Where Nobody Dies

by Carolyn Wheat

  I didn’t have to worry. After we’d finished our tea and cookies, Marcy said to her niece, “Dawn, honey, Cass and I have to talk business for a while.” Will you stay up here and watch TV while we go downstairs?

  Dawn nodded, her big eyes solemn. She probably assumed our business was her custody. I didn’t disabuse her. I turned on the television, handed her the TV listings, and showed her how to change channels. Marcy picked up her hot-pink briefcase and we walked down the stairs to my office.

  It was cold. I’d turned off the radiators. But it wasn’t nearly as cold as Marcy Sheldon’s voice, cutting across the gloom like skate blades on ice.

  “What the hell is going on?” she demanded. “What is in this envelope? And don’t give me another song and dance about insurance!”

  “What makes you think it’s not insurance?” I shot back. “You didn’t open it, or you’d know what’s in it. So what makes you think it’s not a piece of the rock?” What I really wanted to know was whether or not Marcy had any reason to suspect her sister’s activities before she got the envelope from her father.

  The answer was swift and laden with bitterness. “Harry,” she said. I’d switched on a light or two by now, and I saw the curl of her lip, the unmistakable contempt.

  I sat behind my desk, motioning her to take the client’s chair. She remained standing, then turned suddenly and asked, “What’s your father like?”

  “Picture Dan Dailey without the dancing,” I replied.

  She laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. “Harry’s more like Frank Burns on ‘M*A*S*H.’ Old ferret-face. Some wonderful image to look up to, right? He’s not capable of doing anything straight. Even the place he lives is illegal—what they call an illegal three.”

  I nodded my understanding. Owners of houses approved as two-family often rented out the basement for a few extra bucks. I’d seen the cases arising out of the arrangement in Civil Court arbitrations. The whole situation was a lawsuit waiting to happen.

  “So when I asked Harry if Linda ever left any papers with him, I got the envelope but I also got a lot of hints and innuendos.” She paused and looked at me directly. “I don’t think he knew very much. Linda was too secretive for that, even with him. But whatever was going on wasn’t straight. That much I could tell from Harry’s attitude.”

  “Your father’s done time?”

  She sighed. “Some. He’s a gambler and a con artist, in a penny-ante sort of way. He always had some get-rich-quick scheme going when I was a kid. It was either boom or bust with Harry. When it was bust, he used to hit my mother out of frustration and anger. When it was boom, he spent the money on good times and other women, leaving Mom and me alone.”

  Something was missing from this recitation. “Where was Linda?” I asked.

  “She was born when I was ten,” Marcy replied. “I was an accident, the reason my parents had to get married. Linda was the love child, the one conceived during one of Harry’s boom times. She was his little princess, and he was her knight in shining armor. After she was born, whenever he was flush,” Marcy recalled, her eyes far away, “he’d buy her dolls bigger than she was. When she was eight, he bought her a real diamond necklace. Just a little pendant, but it was more jewelry than Mom and I ever saw. Linda wore it everywhere and told everyone it meant her daddy loved her best. She was right.” Marcy’s tone was matter-of-fact; if there was any bitterness left, it was a dim echo of what she must have felt as a child. “Harry and I never got along. I was too busy hating him for what he’d done to Mom, but Linda was cute and cuddly and nonjudgmental. She didn’t care where the money for her dolls came from or that it might have been better spent on food and school clothes. She loved them—and she loved Harry for giving them to her.”

  “How did that make you feel?”

  “By that time, I knew him for the worthless loser he is,” she pronounced. “All I wanted was out. Scholarships, jobs—I left Brooklyn behind at eighteen and never looked back.”

  “Not even to see your mom?” I asked softly. “Or your baby sister?”

  “What’s in the envelope, Cass?” Marcy demanded, her voice hard. “Enough with the family history, okay? Just tell me what’s going on.”

  I told her.

  “It can’t be true,” she whispered. It wasn’t an assertion; it was a prayer.

  “It’s true,” I replied, looking straight at her. Marcy’s eyes looked sunken, her face drawn. “You know it’s true.”

  She was still. No more protests, no more denials. At first the immobility was shock, but then I began to see the wheels turning as she assimilated the news, working at fitting it into her game plan. Once I saw that, I could have predicted her next question.

  “Have you told anyone?”

  “Always the public-relations lady,” I laughed, only half-kidding.

  Her eyes blazed. “You try spending your childhood covering up,” she challenged. Her hands, with their blood-red nails, clenched and unclenched. “Telling the neighbors your mom got her black eye running into a door. Telling your teacher your dad’s on a business trip when he’s really serving six months on Riker’s Island. Pretending to everybody that your family is nice and normal like theirs when you know deep down that it’s not, that it’s sick for a man to buy a diamond for an eight-year-old and call her his little sweetheart when we’re on welfare half the time.” She stopped suddenly, breathing heavily and beginning to look ashamed. Even now, it cost too much to tell the truth. Even now, the family secrets had to be protected.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and meant it. I could understand Marcy’s coldness now, her need to control. Perhaps I could understand Linda too. Perhaps the blackmail and the teasing had been a way to recapture that eight-year-old’s feeling of being Daddy’s favorite, showered with expensive presents. I recalled the lines of a blues song I’d heard: “You know a man is born to love a woman, to work and slave to pay her debts.” The words summed up a lot about Linda Ritchie—and now, hearing her sister talk, I had some insight into how she’d gotten the way she was.

  “I haven’t told the police,” I said, bringing the conversation back to a businesslike plane. Marcy sighed her relief.

  “But …” I began. She looked up sharply, her eyes narrowing. “I have talked to some of Linda’s blackmail victims. In fact, I’ve met them all by now.”

  “Why? What good do you think that’s going to do?” Marcy’s voice rose, edged with hysteria, tinged with denial.

  “What good? Marcy, Brad Ritchie’s in jail, but he’s not the only person with a motive to kill Linda. In fact, after talking to some of these people, I don’t even think he’s in the top five.”

  “Brad?” Marcy’s tone was one of utter disbelief. “You mean you’re stirring up this ugly mess just so that worthless piece of trash can go free?”

  “Marcy,” I began patiently, “he might be innocent. There might be more to this whole thing than either one of us knows. And the man is Dawn’s father.” I fixed her with a deliberate stare and added softly, “Not yours.”

  “Meaning?” Her voice was a challenge.

  “Meaning maybe Brad reminds you of Harry and that’s why you’ve decided he’s expendable. But think about it. Dawn loves him, and if he didn’t kill Linda, he should be free.”

  “The police think he’s guilty.”

  “The police,” I reminded her with a touch of acid, “don’t know one thing about Linda’s little hobby. Of course,” I went on, “I could always tell them and then we’d both know whether it made any difference to Brad’s position. Is that what you want?”

  “No!” The answer came swiftly and decisively. Marcy sighed and added, “I don’t know what to say. The whole thing is so sordid. I never suspected, but …”

  “But?”

  “I had to wonder. She had more money than I would have expected, knowing how little she got from Brad. And she was a great one for hints, Linda, she got that from Harry. She’d show me a new outfit or a piece of gold jewelry and she’d kind of
lead me to believe it was a present from a man. I thought they were boyfriends, but now—I wonder if she wasn’t telling me about blackmail instead.”

  “And what if,” I said slowly, watching her face, “one of them got tired of playing Daddy Harry to her Little Princess and stabbed her to death? Left her bleeding body in my upstairs apartment? You want him walking around free just to preserve the family name?”

  Marcy shuddered. “Okay, Cass, you win. Go ahead, open the envelope. Ask questions. Go to the police if you have to. Just …” She paused and gave me a direct look with eyes that were so like Linda’s. “Just be careful.”

  She opened her pink briefcase, took out a sealed manila envelope, put it on my desk, and turned to go. “Dawn and I can let ourselves out,” she said, closing the door behind her.

  I stood at the window, watching them go. Marcy stepped briskly along the street in her high-heeled boots, refusing to take notice of the ice underfoot. I’d shoveled, but the melted snow had refrozen after nightfall, leaving a thin, treacherous sheet. Dawn picked her way along, head bowed, examining the sidewalk as she followed her aunt to their car. I watched the peach-colored knit hat, lit like a beacon by the street-lamps, until I couldn’t see it any more.

  I sighed, wondering if my newfound insight into Marcy’s character was going to help me win Dawn’s custody. I could understand her aloofness now, could see the childhood hurts it stemmed from. But the fact remained, she wasn’t giving Dawn what she needed. I could understand why not, but could I, in all conscience, ask a judge to give her custody anyway? I needed to talk to someone; oddly enough, the person who came to mind was my new friend Mickey Dechter, the Family Court social worker. I’d sensed a deep concern for people beneath the pain of her own childhood experiences, and I thought that if anyone could help me help Dawn, she could. But did I dare to ask?

  I went back to the desk and slit open the envelope. Giving the papers inside a cursory glance, I felt like a crystal-ball reader. Everything pertained to Todd Lessek. Old holding-company incorporation papers listing Todd Lessek as one of the officers of the corporation. The addresses were unfamiliar at first, until I opened my safe and checked them against buildings known to belong to Ira Bellfield. They were the same premises.

  Rooting through the rest of the stack, I came upon a piece of paper that made all the rest unnecessary. Cumulative evidence, as we say in the trade. It was a partnership agreement, executed in 1976, between Ira Bellfield and Todd Lessek. In addition, there were checks made out to Lessek from the various holding companies, and an endorsement showing Lessek as guarantor of several Bellfield mortgages.

  Todd Lessek had described himself to me as a “second-generation” landlord, but these papers put him right smack in the first generation—among the owners who burned and looted their own buildings. In fact, in a strictly financial sense, Todd Lessek was Ira Bellfield.

  And Elliott Pilcher knew it. Finally I understood where Pilcher worked and why his silence was so important to Todd Lessek. Lessek needed city approval on the waterfront deal, city approval and city money. Before he could get it, he would have to be thoroughly vetted by the city’s Department of Investigation. They were supposed to check him out from grade school to yesterday, examining under a microscope every financial transaction involving more than fifteen bucks. Then they’d made a recommendation to the City Council. They’d checked and rechecked and finally declared Lessek clean as a whistle. The DOI’s man in charge: Elliott Pilcher.

  I decided, looking at the papers with a smile on my face, that it was time for another visit to Brooklyn’s picturesque waterfront area. The one that was probably not going to be developed by Todd Lessek.

  17

  I’m the world’s worst pool player. I’ve been told this on many occasions, by people who ought to know. And yet, once in a great while, when I’ve had just the right amount of alcohol and the jukebox is knocking out just the right rhythms, I can run all the balls off the table without even thinking about it. It’s like Zen and the art of pool; everything comes together in a way that has nothing to do with my conscious mind.

  I was feeling that same rush, that same sense of infinite possibilities, as I stood before Judge Segal’s bench. I was on a strange high, with not-quite-heard music sounding in my ears, feeling for all the world like Paul Newman in The Hustler, ready to take on Minnesota Fats.

  I wasn’t sure what it was that put the beat in my head, the bounce in my step. Maybe it was the prospect of finally getting Terrell Hopkins and his grandmother squared away. Or maybe it was the thought of wiping the smirk off Todd Lessek’s face that had me jumping. I was primed for action, ready for anything, feeling reckless and powerful.

  “Three-to-nine, Counselor,” Judge Segal intoned in his ponderous voice.

  It was a bad break; I’d been hoping for two-to-six. But I refused to show disappointment; the game was a long way from over.

  “Judge,” I said expansively, just a touch of pleading thrown in, “this is Brooklyn.”

  “I do know what borough I’m sitting in, Ms. Jameson,” the Hon. Murray replied with a twinkle. “That’s why they made me a judge.”

  “I just don’t want you to start remembering you were a Queens DA, Your Honor,” I explained. “My kid’s got enough to worry about without that.”

  “Counselor,” Judge Segal said with a patient smile, “if this case were on in Queens, I’d have made it four-to-twelve.”

  I returned a rueful grin; I had to admit, the judge was a fair pool player himself.

  The district attorney picked up a cue, applied a little chalk, and decided to join the game.

  “My office,” he began in a high voice that contrasted sharply with Segal’s full bass, “offered a plea to rob two in the complex. Ms. Jameson’s client could have had one-and-one-half-to-four, but he turned down the offer. Seven times!” His voice rose to a near-squeak of indignation. I suppressed my giggle when I recalled that courthouse rumor had him winning his last ten cases in a row.

  “So now,” Judge Segal finished, “the district attorney is no longer offering the rob two. Your client must plead to the entire indictment, or go to trial. And I see no reason to promise a minimum sentence in a case where a gun was recovered. Ms. Jameson, what is your client’s pleasure? Plea or trial?”

  It wasn’t looking good. The other two players were sinking ivory balls like crazy, while I just stood and watched. I had to turn things around.

  I was saved by the bell. Only it wasn’t a bell, but the white light that served as a bell on the courtroom phone. While the judge talked in a stage whisper, I glanced over at Terrell. He was dressed for trial, in a maroon shirt and gray pants. New sneakers. His grandmother had finally realized she could give him clothing only at the prison, not in court. His indifferent slouch was gone; he leaned forward in his chair, his eyes wide, intent, and frightened. I flashed him a reassuring smile. The match wasn’t over yet; I hadn’t picked up my cue.

  The one thing that worried me was Hattie. She wasn’t there. I hoped she was all right. Terrell had plenty to worry about as it was.

  Back to the game. Time to put a little spin on the ball. “It seems to me,” I said in a reasonable tone, “that there are two considerations here. The DA”—I turned to ADA Haskell—“appears to think my client’s playing fast and loose with the system.”

  “Well, what would you call turning down an offer seven times and then trying to snatch it back on the eve of trial?” the shrill voice challenged.

  “I’d call it fear.”

  Haskell snorted. “Come on, Cass. Your kid’s been around the block.”

  “Not really,” I countered. “He got probation last year and before that he had a couple juvenile busts. He’s not in a gang. He’s not the worst kid you’ll ever see.”

  “What about the gun?” Judge Segal cut in. “I, for one, find it hard to give a minimum sentence to someone who pulls a gun on another individual.”

  Minnesota Fats had just missed his first ball. Troub
le was, he didn’t know it yet.

  I picked up the cue, leaned over, and looked long and hard at the way the balls were laid out. Then I took my shot. “Unloaded,” I said, turning to the DA for confirmation.

  It came reluctantly, but it came. “It was unloaded when the police recovered it,” Haskell admitted, “but who knows what it was when your kid pulled it out of his waistband and held it on Duane Rogers.”

  Red ball in the side pocket. “Did your cops recover any bullets?” I countered. The trouble with this question was that I didn’t know the answer, but I figured if there had been bullets, I’d have heard about them by now, so I took the chance.

  “No,” Haskell conceded with bad grace, “but he had plenty of time to get rid of them.”

  “If he’d done that,” I pointed out, “why didn’t he get rid of the gun, too?”

  Now a blue ball followed the red into the pocket. It looked as though my run was starting in earnest.

  “Mr. Haskell,” the judge boomed, “in view of what Ms. Jameson has told us, I’m inclined to come down to the minimum of two-to-six. Is your office still firm on the rob one or would you consider reoffering the rob two?”

  “Absolutely not!” Haskell squeaked, his chin thrust out. “We can’t let people play games with the system,” he explained in a more normal voice. “Why should my office give him the same break now—after I’ve put witnesses on alert and prepared the case for trial—that he would have gotten on his first appearance in Supreme Court? If he’d taken the plea then, he’d have saved the system time and money. Now—he’s just jerking us around.”