Several minutes of scrutiny disclosed that it didn’t.
I started to put back the books, then thought better of it. Carter’s books looked as though they could be good reading. Furthermore, it might be easier to talk to the man if I knew something about his methodology beforehand. I took the books up to the counter. The slip of a girl who’d been standing behind the information desk was now working the cash register.
“Say, you wouldn’t have a copy of his newer work, would you?”
She frowned. “What work?”
“Well, I see that he puts out a book every two years. The last title came out in ‘23. I’m assuming there was one last year, too.”
“No,” she shook her head. “I don’t think so. He put out Criminal Friendships and he hasn’t brought out another one since.”
Hmm, I thought. I wonder why.
* * *
Someone had been in my house. I sensed it the moment I walked in the door. At first, I couldn’t pinpoint the difference, but then it came to me. There was no Arctic breeze sweeping through the place. I climbed the stairs and looked up. Sure enough the skylight had been fixed. I was astounded. Sam was a miracle worker.
I called to thank him. “How’d you manage to get that done so fast?”
“Called in a couple of favors. It was no big deal. Now, tell me. What’re you up to?”
“Nothing.” I crossed my fingers behind my back. “I’m just planning on doing some reading.”
“Reading?”
“Yeah, reading. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”
“No, but …” He struggled to find words. “Lanie,” he said finally. “Just please stay out of trouble.”
“Why, of course I will. Why would you even feel the need to ask?”
* * *
Despite the repaired skylight, the house was cold. It would take time for it to warm up. I started a fire in the living room, then curled up on the sofa in a thick sweater under two blankets and began to read Carter’s books. With the exception of pauses to eat or use the bathroom, I consumed one book right after the other.
Compelling reading. Fascinating, actually. His idea was to explore relationships among criminals and analyze qualities that society would normally see as positive in a human relationship, i.e., loyalty, trust, cooperation, and teamwork, when applied to organized crime. He also wanted to see how these qualities could evaporate in ways that seemed inexplicable to outsiders, to explore and possibly understand how mobsters who’d covered each other’s backs for years, sometimes decades, could turn on one another and slaughter each other in a bloody frenzy.
It was two o’clock in the morning when I finished, edified, exhausted and very, very thoughtful.
Chapter 44
Early the next morning, at exactly five minutes after nine, I put in a call to Carter’s publisher, Reinhold-Whitaker. I explained to the company operator that I wanted to contact one of its writers. I told her which one and she put me through to his editor. Joe Blue it was.
It took quite a bit of wrangling, but I finally got him to tell me why Carter never contacted Katie Jones again. It was a reason she would’ve accepted.
“May I come in and talk to you?”
After a moment’s hesitation he agreed.
The snow was melting. The pristine winter wonderland had transmogrified into a landscape of dirty slush. I actually wasted time dithering over whether to wear my nice, sexy shoes in order to dazzle Blue in the hopes of getting more info out of him. Then reality set in and I grabbed my ugly, but warm, winter boots.
Carter’s publisher had offices in a skyscraper on East 42nd, a few minutes’ walk from Grand Central Station. It was a quarter past ten when I got there. The receptionist, a woman in her early twenties, spent a lot of time batting her eyelashes and making friendly with the guy in the three-piece suit before me. When it was my turn, she said pointedly, “This is not where you apply to join our cleaning staff.”
“Then I’m in the right place,” I said.
Joe Blue was a tall skinny man in his mid-thirties wearing a pale blue shirt with a cheap bowtie. When he saw me, the usual look of surprise flickered across his face, but he recovered quickly and extended his hand to shake mine.
“Excuse me for saying so, but I didn’t think a person like you would be interested in Carter’s books.”
“Well, I guess he has a wider readership than you realized.”
“Yes … I suppose.” He glanced at his watch. “I really don’t think I can tell you any more than I said on the phone.”
“Tillman was traveling, doing research, when it happened?”
He nodded.
“Do they know who did it?” I asked.
“No, just that he was shot. Robbed, apparently. He was found in an alleyway in Chicago.”
Bobby Kelly’s childhood city: Had Carter found Kelly? Dug too deep, come too close to the truth?
“What was Mr. Carter doing there?”
He shifted uncomfortably. “You know, I really don’t think I’m free to go into detail here. I mean, it’s an ongoing investigation, and I don’t know you or anything about your, uh … newspaper.”
“You know enough.”
“Excuse me?”
“You wouldn’t have agreed to meet me if you didn’t.”
He picked up a pencil, tapped his desk with it. “Maybe seeing you was a mistake.”
“Look, I respect your wanting to protect Mr. Carter’s memory. But aren’t you even more interested in finding his killer?”
“Don’t tell me you’re investigating his death?”
“No, but I’m working on a case that could be related.”
He was thoughtful. “Do the police know about you?”
“Does it matter?”
He leaned back in his chair, weighing his options. From outside came the sound of garbage trucks, of men yelling instructions to one another. We were on the second floor, too low to escape the sounds of the city.
“I didn’t know that Carter meant to go there at all. He hadn’t said anything about having to do more research. In fact, he’d told me that all of his out-of-town research was done.”
“Was the Powell-Kelly case to be part of this book?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I just finished speaking to Kelly’s sister. She said Carter stopped by to see her.”
Blue nodded. “Carter was excited after that visit. He wouldn’t tell me why, though.”
“Did he finish the book?”
“No. He’d written about a third of it when it happened. I never even got to see sample chapters.”
“Who’s got the manuscript?”
“His widow.”
“I’d like to read it—”
“Not possible.”
“That’s for Mrs. Carter to decide.”
“She refuses every request.”
“Try.”
He considered it. “I’d have to give her a reason. Clearer than the one you’ve given me.”
“Tell her ...” I reflected. “Tell her it might mean the fulfillment of a mother’s dying wish.”
* * *
The Carter residence was at the Normandy, an imposing building of impeccable pedigree at a ritzy location, 86th Street and Riverside Drive. Mrs. Carter turned out to be a frail-looking woman in her late fifties, small-boned, like a bird, with sharp features and a halo of thin blonde hair. Well-dressed in a black tweed suit and very pretty, she wore a gold bracelet that was thick with charms and looked uncomfortably heavy on her thin, liver-spotted wrists. She was pale, her pallor underscored by her dark clothing.
“I don’t see many people these days,” she said.
“Thank you so much for seeing me at such short notice.” I’d sat in the office as Blue made the call and seen his surprise when she agreed to meet me within the hour.
“I usually don’t see people so quickly, but I had space in my schedule this morning—and well, you sounded so interesting. I was curious. Would you li
ke some coffee?”
Pictures of her and Carter decorated the walls of the hallway. They showed a big bear of a man in his sixties, given to wearing khaki safari suits.
She showed me into the living room. The exposure was north, but caught the rays of the afternoon sun. The room had little furniture, mostly comfortable reading chairs. Three of the walls had been given over to hardcover books. Books, books and more books—all protected in glass-covered bookshelves. The remaining wall was a frieze of Thai shadow puppets and African tribal masks. More pictures of the Carters stood on the fireplace mantel, photos of him among the Aborigines of Australia and the tribal hunters of New Guinea. Noticeably missing were safari photos and animal trophies. The emphasis was on people, not objects, and getting to know humanity in all its diversity.
I spied pictures of two people in their twenties, the Carters’ children probably, and a group photo that included three generations—the Carters, their children and grandchildren. It was the comfortable home of affluent bohemians: intellectual, worldly, tasteful.
She offered me a place on the sofa and took a seat in the armchair nearby. Her posture was upright, her legs crossed at the ankles, her hands held in her lap. She had clear blue eyes and they were bright with curiosity.
“Mr. Blue said you’re a writer?” She made the statement a question. “Also specializing in crime?”
“I’m very interested in one of the cases your husband researched. The Eric Alan Powell killing. Remember it? October of ‘23? The headlines were everywhere.” I outlined a newspaper headline with my hands. “‘Young Husband of Fifth Avenue Socialite Found Shot in His Car?’ Police thought Powell’s Chicago buddy did him in, a petty thief by the name of Bobby Kelly. Kelly skipped town and has been on the lam every since. Your husband spoke to Kelly’s sister, Katie Jones. She says he told her he believed her brother didn’t do it. He was the first person, she said, who believed in her brother’s innocence as much as she did. She said he was very clear about that. He gave her reason to hope that her brother could be cleared.”
“Yes, and?”
“Miss Jones said your husband told her he’d get back to her, but never did. And now she’s wondering whether he lied to her just to get her to open up and talk.”
Sophie Carter was indignant. “My husband would’ve never done that! He’d never take advantage of someone. If he said he believed her brother was innocent, then he did. He didn’t get back to her because—because of what happened. Surely she knows that.”
“No, Mrs. Carter, she doesn’t. Apparently, she’s totally unaware of the fact that your husband’s gone.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but I still don’t understand what all this has to do with you. Are you working on her behalf?”
“No. I’m doing research for my column. Your husband’s activities might be very relevant to my topic.”
“Which is?”
For some reason, I’d been reluctant to talk to her about Esther Todd’s disappearance, but now I did.
“Esther’s family is desperate to know what happened to her. I’m wondering whether Powell’s killer kidnapped her, too. If your husband got a new bead on him, then what he found out might be germane to Esther’s case.”
“Or it might have nothing to do with it?”
“I need to look at your husband’s papers. Not just the manuscript, but the notes, too. I need to know who he talked to and what they said.”
She thought it out. Her expression said she’d reached the other conclusion I had, the one I’d left for her to see for herself.
“You know, of course, that Tillman was found in Chicago?”
I nodded, knowing where this was leading.
“They never found my husband’s killer,” she said. “Someone shot him down and left him to die in an alleyway. Police said it was a botched robbery, but that didn’t make sense. Tillman went to some rough places to conduct research. But he was never foolish. And he never said anything about an appointment with anyone in the neighborhood where he was found.”
“Did you let the police see his papers?”
“They showed no interest in them. After all, Tillman mostly researched solved crimes. Cases where the guilty parties were behind bars. The Powell case was the only one in which the killer was still at large.” She frowned. “But why would Kelly shoot Tillman, the man who believed in him?”
A good question.
“Maybe your husband learned something that changed his opinion. Did he tell you he was going to Chicago?”
“No. In fact, I thought he’d gone to Boston. That’s what got me so worried. I tried to call him at his usual hotel in Cambridge, but they said he wasn’t there. He’d come in, then checked out hurriedly. I called everyone we knew in the Boston area. No one had seen him. So I called the police. Two days later, an officer came by. He said they’d found someone answering Tillman’s description—and they’d found him in Chicago.”
Her expression was pained and perplexed. “These crimes—the Powell killing, that poor woman’s kidnapping, the Goodfellowe robbery and now my husband’s murder—they may have nothing to do with one another. But you think they do.”
“Yes, I do.”
She was thoughtful. After several seconds, she went to the fireplace mantel. Her gaze rested on a large, silver-framed photo of her husband. He stood in what looked like a prison courtyard, prisoners gathered behind him. She picked up the photo and studied it.
“My husband had a big heart,” she said. “He expected to find the best in someone if he looked hard enough, dug deep enough. He wasn’t naïve, exactly, but what I liked to call a determined optimist.”
She sighed and set the photo down, then turned to me, her hands clasped together.
“I usually refuse requests to see Tillman’s unpublished work. Several university libraries want his manuscripts for their research libraries. A number of alienists and students have asked to see his notes. I’m considering the university requests, but I’ve turned down all the individuals. It’s important that Tillman’s ideas are preserved and presented properly. I won’t allow them to be dissected, distorted or outright stolen. That’s what I told the others and that’s what I’m telling you.”
I was deeply disappointed. “Mrs. Carter, I—”
“Having said that, I’ve decided to let you see the papers—but only under certain conditions.”
I was so relieved I would’ve agreed to just about anything.
“You may only view the sections relating to the Powell case, and you’ll have to read them here, in my presence. Understand?”
“Yes. That would be fine.”
“Come back in two hours. I’ll have everything ready.”
Chapter 45
Reading under Sophie Carter’s watchful eye didn’t turn out to be as bad as I thought it would be. Actually, she was of great help. Her husband had been a prodigious writer. He’d managed to write only five chapters of a projected twelve, but those five were plenty. They consisted of roughly seventy-five pages each, bringing the unfinished manuscript to a hefty 375 pages.
“He would write and write and try to get everything down as fast as he could,” she said. “Then he’d hand it to Joe. Joe’s a genius. He’d rework the manuscript until it shone. Sometimes he’d take out material and advise Tillman to save it for another book. So every book contained the seeds for the next one.” She smiled wistfully. Those days were gone now. The good times were gone.
I could understand why she’d limited me to the Powell notes. Carter had been a voluminous note taker, one who had his own idiosyncratic way of jotting things down and cross-referencing information. Going through it all would have meant hours of work. I would’ve gotten through it on my own, but I got through it faster thanks to Sophie Carter.
Her husband might well have been a visionary when it came to crime and criminal behavior. That I couldn’t say. But after reading those three books, I knew that he was a talented true crime writer of the first degree. His unedited chapte
r on Powell and the copious notes he’d made of his interviews only served to strengthen that opinion.
The Powell case fascinated Carter because what little was known of Bobby Kelly indicated an almost blind loyalty to Powell. Carter’s research had borne out Jones’s statement that her brother had worshiped Powell since childhood. Kelly even imagined himself as Powell’s “lost” brother. What made Kelly’s sudden vicious attack on Powell even more incredible was the fact that Kelly had no record of violence, armed or otherwise. He was a petty thief who always made sure his victims were nowhere near home when he broke in. Had Kelly carried a hidden rage against Powell for all those years? If so then over what? And what had brought it to the surface? Why had he killed his best friend, as the newspapers said, “in an explosion of anger?”
Carter couldn’t figure out Kelly’s motive. It bothered him. It also bothered him that as far as he could tell, Powell’s killing was premeditated. It had not occurred spontaneously, in any “explosion of anger.” It was not a murder of hot-blooded rage, but cold-blooded precision. Too many aspects of the crime scene underscored that point to ignore it, not the least of which were the out-of-the way setting and the fact that Powell had made no defensive moves. There were no wounds to his hands—scratches, bullet holes or otherwise—to indicate that he’d raised them in a useless but instinctive effort to protect himself.
Carter’s papers also raised questions about Powell’s personality. Powell was a slick con artist who liked “weak” victims: lonely widows he could easily manipulate. Like Kelly, he had no history of physical violence. So on the face of it, it seemed unlikely that Powell would’ve helped plan a murderous armed heist. Nevertheless, something told me he’d done just that. In the months before he died, something had persuaded him to move on to a higher, more complicated level of crime than he’d ever attempted before.
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