? I’ve got a sentence first thing tomorrow morning. You take care of what you’ve got to do—you should be very happy with the news you got today. And don’t make any plans for the weekend—the celebration will be my surprise, okay?”
The speeches went on interminably, and I was relieved that Warmack had finished his remarks before I checked my watch, rose, said my good-nights, and kissed Jed good-bye. It was a little after ten-thirty when I went out of the hotel through the revolving doors and let the doorman help me into a Yellow Cab for the short ride home.
Chapter
15
Mike’s car was parked at the end of the circular drive-way when my cab pulled in and dropped me at the apartment. He was standing in the lobby with the two doormen, critiquing whatever sports event had been on the tube that evening.
“Whoa, blondie, bet you ten on the Final Jeopardy question tonight—you didn’t catch it, didya?”
“Hardly.”
“Category was African history. Wanna bet?”
Damn. Not one of my strengths. “Did you get it right?”
“Yeah. You chicken?”
“All right, ten dollars.”
We were in the elevator on the way up to my floor. “The Final Jeopardy answer is: Napoleon defeated them at the Battle of the Pyramids in 1798.”
I shook my head. “Just deduct the ten from whatever you owe me.” I didn’t have the faintest idea.
Mike gloated: “Who are the Mamelukes? I knew you wouldn’t know that. I should have doubled my bet.” He proceeded to give me a thumbnail version of the battle, which was apparently fought nowhere near the great pyramids, and explain who the Mamelukes were and where they came from. He was a whiz at both world history and military battles, and delighted in showing it off.
“I hope I do better with Wally’s photos,” I said, as I turned my keys in the locks.
“Not much to see.”
“Do me a favor and put up the coffee. I’m just going to get out of this dress, okay?”
It only took me a minute to change from the silk dress into my long shirt and leggings. I hurried back to the kitchen to get out mugs for the coffee that Mike had already scooped into the coffeemaker, then we both went into the living room to look at the blowups he had picked up from the lab when he came on duty half an hour earlier.
“Who took the photos?” I asked as Mike untied the brown Homicide folder in which he carried his case file.
“Wally says tourists are calling in from all over. But most of these first shots are from islanders. You’ll see in a minute when you start to look at them—almost all of the ones I have with me tonight were taken on the ferry on different trips throughout the week. The story and appeal for the film was on the radio as well as in Friday’s Vineyard Gazette, and locals started showing up at Wally’s office on Saturday morning with rolls of film, claiming they thought they saw Isabella on the boat ride. He thinks some high school kid with a serious case of acne and a hard-on for Isabella actually made her on the ferry and was trying to get pictures of her along the way. Wally figures that’s why most of the time she’s got her back to the camera and she’s looking out at the water.”
Mike stacked the pile of photographs on the table, and I sat next to him on the sofa as we scrutinized them one by one.
There were a few false starts—photos of the vista with a blonde on the edge of the pack, but if you looked closely at the eleven-by-fourteen enlargements, you could tell that the bad legs or the wide beams were not those of Isabella Lascar.
When we got to the fifth picture, Mike looked down to remind himself. “I think this starts the roll taken by the high school kid. Doesn’t that look like Isabella in the corner?”
No doubt about it. It was like looking at a roundup of hundreds of horses going to the glue factory and spotting a Thoroughbred in the mix. Her long lines and elegant bearing made her a standout in the crowd, even though the camera range was too distant to catch the distinctive features that took your breath away when she was illuminated on a giant movie screen.
“That’s Iz in the far left corner. Makes you guess that the photographer hadn’t spotted her yet—she’s just part of the background at the moment.”
The next three photos were also panoramic views of the sail back to the island, like the kid’s soccer coach had told the whole team on their way home from the game in Hyannis that they
each had to shoot a roll of film before the boat docked. Mike walked to the kitchen to bring us both a cup of hot coffee.
“Should be coming up on some one-on-ones.”
Sure enough, the next few photos looked like the high school inquiring photographer had figured out who the great-looking woman was, and perhaps had even approached her with the camera. Isabella seemed to be turning away from his lens, shielding her face—already half-hidden behind oversized tortoise-shell sunglasses—with one raised arm and grabbing the railing to her far side with the other.
The cameraman kept a respectable distance, but the next frames were all focused on Isabella, even though she had turned her back to her earnest admirer. I could recognize the outfit she was wearing—a turquoise-and-white-striped Escada sweater with white walking shorts, and those unmistakable racehorse legs extending forever above platform espadrilles that tied at the ankles.
“You get to the guy yet?” Mike stood across from me, sipping his brew while I let mine cool to a drinkable temperature. “I figure I can do an APB”—all-points bulletin—“for a reward and information leading to the identification of the man attached to the five fingers you can see in the photo. Right?”
I laughed when I came to the shot he was referring to. The movie star was still showing her back to the camera—mind you, her good side in semi-profile to her pursuer, as though she was saying ‘If you insist on doing this, you might as well have the angle I prefer.’ But now, for the first time, a man’s arm was stretched out across Isabella’s back and appeared to be waving at the photographer to stop shooting.
“See what I mean?” Mike joked. “Do a sketch of a giant hand and hang it in post offices all over the country. You’ll have nuts calling in from Alaska to Mississippi before the ink is dry: ‘Detective Chapman, I’d know that hand anywhere.’ ‘Chief Flanders, my dog once bit a hand that looked a lot like that hand.’ ‘Agent Waldron, I’ve shaken a hand that reminds me very much of that hand.’ We’ll break this wide open in no time.”
Alex Cooper 01 - Final Jeopardy Page 16
