A Perfect Manhattan Murder

by Tracy Kiely

  “Ah, the hand of Fate is kind,” Nigel said.

  The blonde raised her head and glanced over at us. Her eyes grew wide and she pointed her emery board at Skippy. “What the hell is that?” she asked.

  “This is Skippy,” Nigel answered. “The Health Department had to get a little creative after the latest round of budget cuts.”

  The blonde gazed at Skippy with narrowed eyes. “Are you saying he’s a Health Inspector?” she asked.

  Nigel let out a low laugh and shook his head. “Of course, not,” he said. “That would be absurd.” The blonde gave a relieved nod. Nigel continued, lowering his voice, “He’s only a Junior Assistant Inspector. He’s in a totally different pay grade.”

  The blonde stared at Skippy for another beat and then said, “Well, either way, you’ll have to make an appointment. We’re not open for business yet.”

  “Actually, we were hoping to talk to the owners,” I said. “Are either Frank or Danny around?”

  The blonde eyed me with suspicion. “Are you with the Health Department, too?” she asked.

  “No,” I said. “Just an old friend of Danny and Frank’s.”

  The blonde gave me a doubtful once-over. “You don’t look like one of their friends,” she finally said.

  I smiled. “You flatter me. Are they here?”

  With a sigh, the blonde slid off her perch at the bar and sashayed back to the kitchen. Pushing the door open, she leaned her head around the corner and yelled, “Danny? There’s some people here to see you. I think they might be from the Health Department or something.”

  A few moments later, Danny appeared. He was a tall, burly man with thick black hair and an equally thick skull. His wide face was pockmarked; some of the scars were from bad brawls, some merely from bad hygiene. Seeing me, his lips pulled down into a deep scowl. “Jesus, Martini,” he grumbled. “Not you again. I thought we were done with your visits.”

  I placed a hand over my heart. “Danny,” I said, “you wound me. Haven’t you missed me? Not even a little?”

  “What the hell is going on here, Danny?” the blonde asked, her arms now folded across her ample chest. “You screwing around on me? Cause I swear to God, if I find out you are, you’re going to be walking funny for a week.”

  “Shut the hell up, Marie,” Danny snapped. “I ain’t screwing around with her,” he said waving a beefy hand in my direction. “She’s an ex-cop, for christsake!”

  “You always were a man of high standards, Danny,” Nigel said affably. “I admire that.”

  Danny let out a sigh and leaned against the bar. “What do you want, Martini?” he said.

  “I want to know about your business with Dan Trados,” I said.

  Danny’s eyes narrowed. “And why would I tell you that?” he asked.

  “Because deep down you want to do the right thing,” I said agreeably. “And who knows? You might find it beneficial to help me.”

  Danny gave me a grim smile. “You threatening me?” he asked.

  “No, of course not,” I said. “I just need to know about your relationship with Dan Trados.”

  Danny crossed his arms over his chest and studied me for a beat. “Who says I had a relationship with the guy?” he asked.

  I cocked my head. “Had, Danny? Had? Any reason you’re using the past tense?”

  Danny blinked. “Look, Martini, I ain’t done nothing wrong, and I don’t have time to stand around jawing with you. I got a lunch menu to get ready. You got no reason to be hassling me. I run a clean business here.”

  “Oh Danny,” I said. “I have missed your ironic homonyms.”

  Marie turned on Danny, her eyes flashing with anger. “If you two ain’t fooling around,” she snarled, “then how the hell does she know about your hommything?”

  The door behind me suddenly banged open. I turned around to see Frank Little enter the restaurant. Frank had the same dark hair, thick build, and wide face as his brother, but on a smaller scale. His propensity for violence wasn’t as pronounced, either, which was perhaps why he was my favorite of the two brothers.

  Frank took one look at me and stopped cold in his tracks. “Shit, Martini,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Well, sadly, I’m not here for lunch,” I said, gesturing to the chalkboard. “That Italian Scallion sub sounds delightful. I’m here because of Dan Trados.”

  Frank watched me warily. “What about him?” he asked.

  “I want to know what your business with him was,” I said. “Did he owe you money?”

  Frank rolled his eyes at me. “Right, Martini. Like I’m going to discuss my business with you. Why the hell should I tell you anything?”

  “Because it’ll make you feel good inside to help out an old friend?” I offered with a bright smile.

  “We were never friends, Martini,” he scoffed.

  “Oh Frank, come on,” I said. “Don’t be like that. Why is your phone number in his phone?”

  Frank sighed and pull out a bar stool and sank down onto it. “Get me a whiskey, will ya, Marie?” he said.

  Marie nodded and went behind the bar. Pulling down a bottle, she poured some into a glass and shoved it across the bar to Frank. Danny plopped down on a stool next to Frank. “Pour me one, too, Marie,” he said.

  Marie slammed the bottle down in front of him. “Pour it your damn self, you two-timing bastard,” she snarled at him before flouncing off to the kitchen.

  Frank watched her go, his expression curious. “What’s eating her?” he asked.

  Danny shrugged. “She thinks I’m fooling around with Martini.”

  Frank turned and gaped at his brother. “She thinks you’re fooling around with him?” he asked, jerking his thumb in Nigel’s direction.

  Danny responded by slapping Frank on the back of his head. “Don’t be stupid. She thinks I’m fooling around with Nic.”

  Frank blinked at his brother and then burst out in hysterical laughter. “That’s even crazier!” he howled.

  Danny glowered at Frank as he poured himself a drink. “Don’t know what the hell you think is so funny,” he grumbled. “Lots of chicks dig me.”

  “Not chicks like Nic,” Frank said.

  “Gentlemen,” I said. “As scintillating as this discussion is, can we get back to the subject of Dan Trados?”

  Frank took a sip and looked over at Nigel and me. “Fine. You two want a drink?” he asked.

  “No, but thanks,” I said. Nigel and I took a seat at the bar. Skippy sat down between us.

  Frank glanced down at Skippy. “Swear to God, Martini,” he said, “That’s the craziest animal I’ve ever seen. Are you sure it’s a dog?”

  “Only on his mother’s side,” I said. “Now tell me why your name is in Dan Trados’s contacts. Did he borrow money from you?”

  Frank sighed and took another sip. “No, he didn’t. He wanted information.”

  “About what?” I prompted.

  “About some guy. What was his name?” he muttered to himself. “You know the one,” he said to me. “Chevy Chase.”

  I blinked at Frank in confusion. “Dan wanted information about Chevy Chase?” I asked.

  Frank rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Don’t be stupid, Martini. What was that movie he was in? The one when he’s the reporter?”

  “Fletch?” I guessed.

  Frank snapped his fingers. “That’s the one. This Dan guy wanted information on Fletcher Irwin.”

  “Fletcher Levin, the producer?” I clarified.

  Frank nodded. “That’s the guy.”

  “Well, what did you tell him?” I asked.

  Frank took a sip of his drink. “Same thing I’m going to tell you. It’s none of your business. I don’t discuss my clients.”

  “Well, I have some news that just might change your mind on that lo
fty business motto,” I said.

  Frank looked over at me his eyes wary. “Yeah? What?”

  “Dan Trados was found dead two days ago,” I said. “He was murdered, to be precise.”

  “It’s good to be precise,” Nigel concurred.

  Frank slammed down his glass on the wooden bar. “Just what the hell are you getting at, Martini?” he asked. “I ain’t got nothing to do with that. You ain’t pinning some shitty theater critic’s death on me, ya hear?”

  I crossed my arms and stared at Frank. “You knew Dan was a theater critic?” I asked.

  Frank rolled his eyes. “What? You think you’re the only person who likes the theater, Martini? Danny and I like a good play just as much as anyone.”

  Next to him, Danny poured them each another shot as he nodded his head in agreement. “The man could be real nasty sometimes in his reviews,” Danny said. “But he knew good theater.”

  Frank shrugged. “I didn’t like his last review of Les Mis, though,” he said. “He said Éponine’s song ‘On My Own’ sounded like a screeching cat.”

  “The man’s entitled to his opinion,” Danny argued.

  “I suppose,” sniffed Frank. “I still say he was wrong.”

  “Well, now he’s dead,” I said, interrupting. “And I want to know what he was trying to learn about Fletcher Levin.”

  Frank regarded me with a baleful eye. “Why do you care anyway?” he asked. “You back on the force or something?”

  I shook my head. “No. But Dan was married to one of my closest friends,” I said. “And I want to help her find his killer.”

  “How’d he die?” Danny asked me.

  “Poison,” I replied.

  Danny shook his head. “I don’t know no one who uses that to off someone.”

  “Me neither,” agreed Frank.

  “Well, I suppose everyone has their own particular preference,” I said. Both men nodded. “What did Dan want to know about Fletcher? Did he owe you money?”

  Frank shot me a baleful look. “The man’s walking, ain’t he? You think I’d let someone stiff me?”

  “Point taken,” I said. “Did Fletcher ever borrow money?”

  Frank paused and glanced at Danny. Danny gave a faint nod. Frank let out a sigh and said, “Yeah. He did. Borrowed a few grand a few years back. But he paid it back, so we’re square.”

  I thought about this. “But if Fletcher needed to borrow money, why wouldn’t he just go to a bank?” I wondered.

  Frank laughed. “Not everyone wants to leave a paper trail when they borrow money, Martini.”

  “When did Dan contact you about this?” I asked.

  Frank closed his eyes to think. “A few weeks ago, I guess. He was a real pain in the ass about it, if you want to know the truth. Acted like his shit didn’t smell, too. I hate guys like that.”

  “Did you tell him that Fletcher had borrowed money from you?” I asked.

  Frank looked down at his glass. “We may have come to some kind of understanding about that information,” he said after a moment.

  I smirked. “Meaning you made him pay you for the information,” I guessed.

  “Hey,” Frank groused, “I don’t show up at your office and tell you how to run your business.”

  “For which I am eternally grateful, Frank,” I said.

  forty-four

  After talking to Frank, I called Zack, hoping he could shed some light on why Dan was digging around in Fletcher Levin’s past. Zack said he could meet at his office that afternoon. An hour later, Nigel, Skippy, and I were ushered into a conference room on the forty-first floor of the World Trade Center. The receptionist, a sleek young woman named Chloe, told us that Zack would be with us momentarily and asked if we’d like any coffee. We told her we did. “But none for Skippy, here,” said Nigel. “It keeps him up at night.”

  Chloe nodded as if this made perfect sense. “I’ll be just a moment,” she said with a brisk nod. She turned and glided from the room on a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes that probably retailed for more than my first car. Nigel and I took a seat at a long glass table. In front of us, floor-to-ceiling windows looked out at the city below. A minute later, Zack came into the room. “Hello Mr. and Mrs. Martini,” he said as he took a seat at the table. “How can I help you?”

  “It seems that Dan was trying to find out something about Fletcher Levin. He borrowed money from a loan shark a few years back, which does seem odd. Do you know what Dan was looking for?”

  Zack pushed his glasses up on his nose and leaned his arms on the table. He frowned as he considered the question. “I wonder if it could have had anything to do with that play he was involved in,” he said after a few minutes.

  “What play?” I asked.

  Chloe returned just then with a tray of coffee. She set the tray down and handed Nigel and me our cups. “Thank you, Chloe,” Zack said.

  “Of course, Mr. Weems,” she answered. “Incidentally, the IT guys are here to install the new software you requested. They need your passcode to proceed.”

  “Oh, sure,” said Zack. “It’s 62442.”

  Chloe smiled. “62442,” she repeated. “Got it. Thanks.”

  Chloe left, and I grinned at Zack. “Please tell me you created that code,” I said.

  Zack looked at me in surprise. “I did,” he said with a shy smile. “You’re the first person who got it.”

  Nigel looked at both of us blankly. “What am I missing?” he asked.

  “It’s the entrance code for the Ministry of Magic in Harry Potter,” I said. “If you use a telephone pad, the numbers spell out MAGIC.”

  Nigel just stared at me. “Of course they do,” he said. “How silly of me not to have known that.”

  I laughed and turned back to Zack. “Don’t mind Nigel,” I said. “He’s a Muggle.”

  Zack tried to hide his smile as Nigel rolled his eyes. “You were telling us about Fletcher’s play?” Nigel prompted.

  Zack nodded and pushed his glasses back up again before answering. “A few years ago, Fletcher was asked to invest in a production of Hitchcock’s North-By-Northwest,” he said. “There was a lot of buzz about the play and the rumor was that the big chase scene through the cornfield was going to make the helicopter scene in Miss Siagon look primitive. But a production like that needs a lot of money and Fletcher said he knew of some other investors who might be interested in the play. An agreement was eventually reached in which Fletcher would round up the other investors in exchange for a kind of finder’s fee.”

  “Is that standard practice?” Nigel asked.

  Zack shrugged. “It’s not unheard of. In any case, Fletcher found two overseas investors who agreed to fund the play. However, while Fletcher got his fee, the investors never produced the money. One of them died under rather mysterious circumstances and the other had his assets frozen in some government tax dispute and purportedly fled his country and disappeared. People began to wonder if Fletcher hadn’t made up the investors, as he was the only one who ever had any direct contract with them. Dan said he’d found some documents that seemed to indicate that that’s exactly what Fletcher had done. That was going to be one of his stories for the book.”

  I stared at Zack in surprise. “But that doesn’t make any sense. Dan wanted Fletcher to invest with him in producing a new play. Why would he risk pissing him off?”

  Zack shifted in his seat and gave a noncommittal shrug. I slotted this info in with what I already suspected. “Did Dan tell Fletcher that he was going to include that story if Fletcher didn’t invest in his play?” I asked. “Could he have been using it as leverage?”

  Zack gave a resigned nod. “I don’t know for sure,” he said, “but I think he might have.”

  forty-five

  Harper’s father arranged for bail. After all the red tape was formally dealt with and her bond was posted, she wa
s finally released. Once she was home, Donald called Nigel and me and asked us to come over. I could tell that he was anxious about the police’s case against Harper and hoped that I might be able to help. I watched Harper now as she sat on her living room couch snuggling with a sleeping Gracie. Her normally perfectly styled hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail. Her usually tailored clothes were wrinkled and mismatched. Purple smudges stood out against the pale skin under her eyes. But as she gazed down at Gracie, I thought I’d never seen her more content. It was as if Dan’s death was forgotten—or no longer mattered. I wasn’t sure which was better—or worse—depending on your viewpoint.

  “I appreciate your coming over, Nic,” Donald said as he handed Nigel and I each a glass of scotch. “But the sooner we figure out who really killed Dan, the better this will all be for Harper.”

  “Of course, Mr. Remington,” I said as I glanced back at Harper. She smiled down at Gracie, lightly tracing her finger over her cheek. I couldn’t tell if she’d even heard her father’s words.

  “Have you been able to find out anything so far?” Donald asked.

  I took a sip of my drink and nodded. “I have, actually,” I said. “But not all of it helps Harper’s case, I’m afraid.”

  Donald sat down heavily in the chair next to mine. His face appeared to have aged ten years over the past few days. “I know Harper didn’t kill her husband,” he said. “Which means someone else did. Which means there’s evidence. We just need to find it.”

  “I agree with you,” I said. “But we need to be able to explain some of Harper’s actions. For instance, why did she tell the police that she’d never been to Dan’s work apartment, and yet was captured on video doing exactly that?”

  Both Donald and I looked over to Harper, who was still absorbed with Gracie. “Harper,” Donald said now, his tone gentle, “Why did you go to Dan’s apartment that night?”

  Harper slowly tore her gaze away from Gracie. “Hmmm?” she asked.

  Donald frowned. “Why did you go to Dan’s?” he repeated, his tone less patient.