COPS SPIES & PI'S: The Four Novel Box Set

by David Wind

  I jerked my eyes from the bust. Enough had happened today without dredging up more. The wall across from me was a mixed gallery of the clients whom I had worked for during the last seven years, with pictures of me, Chris Bolt and Scotty Granger, peppered among them. The famous faces occupying the picture had come to me for help. For some it had been blackmail, others had been stalked by passionate admirers and for several I’d had to prove them innocent of murder or rape. The newest picture was of the American League’s MVP for last year—a false rape case I’d handled.

  I never take on a case if I don’t believe the person is innocent. I’m strange that way. I believe in black and white, good and bad, and ever since I’d found her dead, there has never been room for grey.

  I stared at the pictures. Every one of them looked back at me. A slow smile formed. When they had asked for help, I had given it to them. Now it was my turn. If I needed to, I would call in favors.

  The intercom beeped. “Yes?”

  “Your four o’clock appointment is here. I put them in the conference room.”

  “I’ll be right in,” I said. It would begin now.

  Chapter 7

  I allowed myself two minutes before moving. This meeting with the Angels would be interesting: Within the theatre hierarchy, angels had their own internal class distinctions. There were the angels who invested for the return a Broadway hit would generate; there were the star struck investors, dipping into their bank accounts because they wanted to be closer to the famous people and be a part of their fame; and, there were those whom I call the noble Angels, the ones to whom investing in a play means supporting the theatre and the creative arts. Which categories would the Angels who now gathered in my conference fall into?

  Shrugging off my jacket, I slung it on the leather chair, shifted my shoulder rig and started toward the door. I may be what the papers described me ─ a rough and tough private cop who uses whatever means necessary to get my job done; but in reality, half of what I do is psychological, not physical. The tough guy aspect? Yeah, I could be that too.

  Sure, my degree may have been a B.F.A. in Theatre Arts, but my minor was Psychology—and my postgraduate degrees came after being sent to Sing Sing. Taking off my jacket to expose the Sig Sauer .40 millimeter was pure psychology. When I walked into the conference room, it would be show time. Every eye would track to the flat black polymer automatic: people were either fascinated or repulsed by the weapon. But in either event, its significance was undeniable.

  The conference room was another slant I liked to work. It was just the opposite of what people’s minds conjure up when thinking of private investigators. Mine was a duplicate of all the conference rooms in all the law offices around the country. One wall was lined with shelves containing a couple of hundred volumes of legal books, including the New York and Federal legal codes. On the opposite wall hung a half dozen plaques, awarded to me for various public service things. Among them was my discharge from the United States Army Rangers. The third wall contained a media center with a 32-inch flat panel with all the electronic accoutrements. Everything in the room had a purpose. It was a stage, not Broadway, but mine.

  Centered on the last wall was a laminated copy of the New York Times, with the headline proclaiming Gabriel Storm had been freed from prison after two years. The article told of the relentless police work by Christopher Bolt and the ultimate capture of the real killer, my release from prison and exoneration of my fiancée’s murder. It hung on the wall because it was important to me that everyone knows who I am.

  I walked the eight paces from my office to the door of the conference room and stepped inside. The seven Angels who had been in the theatre were seated around the long table. Thomas Albright had seated himself at the far end. The others, four men and two women, sat on the sides.

  The blonde who had watched me leave the theatre was there as well. Her deep green eyes were the color of a flawless emerald. The newspaper and magazine pictures did not do her justice. The view from the top of the conference table to her neck showed her body matched her face.

  Her name was Lia Thornton: widow of Jeremy Thornton, the International Banker and former CEO of the Calvert Bank, one of the five largest international banking houses in the city.

  Lia Thornton had been the target of every gossip columnist in New York City, after marrying the wealthy well-known banker and philanthropist thirty-seven years her senior. She’d caught his eye as a dancer in the short-lived revival of Gypsy; and, following a whirlwind romance, married him at the ripe old age of thirty-eight. Now, she was a rich woman who did ‘lunches’ at Lutece, with all the right people, and spent her time and money on causes. She headed her late husband’s benevolent endeavors, and sat on the board of at least five charities.

  As predicted, every eye went to my shoulder rig when I crossed the room and took my seat at the head of the conference table. Lia Thornton was the first to look up; a shadowy smile graced her lips.

  I knew she knew my entrance had been pure show. Sitting, I looked at each face in turn. “What exactly do you want?”

  Everyone except for the blonde looked at Albright—she kept her eyes on me. Albright straightened his shoulders, cleared his throat and said. “First of all, we know how close you and Scotty were, and wanted to express our condolences.”

  “Thank you. And?”

  “We want to hire you.”

  Everyone’s head turned to me. “For what?”

  “Why for the obvious reason. You are an investigator. We want to hire you to investigate Scotty’s death.”

  “The police are working on it.” Like a tennis match, when Albright spoke everyone looked at him, when I spoke they turned to me. Now they were staring at Albright.

  He shifted uncomfortably, did a double scratch at the side of his humped nose with a manicured finger and said, “The police could take forever, if they are even able to find Scotty’s killer. It might take a long time. The papers will be following this closely. The negative publicity will kill the show. It’s a good show, Scotty’s best work. If the police drag their heels, it could take a long time and hurt the show.” When he finished, the others bobbed their heads in agreement. Lia Thornton just stared at me.

  His self-serving speech spiked my anger. I didn’t like Albright, not the way he spoke, not the way his manicured fingers pressed on the tabletop, and not the way his nasal voice grated on my ears. But what made me the angriest was because money was his motivation, not the death of a great playwright and my friend. Well, I knew which class of angel Albright fell into.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but what you want is for me to make certain you don’t lose your investments. And, you want me to make it all better because you know Scotty was my friend. Why not just be upfront and tell it like it is?”

  Before Albright could say anything, I went on, my words tumbling over him like an avalanche. “If you think because you put some money up for the show it makes you special and you can walk in here and ask me to help save your investments, you’re wrong.”

  I had more words ready, but bit them off. There was little doubt as to how I felt.

  Albright stood. “I imagine that’s a no. Sorry to have wasted your time.” But he hung there, waiting for me to say something.

  I leaned back. The silence in the room was heavy. The Angels looked at Albright and then each other. Even Lia Thornton’s features were perplexed.

  After enough time passed, I said, “Sit down, Mr. Albright. I didn’t say no. I just wanted you to understand I know what is going through your head. I’m on this case. If you want to hire me, that’s fine too. You can get the costs from my assistant after this meeting,” I said, nodding to where Femalé stood with a note pad in her hand. Her presence, too, was for show. Every word was being recorded by hidden microphones.

  “But right now, I want to know anything you might know about this morning.”

  Once again, the Angels’ eye dance commenced. Then Lia Thornton moistened her lips with the tip o
f a rose-colored tongue and said, “There was nothing I’m aware of. Scotty was always easy going but very fixed on what he was doing. He had tunnel vision when it came to the play. He wanted it perfect. We all did.” Her voice was soft, gentle, and smooth. I wasn’t sure which angel classification Lia Thornton fell within: greed, nobility or groupie.

  A murmur of agreement rose among the others. “And everything was on schedule?”

  A middle age man with short-cropped hair, dressed in an expensive suit turned to me. “John Marsh,” he said. "There was one scene Scotty wasn’t happy with. He was rewriting it. He had doubts it would be ready for the scheduled opening. But we believed he would be ready in time.”

  “Scene two,” I said and waited for their reaction.

  Every face reflected the same look of surprise.

  “How did you know?” Albright asked.

  “Scotty was my friend. If this hadn’t happened, would it have delayed the opening?” Before he could speak, I went on. "I’d be surprised if all of you didn’t know my background. Which means you know how well I know this world—how it works from the steps of the stage to the grids over it—what happens before during and after a production. New York theatre is an art: It is not just the art of the play, but also the art of the production and the art of the pre-opening publicity. If rumors of problems with the script are reported, it could hurt the show before it opened. But now, with Scotty dead, it could kill the show if things aren’t contained. Isn’t that the case?"

  Lia Thornton nodded her head. "Yes, that’s true."

  “We could have gone on with the original scene, which it seems we now must.” Albright cut in.

  Scotty would never have let that happen. I took in all the faces. Only one showed disagreement with Albright’s statement: Lia Thornton’s face said she knew Scotty wouldn’t have let it happen either.

  I stood, leaned forward, and rested both palms on the table. “All right. Leave your contact numbers with Femalé in case I have to reach you—a number available at all times. Do not speak to the press. Discuss nothing! Refer all questions to the show’s publicity people. Thank you for coming in.”

  I went to my office, closed the door and sat down. Turning to the computer, I hit a few keys and opened the email I’d sent to myself. It opened with scene two.

  “What do you know?” I asked the computer, which had no answers for me.

  I glanced at the time. It was four-forty. I dialed a number from memory. The call was answered on the third ring.

  “Hawks,” the voice said.

  “Afternoon Joe, it’s Gabe Storm.”

  “Hello Gabe, I… I’m sorry about Scotty.” Joe Hawks was the Times Broadway critic. Joe and I went back a way. I’d given him the only interview I’d done when I was on trial. And then I had helped him out, five years ago, on a personal matter. He had paid me back many times over with information I couldn’t get anywhere else. He was a good guy and a great critic.

  “Thanks, Joe. I need some information.”

  “As usual,” he said, dryly. “What happened today?”

  I filled him in on what I knew, and finished by telling him I’d been hired by the show’s backers.

  His laugh was as dry as his words. “Who says people with money are smart. The Angels should have just let you do your thing and watched.”

  “But they didn’t, which bothers me. You know what I mean?”

  “I do. What do you need?”

  “Everything you have.” I said without beating around the bush.

  “Could be a lot…. There’s been talk of things not going well. Scotty was rewriting. There was a lot of talk that the show might be in trouble.”

  “Anything specific?”

  “Not really… just the usual pre-show rumors which always haunt a new production.”

  “From the cast?”

  “Some from them, just whispers, but whispers get picked up and magnified,” he added. “Gabe, I liked Scotty a lot. He was more than just talented. He had that… I don’t know how to explain it other than to say greatness. You don’t think it was a robbery do you?”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  “You’ll keep me posted? I’ll handle the story. I don’t want one of our hotshots running with it. It needs to be written by someone who knew Scotty.”

  I closed my eyes for a second. Scotty’s face floated before me. I snapped them opened. “I’ll keep you in the loop. Do the same for me. If you hear anything let me know and Joe, make sure nothing about the rewrite gets into print.”

  “You’ve got it, on my end at least.”

  I hung up and dialed another number. When the FBI operator answered, I asked for Gina Torrelli. Gina was part of the FBI’s organized crime task force, and as such had done as much undercover work as she did work with her badge on. Currently, she was the number three agent in the New York office.

  There was a double click, and then a gentle voice answered. She could have been in the room with me instead of being twenty blocks uptown. I could almost smell her perfume.

  “Hi, Gorgeous.”

  “Oh-oh, you must want something. And how was your date last night? I hear she was more than a handful.” The sound of her voice kicked up emotion within me.

  A self-conscious laugh escaped. There must have been an undercover operative in the club last night. Gina and I had been a couple at one time. It had been one of those head over heels affairs that started in the middle of an investigation and lasted a year before we both knew that what we did and the way we did it made us impossible. We carried too many secrets, and the worry over what one of us was doing affected our work and created a wall between us. And then, if I cut through all the layers of bull, there was my own trust issue. I refused to be responsible for something happening to Gina because she was involved with me.

  The lightness of her voice made me hate what I had to say next. “Have you heard yet?”

  “Heard what Gabe? I’ve been in Washington for the past two days. I got back a half hour ago.”

  A fist hit me in the pit of my stomach. I wanted to be anywhere but on the phone. I took a measured breath. “Scotty was murdered this morning.”

  The only sound was her breathing. When the silence continued to drag on, I said, “Gina?”

  “God Gabe, what happened?”

  “The police have it down as a robbery.”

  “Tell me,” she whispered, her voice breaking. I told her all of it: the way he was shot, the ransacking of the apartment, and my own sense of wrongness with it all.

  “I’m so sorry… I–”

  “–I know. Gina, I need a favor.”

  “Ask.”

  “I need whatever there is in the Bureau’s files on Scotty and on the backers of the show.”

  “Why the backers?”

  “A hunch. I know that’s breaking the rules over there, but it’s important.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  I knew it was as good as done.

  “When is the funeral?”

  “I don’t know yet, the police have Scotty at the ME’s. As soon as I do I’ll let you know. Let’s have dinner soon.”

  “That would be nice. It’s been a while,” she said, her voice almost back to normal.

  By the time we said goodbye, there were two hours left before I was due at Chris’s for dinner. Standing, I pulled on my jacket and went into the front office.

  “You’ve got all the phone numbers?” When she nodded, I said, "Call the publicity people and tell them there’s to be no comment on anything until we contact them. I’m out of here now. I’m having dinner with Chris.”

  She glanced up. “Gottlieb called back. Your appointment was changed to ten-thirty tomorrow morning. He said there was no problem in getting the books. I called the ME’s office. They’ll release Scotty’s….” The words caught in her throat, she took a breath, "tomorrow afternoon if everything goes okay with the autopsy. I made the arrangements with Riverside—it’s scheduled for Thursday
at eleven.”

  A bitter taste filled my mouth. My sadness threatened to break out. “I’m going home to change. I’ll be in tomorrow morning, after I meet with Gottleib.”

  Chapter 8

  Before going home, I walked to Forty-second street and Eleventh Avenue, to the small storefront of Save Them, the organization Scotty had started for missing children.

  The walk took fifteen minutes, all of which I used to think about the good things Scotty had done in his short life. Save Them was one of the highlights. Scotty’s family had been living in Rochester, in a nice middle class neighborhood at the time his sister had gone missing. Eight years old, Elizabeth was a pretty girl who liked to play with the girls in her class and with her older brother. Scotty had been twelve and it had occurred two years before I’d met him.

  Nobody knew what happened with any certainty. Most days, Scotty walked ‘Lizbeth home from school; but, he and his mother had gotten their signals crossed and he’d stayed after class for rehearsal in the sixth grade school play and ‘Lizbeth had walked the five blocks from the school to their house alone. She disappeared somewhere between school and home. The police and the FBI had been called in, and for two years, Scotty’s mother received reports, but eventually it became a cold case. Even the private investigator they’d hired had come up empty. The case was put into the ‘unsolved’ files and life went on. Two years after Elizabeth Granger had been abducted, the Grangers moved to the city. Scotty had never forgiven himself for not walking his sister home.

  Scotty never forgot ‘Lizbeth and, after he became successful, he founded Save Them, and funded the organization himself. Chris and I were always available for help, and for donations which we gave to the organization.

  In the six years Save Them had been around, they had found and reclaimed over a hundred missing children off the streets of New York City. It wasn’t a great record in light of the thousands of children who disappeared each year, but those hundred kids had been given their lives back, and their families had become as whole as possible after what they’d been through.