Warren found it hard to speak. Memories came rushing back at him; small things that had all but been forgotten. An evening walk in a park. A shared cup of coffee at an all-night diner, sitting in a car on a silent street and pouring out each other’s hearts. And a silent evening of listening to rain falling. Yvonne’s eyes were still full of tears, and he glanced away from her to hide his own. He didn’t cry very much these days. Learned the art of blocking off his feelings as well as his memories. Both were returning against his will.
Yvonne read his pain. She always could. She held his arm tighter. “We were good, though, weren’t we?”
He nodded. “The best.” He had to clear his throat to get the words out. There was a clap of thunder outside. The dawn sky returned to night darkness.
She smiled in reminiscence. “Yeah. Coulda been something, huh? The two of us, I mean. You and me on one side, the world on the other. Damn, you and I could have rebuilt the whole world from scratch in our lifetime.”
“Could have. Another Genesis. And we were modest about it, too.”
They both laughed. Yvonne propped herself up a little more and urged him to face her. “It’s all right, Warren. I’m not angry — anymore.”
“God, I wish we could start over. Wipe everything else away. Get out of this damned city and learn to live.”
“Now you’re stealing my lines, Resnick.”
Their eyes met. “They’re still there, Yvonne. My feelings haven’t gone away. I did my best to put you out of my head. Succeeded for a long while. Even surprised myself. Until I saw you again. I don’t want to have to fight the way I feel anymore.”
“I think, deep down, maybe mine are there, too. You caused a lot of damage, more grief than I’d ever let you know. But … ” She wiped her wet eyes. “You were the best of the lot, Resnick. I may be a fool to admit it — ”
He cradled her in his arms, pulled her close. They remained that way for a time. “I don’t want to be without you, Yvonne.”
“You’re still a dreamer. It’s going to hurt us both all over again,” she warned.
He shook his head. “Maybe not this time. Maybe — ” He could not say more, or hold the tears back. A well of emotion came over him. His shoulders shook, and she rested his head to her breasts. For a while she comforted him, rocking back and forth, running her fingers through his hair, giving wisping kisses while he wept. This too passed.
Side by side they lay, holding each other close. Warren kissed her lingeringly. Yvonne could feel her own passion begin to grow. She loved Warren; deep down knowing now she’d never really stopped loving him, even after all the pain.
Her own kisses became more urgent, more needing. She wept, feeling the joy of finding each other once more after so long. So very long. The outside world disappeared around them. There was Warren and there was her. Nothing else for the moment mattered. Warren tried to whisper something. She hushed him and clung all the tighter. Gently, caringly, they made love. Then they slept. It was many long hours before either one awoke.
Warren nudged her gently. Yvonne purred in her deep sleep. She opened her eyes briefly.
“You stay in bed and rest,” he told her. “I’ll take care of things.” She nodded and pretended to sleep as she watched him slowly dress. There was pain and conflict in his sad eyes. She wanted to say something; let him know that she understood. That last night didn’t alter things for them. Not permanently anyway. Their separate lives would go on as before. Karen would never be knowingly hurt.
Damn, you’re a lucky woman, Karen Resnick.
Warren leaned over her and kissed her. “I do love you, Yvonne. I want you to know that.”
“I do know, Warren. I do.”
He slipped quietly out of the room. Yvonne turned her face to the pillow. She liked Karen. Truly. And breaking up Warren’s marriage was something she’d vowed never to do. All the more now. There’d been too much guilt already, too many tears. She’d thought it had all been left behind. She’d been wrong. DiPalma and Resnick had drifted back to one another again.
Dear God, this time, when he leaves me again, please don’t let it hurt so much.
XXIV
“Detective Resnick?” A strong hand extended toward his own. They shook hands firmly. Warren looked over the young denim-clad man before him. He was wearing sneakers, an expensive shirt with a silk tie, Harris tweed sports jacket.
“You’re Gil Todd?”
The man smiled. He put a finger to his blond moustache as he shook his head. “No, I’m Mr. Todd’s attorney. Rosen. Michael Rosen. This is Mr. Todd.” He gestured toward the corner of the hotel room where a lanky, thirtyish fellow in jeans, sweater, and quality leather boots made a small saluting gesture. He was handsome in almost a feminine way; soft features, smooth skin. His eyes were large and intense.
Before Warren could say anything, the lawyer said, “I trust we all understand that my client is here of his own free will. He is not a part of any criminal act or charges, and because this is an informal meeting he retains the right to terminate the discussion at any time he so chooses. Also, he is a Canadian citizen, who at the request of the New York City Police Department has agreed to travel here to, er, assist in any way he can with what I understand to be an ongoing investigation. Should — ”
“I get your point, Mr. Rosen,” Warren said tersely. “We all are aware of the understanding. And I am appreciative of your client’s willingness to be here this morning.” He looked at Gil Todd. The former Back Alley musician was grinning. “Expensive lawyers do come in handy,” he said. “Perhaps we can get started.”
Warren took a seat on the divan. The windows were open wide, and he could hear the noise of the city traffic eleven floors below. A cool breeze refreshed the room nicely.
“No tape recorders, I trust,” said the lawyer, who settled into a cushioned chair close to his client.
“No tape. No notes. Off the record, as agreed.”
“Let’s get it over,” said Gil Todd. He stretched his legs out alongside the coffee table. Warren noticed he had a hint of a foreign accent. Not Quebec French. It surprised him. The only thing about his whole demeanor that was unpredictable.
“One moment, please,” said Michael Rosen. He tapped a pipe rapidly into the palm of his hand. “Our understanding said that two police officers would be present. Where’s the other?”
“Detective DiPalma couldn’t be here. She offers her apologies, okay?”
Michael Rosen shrugged, stuck the pipe in the corner of his mouth. “Okay. With the understanding that Mr. Todd will be returning home to Toronto later today, and will not be returning to New York for the foreseeable future.”
“I have no problem with that.”
“Good.” The attorney smiled fully. “Shall I order up some coffee while we chat?”
Warren eased into the role of policeman. Having the lawyer present didn’t throw him off in the least. He was used to it, expected it. He knew what questions he needed to ask, and what answers he was hoping to find. The only thing that was unexpected was the accent. He wondered about it.
“Where are you from, Mr. Todd?”
“Toronto. It’s been my home since I was ten.” His voice was soft, steady. He was completely at ease. His hair was dark and long, and he had a habit of throwing it back as he talked. He seemed to be willing and cooperative.
“You were a member of the Back Alley band?”
“From the inception, yes. Not in the last few years. But I’m sure you know that already.”
“Why did you leave?”
Gil Todd blew out a mouthful of air. “Cutting the bullshit?” He said that in an almost charming and likable way.
“Cutting the bullshit.”
“I’m a songwriter. Music is my life. Our manager and promoter felt my material was wrong for the established image of the band. Taking us into unknown styles.” He smiled as if to himself. “The other group members felt the same, apparently. I disagreed. We might have taken a vote on it, but I
choose an easier solution. Told them all to fuck off. Simple, eh?”
“Sounds so. Do you still receive substantial royalties from your music?”
“Some. I pay my taxes, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
Warren smiled. “I can’t help but notice that you have an accent. You’re not from Quebec are you?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Would you mind telling me where you were born?”
Gil Todd started to answer, but his lawyer stopped him. “I don’t think this has any relevance to our discussion. I see no need to answer that, Gil.”
Gil Todd shrugged. Warren leaned forward. “You know what we’re dealing with here, Mr. Rosen. A psychopathic killer that has a fixation with your client’s band — ”
“Former band.”
“Former band. But some of the criminal incidents seem to be directly tied to songs that your client wrote while with the band. All information is valuable to us. As an attorney you know that full well. We have to learn everything we can, and just pray something leads us to something.” He looked sharply at the songwriter. “Your lawyer’s right. You don’t have to answer. But I’m asking you to. Please.”
Gil Todd sighed. “What difference can it make, Michael? All right, Mr. Detective. I was born in Istanbul.”
“Turkey?”
“Turkey. My parents brought my sister and me to Canada. First to London, Ontario, then we settled in Toronto. It’s been home ever since.”
“Your name is quite British.”
“Changed it — legally. When I was in school. I was already playing my music, and it didn’t seem to fit the image. I think Americans refer to it as assimilation.”
“Your parents, did they have political reasons to come to Canada?”
Todd placed his hands together in a serious gesture. “None. Strictly economic. They wanted a better life, like millions of other Canadians, and Americans also.”
“Were you yourself ever involved in politics?”
“I vote liberal.” He chuckled.
“Any of the other members of Back Alley? Were any sympathetic with what we might call third-world causes, or revolutions?”
“Music was our only revolution, detective. It still is mine, it’s a different kind than my former colleagues play.”
Warren leaned back. The coffee came, everyone relaxed. Gil Todd lighted a cigarette, flicked his match into an oversized shell ashtray beside his seat.
“Do you know of anyone who harbored a grudge against you or any member of the group for any reason?”
“None at all.” He inhaled.
“Any connection with drugs?”
“I’d be lying if I told you we never smoked grass.” Michael Rosen was shooting his client warning looks, but Gill Todd ignored them all. “Most of the time we’d go out on stage feeling pretty good.”
“Never dealt with hard stuff?”
“You’re on the wrong track, detective. I got high on my music. Still do. I’m very proud of my achievements — and no, I have no grudges personally against anyone in the band. Not before, not now.”
“Do you keep in touch?”
“Rarely.” The question seemed to trouble him momentarily. Bad memories of the breakup. Like a soured marriage.
“We seem to be getting little out of this, Detective Resnick,” said Michael Rosen. “Most of what you’re asking is common knowledge. A simple telephone call could have answered the rest. Why is Mr. Todd here in New York?”
Warren chewed at his lip. He wasn’t about to tell them that grasping at straws was better that trying to grab the wind. “We think the bomber has a grudge of some kind against the Back Alley band.”
“Nonsense. There’s never even been a single incident or threat against any member of Back Alley either before or after my client was with the group.”
“That is the truth,” Gill Todd added. “There’d be no need in lying about that to anyone. We know it’s a sick world, and that death threats are being made all the time. Nevertheless, it didn’t happen to the band, nor to me.”
“But you are aware of the Armageddon bombings occurring precisely with lyrics from your music.”
“I’m aware. It’s the most publicity I’ve had since the breakup. Like I said, though, it’s a sick world. What else can I say?”
Warren stood up and glanced out the window. Gil Todd seemed honest enough, he knew. His cop’s guts assured him that nothing was being purposely held back. Nevertheless something was nagging at him like a toothache that wouldn’t quite go away. “Did you ever hear the name Vanessa Santiago?”
“We have newspapers in Toronto, detective. She’s the one being linked to your bombings. Before that, though? No. Never. Doesn’t mean a thing.”
“Is it possible, though, that perhaps at some time she’d met or been in contact with anyone in the band?”
He shrugged broadly, snubbed out his cigarette. “There were women all over the place. All types, descriptions. I wouldn’t swear she couldn’t have been somewhere at some particular time. Who knows?”
“Did you ever have relationships with any of your fans?”
Gil Todd laughed broadly. “I like your style, detective. Relationships? I fucked a lot of women when I was on the road, if that’s what you’re asking. Wouldn’t you? Anyway, they never even had faces, let alone names. Have any idea how many women will give up pussy to make it with a rock star?” He continued to smile. “Of course, once I left the group I wasn’t quite so popular. Had to make it back on my charm and good looks, like we all did in school.”
“Did you go to college, Mr. Todd?”
“I tried it for about a year. Couldn’t keep my head in the books. So I quit.”
“Canadian university?”
He nodded. “In Ontario. If you’re looking for degrees, it’s my sister you should be speaking with. She’s the genius of the family. Has a Ph.D. in the sciences, no less. She’s the one who won all the accolades when she came back to Canada.”
“Back to Canada?”
“She earned her doctorate in Britain. A program similar to what you call Fulbright Scholarships.” He spoke with pride about it.
“And before that? Where did she go to school?”
“Before? I doubt my sister’s education is going to do you any good, but since you asked, she went to college in New York.”
“New York City?”
“As a matter of fact, no. Albany. Albany State.”
XXV
“ … A list of every student graduating from Albany State during the years Vanessa Santiago attended,” Yvonne was saying when Warren came into the room. “Because of Todd’s cooperation we were able to nail down the connection like that.” She snapped her fingers. She glanced up at Warren and smiled.
“I have it right here, captain. Turkel. Selin Turkel is her name. She never changed it. The records on her from Toronto P.D. say she’s single, living alone, working for a large biochemical corporation. She does research on gene-splicing and the like. Canadian government sponsored. She’s clean. Top priority clearance rated.”
Winnegar quipped something over the phone. Yvonne, looking more rested and better than Warren had seen her in weeks, laughed loudly. “Yes, sir … No, sir. Give me a day and I’ll get back to you on that.” She nodded absently, hung up the phone. She stood and hugged Warren as hard as she could. There was a pleasurable flush in her cheeks. The old sleuthing DiPalma back in form.
“You’re happy,” he muttered.
“Got reason to be.” She swung around from his arms, plopped into her chair in one graceful movement. Hastily she took another bite from her waxpaper-wrapped egg salad sandwich. “We solved a few questions — with your help. And Mr. Todd’s.”
“Don’t leave me in the dark.” He sat at the edge of the desk.
She winked at him. “Selin Turkel was not involved in the Los Campions movement. However, she’s been directly tied to connections at the office of the governor of the state of New York. Seems that, wa
y back when, while she was doing a little post graduate study, she was hired by a state agency to help out for a while. During which time she became known to, and involved with no less than our current number two suspect.”
“Jaime DeVicente.”
“You’re on your toes today, Warren.”
She took another bite, swallowed, reached for her coffee container. An untouched lighted cigarette smoldered beside her. “She’s already been contacted by Canadian security, and has offered complete assistance, no questions asked.”
“Whoa. You’re getting ahead of me. This all happened years ago — ”
“Yeah. Except that it seems our friend DeVicente, during his missing time on Earth, spent some of it up in Canada with Selin Turkel. She didn’t want anything to do with him. It appears that somewhere along the line, though, the governor’s office secretly had more concern than they led us to believe. They’d unofficially contacted her some time back, and persuaded her to inform them if the missing son of the governor’s special assistant were to show his face. All to which Ms. Turkel agreed. See, her employer has strong ties with the U. S. of A. In fact … ”
Yvonne smiled again. “There’s something about a sublicensing contract that gives rights through the Canadian government to our own. She has a very powerful position, and isn’t about to jeopardize it for anything.”
“How long ago had she been contacted by Albany?”
“A few months back.”
“You mean they knew all along? The governor’s office lied to us?” Warren was incredulous.
“Someone lied to us — or at least someone stepped in to hush it up. My guess is it was William DeVicente himself. Concerned about the antics of the son he never hears from. And trying to cover his own political ass.”
“Yvonne, this is potential dynamite.”
“At least plastique,” she said with dark humor. “Winnegar found it quite interesting, I promise. For now he wants the lid kept on — too much hysteria if it goes public. I concurred. He’s going to personally follow through.”
Black Midnight Page 21
