Deadly Rich

by Edward Stewart

  “I put my arms up to protect my face.”

  “Did you push her away?”

  “I didn’t touch the bitch.”

  Cardozo pressed the Off button. The picture on the screen froze for one split instant and then fractured into black-and-white static.

  ELLIE SIEGEL WAS STILL AT HER DESK, typing up the day’s notes.

  “Tell me about the Kohler-Delancey case,” Cardozo said.

  Ellie sighed. “My second homicide. All cases should be that easy.”

  “There’s not the slightest doubt in your mind he killed her.”

  “More to the point, there wasn’t the slightest doubt in the jury’s mind. Seven hours to convict.”

  “The medical report mentions a straight-line bruise on the palm of Nita’s left hand.”

  Ellie fixed softly piercing eyes on him. “You’ve been excavating some pretty old paper.”

  “Nita was right-handed.”

  Ellie nodded. “I know, I know, and she would have fended off a blow with her right hand and not her left. But Delancey had a knife strapped to his shin, and the hilt matched the mark in her palm.”

  “But it was a bruise, not a cut.”

  “Hilts don’t cut, Vince. They’re made not to cut.” Her tone was flat and mild, and while it acknowledged his possible dimness it criticized nothing. “Believe me, a lot of people went over that bruise, and one thing it does not point to is one iota of innocence on the part of Jim Delancey.”

  “What did you think of him personally?”

  “Personally he was a big, stupid, handsome, stoned schmuck. He was momma’s prince, ego with no limits. Nita Kohler was obnoxious to King Me and so he pulled her life off her like wings off a fly. He knew what he was doing and, believe me, he liked doing it.”

  “You’re speaking as a woman or a feminist or a detective?”

  “I’m speaking as a human being who happens, at this point in her life, to be all of the above.” Ellie switched off her electric typewriter and covered it.

  “There’s a lot of drugs on that first tape,” Cardozo said.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “And they were never mentioned in the trial. How come he didn’t plead cocaine intoxication as a defense?”

  “Beats me, because he was a heavy hitter. He was feeding his nose two-, three-hundred dollars’ worth a day. Why do you think he had all that breaking and entering on his rap sheet? The week before he killed Kohler he was fencing a thousand dollars a day.”

  “What kind of stuff did he fence?”

  “Jewelry, coins, watches, anything valuable and small he could pinch from his girlfriends’ apartments.”

  “As I recall he had quite a few society girls interested in him.”

  “And it wasn’t because he was interested back. It was just their bad luck that they could access the kind of cash he needed.”

  “He didn’t like girls?”

  “Like is not the word. He had a momma’s-boy resentment of females. They owed him a living and they owed him sex and they weren’t doing their job.”

  “Think he’s twisted enough to kill Oona Aldrich?”

  “If he got a chance after the grief she caused him today, absolutely.”

  “On his third week of parole?”

  “What’s parole got to do with it? It’s the principle of the thing. Oona was a woman, and she bugged him. With timing and luck he could have followed her in a cab. The emergency stairway would have gotten him into the changing room and out again.”

  “But you’re forgetting one thing: What would he tell his boss?”

  “That he was stepping outside to smoke a cigarette.”

  Cardozo ran it through his mind. “I don’t know. There’s such a thing as going out to smoke a cigarette, and then there’s such a thing as going out to smoke a pack.”

  “All I know is, Delancey had the head to kill her. Whether he had the opportunity …” Ellie flicked off her desk light. “Makes me tired to think about it. That’s it for me. Good night.”

  Cardozo was suddenly aware that there was one thing he wanted to do very much, and that was go to bed. He walked with Ellie to the stairs.

  “Funny,” he said. “Delancey’s mother working in the boutique where Oona was killed.”

  “What’s funny? The woman ran up a quarter million in legal fees defending her golden boy. And God knows how much it cost to spring him from prison. She’s got to work somewhere.” Ellie shrugged. “Sometimes you just have to accept that there’s such a thing as coincidence.”

  “But don’t you sometimes have to accept that there isn’t?”

  “Every day.”

  They came to the stairway.

  “Do you think Delancey could change?” Cardozo said. “Get off drugs? Hold down a job? Grow up maybe?”

  Ellie tossed him a pitying glance. “People don’t change, Vince. They just learn better camouflage.”

  “Is that your story, Ellie?”

  “And yours obviously. But more to the point it’s his.”

  Cardozo returned to his cubicle. He got out his notebook and listed reasons why Jim Delancey had to be involved. He turned the page and listed reasons why Delancey couldn’t be involved.

  Finally he closed the notebook and lifted the telephone and punched in a number. He leaned sideways and gave the cubicle door a push, shutting out the man-made and machine-made racket that spilled in from the squad room.

  A man’s voice answered on the fifth ring. “Hello?” The low-pitched, patrician drawl tortured a simple o into an Ivy League diphthong. “Walter, it’s Vince Cardozo.”

  There was an instant’s lag before recognition kicked in. “Yes, Vince.” Walter Vanderflood’s tone was not happy—nothing that linked his world to Vince Cardozo’s could ever be grounds for happiness—but it was respectful. “Is something the matter?”

  “Not too much in my life and not too much in yours, I hope.”

  “No, I’m doing all right.”

  There had been a time when Walter Vanderflood had not been doing all right, when his nephew had been found murdered in a Sixtieth Street hotel, and Vince Cardozo, doing no more than his job, had helped. Walter Vanderflood had said, “If you ever need help …” Walter Vanderflood served on the Putnam County parole board, and three times Cardozo had taken him up on that offer.

  “Jim Delancey was paroled two weeks ago.”

  “The young man who killed the Kohler girl?”

  “The same. Somebody used a lot of influence.”

  “I’m not sure I can help you there. Parole proceedings are closed—there aren’t even records.”

  “But if by any chance you happen to talk to anyone who served on that parole board … if you happen to talk socially, I mean.”

  “Of course. If by any chance I do, I’ll let you know.”

  SIX

  IT WAS AFTER ELEVEN by the time Cardozo found a parking place on Broome Street. As he walked the block to his home the neighborhood felt quiet. Some kids were playing basketball over on the ball court, and somewhere a restaurant had its door open and Rosemary Clooney was singing “Baciami, Bambino” on the jukebox.

  He let himself into the six-story apartment building on the corner of Sullivan and checked the mailbox to see what bills had come today. None, which meant his daughter Terri had already picked them up.

  He climbed to the third floor. He’d lived in the same rent-stabilized apartment since before SoHo had become trendy, and he was still living there now that the wave of trendiness was subsiding. He let himself into the rear apartment.

  The living room was dark except for a glow spilling through the windows. There was no blinking red light on the Panasonic Easa-Phone answering machine, but he crossed to the sofa and pushed the Messages button anyway, just to be sure. The machine whirred into Replay.

  “Terri,” a male voice said, “are you there? It’s Josh.”

  A light went on. Cardozo turned.

  Terri was standing there, straight and slender a
gainst the wall, her long, dark hair spilling over her bathrobe. She looked at him with sleepy, dark fifteen-year-old eyes.

  “I already picked up that call,” she said. “Why are you running through old messages?”

  He pushed the button to stop the machine. “Just wanted to be sure I didn’t miss anything by accident. Who’s Josh?”

  She was quiet, which was a very different thing from being silent. “He’s a friend from school.”

  “You’ve never mentioned him.”

  “Dad,” she said.

  The tone of voice was a statement. It said he was being stuffy, unreasonable, and a little bit of a pain. Worse, the word Dad was a signal that she was growing up, that he was no longer Daddy. Which meant he was no longer anyone’s Daddy. He felt sad at the idea: it was like being laid off, like having to say good-bye to a job he loved.

  “How could I have mentioned him? We haven’t had a talk in three weeks.”

  “Is there anything that needs to be talked about?”

  She shook her head. “I’m doing fine, we don’t need to worry about me.”

  “Because if you’re seeing somebody,” he said, “I’d like to know. I’d like to meet him.”

  “Dad—I see Josh two times a week. We’re in computer-science class together. Big deal.” Her tone was playful but with something really there beneath the playfulness. “He was returning my call. I phoned him because I had a question about iterative programs.”

  “What programs?”

  “Yeah. That’s why I needed help.”

  Cardozo went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator to find something to drink.

  “Your dinner’s behind the lemonade,” Terri called.

  He moved the pitcher of fresh lemonade and found dinner for one, cold chicken and potato salad, neatly covered in Saran Wrap. “How much does he help you?” he called.

  “You don’t need to shout, I’m here.” She was standing in the doorway. “Josh helps me a lot.”

  “Sounds like you’re going with him.”

  “I’m not going with anyone.”

  “That wouldn’t be a white lie to keep your old man from worrying?”

  “Why should I worry about you worrying? You never worry.”

  “I’m just good at fooling you.”

  “Besides, there’s nothing to worry about.” She watched as he poured a glass of lemonade and slid the pitcher back into the refrigerator. “Aren’t you going to eat your dinner?”

  “Maybe later. Right now I’m just thirsty.”

  “You should eat. Otherwise you’ll wake up in the middle of the night.”

  “You’re not changing the subject, are you?”

  “Why would I change the subject?”

  “Because you might be going with someone and not telling me.”

  She gave him a long glance, and from across the room Cardozo opened the windowshades of all five senses, trying to catch the vibration that was suddenly coming off her.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “It happens, you know. Sometimes kids don’t tell their parents.”

  “I’m not a kid.”

  “That’s why I’m asking.”

  “No, Dad, you’re asking because you think I’m still a kid.”

  The glass of lemonade stopped halfway to his mouth. “Okay, you’re not still a kid, that means I can’t ask about your life anymore? Because I’ll tell you something. You could be a grown woman, you could be an old woman—as long as I’m around I’m going to be interested in what’s happening to you.”

  “I want you to be interested. I’m glad you ask.”

  He drained the glass in two gulps. “I’d be glad if you’d answer.”

  “I’m trying to answer.”

  “Try harder. Tell me how much you’re seeing of this guy.”

  “Not a lot.”

  “Maybe I will have that chicken.” He took the platter from the refrigerator to the kitchen table. He went back for a jar of mayonnaise and a jar of pickles. “Then you are seeing him. A little.”

  “Right.” She shrugged. “A little.”

  “Not a lot.”

  “No, Dad, not a lot.” She brought a place setting to the table. “We haven’t reached that stage.”

  “I don’t need the fork. I’m going to eat with my fingers.”

  “You’re not going to eat potato salad with your fingers.”

  “I’m not going to eat potato salad. Then tell me, you’re planning to reach that stage?”

  “Planning doesn’t come into it. I’m not planning, I’m not not planning.”

  He pulled out the chair and sat. He spread a knife-load of mayonnaise on the chicken breast. “Sounds like you wouldn’t mind if you reached that stage.”

  “How do I know?”

  “Come on, you’re, an intelligent kid.” He ground a generous layer of pepper over the mayonnaise. “How can you not know?”

  “I’m sorry, Dad. There, are things I don’t know till they happen. I may think about them, I may think I want them to happen, but till they do I don’t know.”

  Are we talking about sex? he wondered. “Then you want it to happen with this kid, this Josh.”

  “Do I want what to happen?”

  He picked up the breast in both hands and took a bite. “You want to reach that stage, is what I’m saying.”

  “What stage?”

  He felt he was trying to ride a tricycle on a tightrope. “Have you reached that stage with anyone?”

  “What stage?”

  “This chicken is delicious, but why do I have the feeling this discussion is going in circles?”

  “You’re the one going in circles.” She brought him another glass of lemonade. “I’m just trying to keep up with you.”

  “Sorry, kid, I’m trying to keep up with you and I guess I’ve had a long day, because I’m doing a lousy job of it.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing’s the matter.”

  “Something’s the matter.” She pulled out the other chair and sat across the table from him. “What happened at work?”

  “What usually happens at work? Someone got killed.”

  “Who?”

  “A woman.”

  “Why does that upset you?”

  “Why shouldn’t it upset me? Anyway, it doesn’t upset me.”

  “You’re very upset.”

  “I’m very upset because you’re very upsetting tonight. This is very unlike you. Maybe I will have some potato salad.”

  “I told you you’d need the fork. Who was she?”

  “I don’t know her. I didn’t know her. I’m not sure I’d want to know her.”

  “Then why does she upset you?”

  He realized Terri was interrogating him. Something in their relationship, some last remnant of control, was slipping from his hands. His daughter was beginning to manage things. “She’s not the one that upsets me.”

  “Then there is someone who does upset you.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I like long stories.”

  “No, you don’t. Not this one.”

  “Why are you in such a mood? I just want to hear about your day.”

  What they were doing now had started three or four years ago, he couldn’t remember exactly when. It had started as a game, the little girl playing big momma to the gruff old man who played bad little boy. The game had produced tangible benefits. She ran the house for him. She cooked for him. Laundry got sent out on time, dishes got washed, beds got made. There was always soap and toothpaste and toilet paper and fresh towels. But sometime during the last year the game had become more than a game, and he realized he’d come to rely on her.

  Sometimes he found himself resenting her power just a little, withholding himself just a little. Like now. “I said it’s a long story.”

  “You said a woman got killed. Does it bother you because that’s what happened to Mom?”

  Suddenly he didn’t want any more potato sal
ad. “It’s nothing like what happened to Mom. Stop being a psychiatrist.”

  “I’m just trying to understand.”

  “I don’t think about her.” He got up from the table. “That’s past.”

  “Is it? Seven years, and you’re still alone.”

  “Alone? Seems to me there’s two people in this house.”

  She followed him back into the living room. “There should be three. At least.”

  “For a kid who says she’s grown up maybe you don’t know as much as you think. That was a dumb remark. About three.” He flopped down on the sofa and stared at the dark TV screen. “If I wanted three people in this family, there’d be three people. I’m not an idiot.”

  “If you had someone, you could talk to them.”

  “Why should I talk to someone?” He picked up the TV Guide from the coffee table.

  “So you wouldn’t be in a mood when work gets to you.”

  “I can talk to you if I don’t want to be in a mood.” He turned to the Wednesday-night listings to see if anything was on at eleven-thirty.

  “But you don’t talk to me.”

  “This is why, because we talk like this.” He didn’t want Nightline, he’d seen enough trouble for one day. And he wasn’t in the mood for The Honeymooners; Channel Eleven had been rerunning it for so many years that he’d seen most of the episodes two or three times.

  “This is the longest we’ve talked in months.” Terri sat on the sofa beside him. She drew her legs up under her. “We’re having a good talk.”

  And he didn’t think he could take Arsenio Hall. Not tonight. “What’s good about it?”

  “I like it when you tell me how you’re feeling.”

  He glanced at her. With her serious dark eyes and her assured movements, she reminded him exactly of her dead mother.

  “You know, you’re just like your mother. I ask how you feel, and I wind up telling you how I feel. You’re a mystery to me. I never get to find out anything about you.”

  “Why’s it so important how I feel?”

  “Because I want to know about this Josh person.”

  “Why?”

  He closed the TV Guide and slapped it back on the table. “Because sometimes people get hurt. And I don’t mean your mother—I’m talking about now. Sometimes young people get hurt. Sometimes they hurt one another.”