by David Wind
“I can tell you Parodi didn’t know the man, and Parodi’s got a real balls-on mad for you. But,” he’d added, “I’ve still got nothing more than the name Charles.”
After he’d fallen silent, my mind kicked into gear; there was still more Marks could do. “I’m going to give you a name, but I need your word that all you’ll do, until I give you a go, is to get me information. Are you up for that?”
I’d waited for the detective to consider my request. When he’d spoken again, his voice had been reflective. “How far are you making me stick my neck out?”
“Not far enough to get it chopped off.”
“You got my word.”
“From what I learned in Miami, Charles’s last name is Rice—which may or may not be true—Charles Edward Rice.”
“You didn’t happen to come up with an address by any chance,” he’d asked dryly.
“Just a city. Harrisburg Pennsylvania. And Marks, be careful, this is political.”
“Hey, Storm, you know me, my nickname is ‘Sergeant Careful’.”
I’d laughed with him, reminded him I got the info first and he would wait for me before acting; but, I was nice enough not to remind him that if his nickname had been ‘Careful’, he’d have made lieutenant a year ago.
My next call had been to Lia Thornton to arrange to meet her at her apartment. She’d invited me for lunch. By the time I’d finished the calls it was eleven and I sent Femalé to the offices to watch over the last of the repairs and wait for Arnie Steeplechase’s technician.
With Femalé gone, I took my sore and stiff muscles to the bedroom, changed into work clothes and strapped on my shoulder rig. As presentable as circumstances allowed, I left for my meeting with Lia Thornton.
<><><>
The cross-town walk was sore-body slow and uneventful, unless you count working out what and how I would say what I needed to, to Lia. Was there an easy way to say Albright was using her, and her husband and Albright had some very dicey goings on?
There were none I could think of.
I reached the Sutton Place building just before noon and gave my name to the concierge. He called up and nodded me toward the elevators. I was lucky enough to share the ride with an eighty-year old woman and her two hundred and fifty year old miniature poodle, both of whom had blue hair and smelled like antiques that hadn’t been out of the attic in a decade. I breathed a sigh of relief when she got off three floors later.
Lia’s maid answered the door and walked me to the living room, where a new picture window overlooked the city. Within a minute of my sitting down, Lia Thornton waltzed into the room, wearing black pants and a loose fitting lavender top, and kissed me on the cheek. She then stepped back to eye my bruised face and short hair.
“You made the news this morning. Are you okay?”
“Fine. They named me?”
Her blonde hair tossed with her headshake. “No, they said there was a bomb explosion in the office of a private investigator in the Empire State building.”
“Close enough.”
“Are they still warning you?” she asked, her eyes going to the window.
“Nah…. They’re trying to kill me now.”
Something changed in her eyes. The green deepened and her pupils dilated, the humor of seconds ago was gone. “Then you’re getting close to finding Scotty’s killer?”
Her words were more a statement than a question. My answer was a simple. “Yes.”
“Can you tell me who?”
The housekeeper interrupted us by setting a tray on the coffee table with two plates of quartered sandwiches and two tall glasses, next to which were bottles of Tsingtao. Lia was nothing, if not thorough.
“I have a few leads, but not the right one yet.” I looked at the food and back at her. “Lia, there’s no easy way to do this but to be blunt.”
Her brows furrowed with my words. “I’m not sure what you mean, but you already know I prefer directness.”
“How well did you know your husband?”
“Very well—better than most wives know their husbands.”
I wasn’t going to disagree with her. She had lived several lives, and knew men well. “Before his death, was he being blackmailed?”
“Blackmailed? Of course he wasn’t. What has this to do with Scotty?”
“Nothing I know of; but, in my investigation, I’ve come across a few things. Your husband was making bank transfers from both his personal checking and brokerage accounts for at least fifteen years before his death. The amounts were between a quarter of a million and a half million dollars a year. That’s an awful lot of undocumented money going out.”
Lia’s body language went through a subtle change—a slight stiffening of her neck, the folding of her hands into her lap. “You’ve been breaking into my accounts?”
Her reaction caught me off guard. I should have realized what I’d done might have been taken wrong. “Yes. Lia, Scotty believed you were his friend. You know he was aware of your past, and he wanted to help you. He can’t any more so I’m doing it for him.”
“How does breaking into my personal records prove I’m his friend? Or do you think I killed him?”
I put my hand over hers. “No, I–”
She snatched her hand away. “Then why?”
“I had to know if you were involved.”
“And?”
“And I know you aren’t.”
Her stiffness left with my words, but the hurt remained on her face. “What else have you been digging up?”
“Whatever I could, but you know that. I delved into your background in New Orleans and New York. I know how hard your life has been.”
“It’s not something I’ve tried to hide.”
“I’m not saying you did. I came here to tell you I know you loaned Albright the money for him to invest in the play. I want to know why you didn’t tell me.”
“Because he’s a friend who needed my help is why. He’s someone who helped me over the rough spots when Jeremy died, and if there was something I could do to help him, I would do it. Loaning him the money to invest was one way. And he asked to keep it just between us.”
“Who’s idea was the play, his?”
“No, it was mine. I’ve invested in plays in the past, and when I heard Scotty was staging a new production, I wanted to be part of it. I knew it would be a good play, and profitable.”
Her words rang true, which strengthened my feelings. “Why do you think Albright followed you in?”
“He’s been having problems. I suggested the play as a good way to make money. A Granger play is as close to a guarantee as possible. He took my advice and then let me loan him the money.”
“You have a lot of confidence in the play.”
A smile tugged the corners of her mouth; her eyes went unfocused. “Not the play, the playwright. You’re very good, Gabriel. You found a way around my anger.”
“No, you did. But I need to go back a step. Was Jeremy being blackmailed?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Not that I was ever aware of. Are you going to have lunch or just...ah, grill me?”
“Both.” I took a break from the questions and poured the beer. While the head settled, I lifted one of the sandwich quarters and took a bite. The spiced chicken salad exploded in my mouth. “Very good.”
Lia took a small bite of her sandwich, and then said, “Why would you think Jeremy was being blackmailed?”
“The regularity and of the amounts of funds transferred point to that. It was going on for at least fifteen years, maybe longer.”
“I think I would have known if he was being blackmailed.”
“Are there any family members he would have been supporting?”
“No, his wife died twenty years before we met.”
“And Albright never said anything about the money?”
“Why would he know?”
“Because the money transfers were not restricted to your husband’s bank account, it was also going out of th
e brokerage account.”
“Gabriel, I don’t know any of that. I first started looking at the accounts after Jeremy… died.”
Did you know the money he’d used from the bank which raised Banking and SEC interest, was replaced from his personal account just before his death?”
“Yes. He told me he’d made a mistake, but had rectified it. The agencies were satisfied and closed the investigation.”
“Do you know what the money was used for?”
She shook her head. “No, he never had the chance to tell me.”
I wondered, but had no place to lead her to, to find out. “Did your husband ever mention a man by the name of Brian Vandegroten?”
She processed the name for a moment. “No.”
I wasn’t sure if the shifting of her eyes from my face to her plate meant anything. I watched her pick up a sandwich quarter and wondered why, if she did know the name, she didn’t want me to know.
“I’m going to speak to Albright. Do you have any objection?”
“Call it a request.” She put the sandwich down and turned back to me. “From what you’ve said, Thomas was aware of these regular withdrawals. He would have had to, wouldn’t he?” She didn’t wait for me to answer. “I want to know what you learn.”
“That’s fair enough. Lia, there’s something else.”
Her lips tightened into a narrow line of pale red. “Are you going to get me angry again?”
“It’s not my intention. I’d like you to meet someone. She’s a friend of Scotty’s and mine. He was going to ask you to meet her before he died.”
“Amanda Bolt?” She challenged with a stare.
“He discussed Amanda with you?”
“And I told him I was happy to leave my memories where they were. Occasionally, a piece of my life pops up and it makes me sick to my stomach. I won’t go through that. I don’t want to remember what I’ve chosen to forget.”
I didn’t try to tell her it wasn’t what she’d chosen to forget; rather, it was what she’d elected to remember. We spent the rest of lunch talking about the play, but not for one minute could I shake the feeling Lia was holding back.
<><><>
I got to the office after one, to find the workmen gone, a new door up—sans the lettering—and two three-foot tall ion air purifiers working hard to clear the air of the smell of explosives and fire. Femalé’s desk was destroyed, or so I assumed, as it was no longer in the office; likewise, the couch and two chairs.
The artwork decorating the walls was another story: the canvasses were almost nonexistent while somehow, the frames had survived with just a light scorching. Bombs can be strange: as if they have a mind of their own, destroying certain things and leaving others almost untouched.
The ceiling tiles over the door had a large hole ripped into them. Several smaller holes surrounded it. The ceiling would require extensive work, but with luck, the shaped charge should not have caused any significant damage to the floor above.
Deeper inside, the supply room door was open and one of Arnie’s techs was working on the server. Femalé was in the conference room, her laptop up and running, the table littered with papers and her mouth set in a determined frown.
“What’s up?”
“Not the network. The explosion did something to the wiring. Kenny said it would be fixed soon. He got the email working because Arnie used a separate mail server for that.”
Kenny was the technician. “How much of what was in the front was salvageable?”
“The paperwork? The computer? None of it. I’ve been redoing the research from yesterday, because it’s going to be a few hours before the server is back up.” She pointed at a legal pad at the far end of the table. “You’ve had calls.”
“The phones are working?”
“They weren’t affected, just the phone on my desk. Your office is okay and I opened the window to get the smell out.”
“Anything else?”
“Not yet.”
“Call me if you need me.” I grabbed the pad and retreated to my office, where the oppressing end of summer heat blew through the window. I closed it. The smell wasn’t too bad, just a lingering after-scent of hell.
Shrugging off my jacket, I sat behind the desk. What was Lia Thornton hiding? Her husband’s money transfers had been going on for a decade or more before he’d married her, so they should have nothing to do with her. Or, was I reading something into the way she had reacted to the name. Had it been Femalé’s earlier words that made me suspicious again? I knew Lia Thornton was someone with secrets. Could what her husband had done before they’d met, be a part of that?
Unable to come up with a satisfactory theory, I looked at the message notations. There were almost a dozen calls: one from Chris, another from Amanda and a third from Samantha Collins. Five of them required no immediate reply, but the one call from the show’s director did.
Santucchi’s name was next. Femalé had underlined the phone number next to it. Following the gangster cum exotic entrepreneur was Rabbit’s name. It was going to be a long afternoon.
I called the director. After a short initial report of how things were going, he said he was pushing the schedule ahead. Dress rehearsals would start tomorrow and he hoped to have the first of the previews ready within ten days. He wanted a month of weekend previews before opening the play.
I told him I’d give him my thoughts on the previews after I saw the first dress rehearsal. Finishing, I dialed the number Femalé had left for Santucchi. He answered it on the second ring. “You called?”
“Do I have you to thank for Joey’s going away?”
His question set off my internal alarm. “Thank me?”
“Don’t play innocent, Storm. You ran your play on Joey, and then he gets hauled in by the cops. Last night he gets a phone call at the club, tells me he has to take care of something personal, and never comes back. I sent someone to his place. He wasn’t there. No one knows where he went so I figure you might know something.”
“Not me. I got what I needed from him. I was tangling with a bomb last night. Don’t tell me you’re all broken up?”
“That was you?” Santucchi laughed. “Hey, I was just calling to thank you.”
“Don’t. I had nothing to do with it.”
“Whatever you say, Storm. Ciao.”
I hung up. There were two possibilities on Parodi’s disappearance: The Contes and Charles Rice. It was an interesting thought.
The intercom rang. “Yes ma’am?”
“He wouldn’t say who he was but he said you wanted to speak to him.”
“What does he sound like?”
“Cultured, very cultured.”
“Listen in,” I told her before picking up the phone. “Storm.”
“You left me message, Mr. Storm.”
The well-enunciated words came through in the same clear pattern I’d heard on the phone and at the Looker’s Club. “And?”
“You wanted to meet with me, to discuss a possible deal?”
“Or to lay out the rules of engagement—it’s your choice.”
“You do not scare me, Mr. Storm, but I would rather keep things polite. As it is, there has been all too much…activity. I am interested in what you think you have to offer. Do you have a suggestion for a meeting place?”
The way he spoke grated on my ears—people who refuse to use contractions annoy me, and in Rice’s case it didn’t hide the fact he was a killer and the protector of a low life pedophile. Which boiled down to one thing: I wanted to get my hands around his neck and squeeze. “I have a place. When do you want to meet?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Fine. Call me at eight and I’ll give you the address.”
“So you can set things up? No, I think not.”
“Tell you the truth, Rice, I don’t give a damn what you think. The last thing I’m going to do is meet you someplace you’ve prepared. There’s no bargaining on this point.”
He went silent for several
seconds. “I will call you at eight. I will have two men with me.”
“You can bring ten. They stay back while we talk.”
“Mr. Storm, I know I should not need to warn you, but I prefer to err on caution’s side. Do not think about setting a trap for me. Do we understand each other?”
“Better than you can ever imagine, Rice, much better.” I hung up. I hadn’t bothered to give him my cell number; I was sure he already knew it.
Ten seconds later Femalé marched in. “Okay, he bit, now what?”
“Now we do what we’re being paid for.” I went to the bar and pulled out a bottle of scotch and two glasses, poured a little over a finger into each and motioned Femalé to join me.
She came over, a single eyebrow arched. “We’re celebrating something?”
Smiling, I handed her a glass, lifted mine and touched the rim to hers. “We are celebrating the fact that tomorrow the case will be wrapped.”
I took a drink and waited for Femalé to do the same. When she lowered her glass, she said, “Where are you planning to meet him?”
“I thought it would be obvious.”
“Nothing is obvious when you’re involved,” Femalé retorted.
I thought of Scotty and of his sense of drama. “Why, the theatre of course.”
Femalé’s eyes widened. “Of course. What will you need?”
“A video camera with a directional mike; you, hiding in the wings and we’ll need one other body in the theatre.”
“Who?”
“I’ll think on it. How’s the research coming?”
“It’s coming. I’ll let you know when it’s done.” She put the glass down and left, but not before tossing me an over the shoulder look that said she was no longer sure of my mental stability.
It was okay, because I knew what was going to happen.
Chapter 54
I put Charles Edward Rice on the back burner while I concentrated on cleaning my plate of the remaining calls. The first was to Save Them.
“Gabriel Storm,” I said when Samantha Collins answered.
“Are you okay?”
News travels fast. “I’m fine, thank you.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Do you remember asking me to look for a pattern with the missing girls?”
