Deadly Rich

by Edward Stewart

  The gray-haired women looked at each other and began laughing. “Heavens no, we feel lucky to get a table!”

  At ten after six the kitchen door on Seventy-fourth swung open, and Jim Delancey came out.

  Malloy crossed Lexington and followed.

  Delancey headed east toward Third Avenue.

  The TV newswoman saw him and dashed after him. The man shouldering the minicam tried to block his way.

  Malloy could see Delancey gesturing no over and over, refusing to be interviewed. Finally he pushed the man with the mini-cam to one side and strode past.

  The newswoman ran after him, and the man with the mini-cam filmed her shouting to Jim Delancey’s back. “Mr. Delancey! Sir! Mr. Delancey, sir!”

  THIRTEEN

  Tuesday, May 14

  CARDOZO SHOOK THE WAITER’S hand. “Larry?”

  “In person.” Larry’s sunburned, still-peeling face smiled out from under a helmet of blond-streaked hair.

  Cardozo closed his shield case and slipped it back into his pocket. “I was told you waited lunch here last Wednesday.”

  “Did you have to remind me? I just got back from Key West, and I’d almost managed to forget.”

  Cardozo peeled the plaid Archibald’s wrapping off a lump of sugar. He dropped the lump into his coffee and stirred. “Last Wednesday you waited on Oona Aldrich, right?”

  “A pain in the ass but a great tipper, may she rest in peace. Yes, I waited on her for all of three minutes, till her friends hustled her out.”

  “I understand she made a scene.”

  “The vegetable dip was rancid. She said. The salad chef was a murderer. She said. You name it, it was giving her trouble. And Oona wasn’t the only problem customer we had at lunch. She wasn’t even the worst.”

  It was ten after eleven, well before lunch hour, and so far Cardozo was the only customer. He gestured Larry to have a seat at the table.

  Larry glanced around the deserted room. He pulled out a chair and sat.

  “Who was worse than Oona?” Cardozo said.

  “Gloria Spahn made a scene compared to which Oona behaved like a nun at prayer.”

  “Gloria Spahn.” Cardozo ran the name through his memory. “The dress designer?”

  “She wanted romaine in her Caesar salad, and all we had was shredded Boston. Mind you, she was within her rights. Caesar salad should be made with romaine. But try telling that to a Korean chef.”

  “YOU RAN OUT OF ROMAINE?” Cardozo said.

  The Korean withdrew the wooden spoon from the hollandaise pot, touched a forefinger to the spoon, and licked the finger. He shook his head and added salt. “No problem.”

  “But you did run out of romaine, and one of the customers got angry?”

  “No problem. Five minutes we have six heads romaine. Jim run to Gristede’s.”

  “You ran out of romaine, and Jim Delancey went to Gristede’s and got more romaine?”

  The Korean nodded. “Five minutes. No problem.”

  “You didn’t mention this to me last week.”

  The Korean smiled. “Five minutes. Not important. No problem.”

  THE STORE MANAGER WAS in his early forties, stocky, and he radiated a sense of coiled anger. “What day was this?”

  “May eighth,” Cardozo said. “Last Wednesday.”

  He hated to make the manager search for the bill. The poor guy looked as though all he needed was one more hassle and he’d have an aneurysm.

  Cardozo followed him up a flight of four steps. The office was built on a platform higher than the rest of the store. Through Plexiglas windows you could watch all the aisles and all the registers, see who was switching price tags and who was pulling a gun.

  Zip-a-dee-doo music bubbled from ceiling speakers.

  The manager bent over the steel-topped desk and opened a loose-leaf ledger as thick as two Manhattan phone directories. He leafed through a week’s worth of carbons of phone-in charge orders. “Christ, these are a mess. Archibald’s phoned in their regular Wednesday order at eight-thirty A.M.”

  “Any romaine on that order?”

  The manager’s finger went down a ten-inch column of nearly illegible carbon scrawls. “No romaine.”

  “They bought romaine that day.”

  “No, they didn’t.” The manager leafed deeper into the stack. “Yes, they did. Twelve forty-five they special-ordered six heads of romaine.”

  “When were those picked up?”

  “They went out for delivery at one-thirty.”

  “Are you sure they were delivered?”

  “No, I’m not sure because this book is a fucking mess. But we charged for delivery.” The manager leaned down and spoke into a microphone on the desk. “Paco, come to the manager’s office. Paco Mendoza.”

  A short, skinny kid, no more than five feet two, bounded up the steps.

  “You remember this order?” The manager held out the carbon.

  Paco shrugged.

  “The police want to know. Did you deliver it?”

  “Yeah.” Paco nodded.

  Cardozo took the photograph of Jim Delancey from his pocket. “Have you ever seen this man?”

  Paco looked at the photo. He looked at Cardozo. The boy had large, dark, expressive eyes—Cardozo wasn’t sure what they were expressing, but they were good at it.

  “Maybe I’ve seen him,” the boy said. “He reminds me of that new guy in the kitchen at Archibald’s.”

  “He says he picked up the order.”

  The boy shook his head firmly. “He’s lying.”

  FOURTEEN

  Wednesday, May 15

  “CLOSE FRIENDS SAY YOU never went through an experience as brutal as the murder of your daughter four years ago.” Dizey Duke paused to push an overhang of tinsel-colored hair back from her forehead. “When your best friend, Oona Aldrich, was murdered last week, how did that experience compare?”

  The question caught Leigh like an unexpected slap to the face. She hadn’t wanted to give this interview, but Dizey had promised to plug the film and the producer had pleaded with Leigh to let Dizey have five minutes.

  “Come on,” Leigh said. “How the hell can I answer that?”

  Dizey sat there smiling, patting out the wrinkles in the thigh of her camouflage leisure suit. A green Rigaud candle burned in its silver dish on the bar, and a faint scent of cypress floated through the Winnebago.

  Leigh nodded toward the snack table where Dizey had set up her thermos of iced Stoli and her tape recorder. “Do we have to have that thing running?”

  “Forget the tape. It’s just to help my memory.”

  Dizey poured herself another splash of Stoli. In years she was on the high side of fifty-something, tall and heavy-set, with a red, robust, good-humored face topped by blindingly blond bangs. On a slenderer woman without a Montana drawl the blatant dye job might have seemed a miscalculation, but on Dizey it seemed to be a screw-you declaration of fashion independence, part of her instantly recognizable image. She drained the plastic cup and set it down and wiped her lips on the back of her hand.

  “Leigh Baker, here you are today, wrapping up location work on the biggest-budgeted Hollywood film of the season.” Dizey always called you by your last name when there was a tape recorder present. “Industry buzz has it that a sixty-million-dollar investment and possibly the future of the studio are riding on the kind of performance you turn in. With the responsibility of wrapping the film, with the pressure of your friend Oona Aldrich’s—Is there any danger your substance-abuse problems might recur?”

  A fine-grained weariness silted down on Leigh. “I hope not. I pray not. I’m a different person now. I know my weaknesses, I know how to live with them. I know where to go for help.”

  “A lot of people said you’d never work again after your last bout with pills and booze. Do you feel you’ve got the last laugh? Have you licked addiction?”

  “No way. Addiction’s licked me.”

  Made up and dressed and ready for the next
take, Leigh felt uneasy, remote from herself. Through the deep amber tint of the shatter-proof windows she could see the no-parking signs and police barricades that had been set up the length of the entire block. Winnebagos and movers’ trucks and klieg lights and reflectors clogged the street. A crew of at least sixty milled, drinking coffee and munching bagels from the twelve-foot streetside buffet table. The director swung into view, riding his crane-operated chair and testing the next setup through his viewfinder.

  “I’m sober only so long as I don’t pick up that first drink or pill.”

  Dizey’s eyes rounded in sympathy. “Leigh Baker, you make it seem so easy—almost glamorous. What is this knack you have of getting out there and doing what has to be done and having the time of your life doing it?”

  “If I had that knack, I’d be bottling it.”

  “People are saying you believe there’s a connection between your daughter Nita’s murder and your friend Oona’s.”

  Leigh stiffened like a piece of wood, nailed to the canvas seat by the realization that Dizey was determined to trap her. “I wish you’d put this on the record, Dizey. I can’t control what people say, but I never made any statement regarding Oona’s murder, and outside of a courtroom, I don’t intend to.”

  Dizey’s smile flattened. “You’ve taken courageous and controversial stands in the past. You went public with your battle against addiction. Your compassion for the sick and dying has done a lot to change public perception of AIDS. Where do you stand on victims’ rights?”

  “Absolutely in favor.”

  “There’s a lot of public disgust with the early paroling of convicted murderers. Where do you stand?”

  “At the moment I don’t know enough about the penal system to comment.”

  There was something openly dubious in Dizey’s gaze. “Others have not hesitated to comment.” She slipped a different cassette into the tape recorder and pressed the Play button.

  A man’s voice spoke thinly and nasally. “As a society we’re obsessed with vengeance long after vengeance has served its purpose. Jim Delancey may have transgressed, but he’s more than paid his dues and it’s time we all let bygones be bygones and got on with our lives—and allowed him to get on with his.”

  Dizey stopped the tape player and sat staring almost slyly at Leigh.

  “Who’s that on the tape?” Leigh said.

  Dizey sank deeper into the director’s chair. The toe of one cowboy boot stretched out to nudge the leg of Leigh’s chair. “Avalon Gardner.”

  Leigh felt as though a fist had socked her in the stomach. She’d always thought of Avalon Gardner as a friend; he’d even testified for Nita’s character at the trial. “What are you going to do with that comment?”

  A lazy smile touched Dizey’s lips. “It’s important to air all sides of the issue. I’m going to publish it.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t.”

  “We all have wishes, don’t we?”

  The silence oozed with things unsaid.

  Dizey changed cassettes and pressed the Record button. “Recently,” she said, “a New York newspaper received an anonymous letter taking responsibility for the murder of Oona Aldrich. Many people believe that that letter is a smoke screen concocted to obscure the real killer’s identity. What do you believe?”

  “I haven’t seen the letter.”

  “A convicted homicidal sociopath has been freed to run amok in this city, and many people are convinced the letter is a ruse to draw attention away from that fact.”

  “I can understand people feeling that way, but I’m just not in a position to comment.”

  “Anyone who could murder Nita Kohler or Oona Aldrich obviously possesses a dangerously short temper and the self-control of a trip wire. Such a young man would be perfectly willing to do the same to a half dozen other women. Have you taken any steps to protect yourself? Have you hired a bodyguard?”

  “The studio provides security, and I’m insured till the completion of the film.”

  “In this day and age, in this city, is that enough?”

  “We live in a world where there’s no such thing as perfect security. But we can’t fold up our lives like tents just because we’re threatened.”

  “And how have you been threatened?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Dizey was gazing through half-parted lids. “Have you received threatening letters or phone calls?”

  There was a knock.

  “Yes?” Leigh called.

  The door opened. Heat from the street eddied into the cool of the Winnebago. A curly-headed Native American man stuck his head in. “Waiting for you, Miss Baker.”

  “Thank you.” Leigh rose quickly. “Dizey, this has been just great.”

  Dizey pressed the Stop button on her tape recorder and slid it back into its leather carrying case. She recapped her silver flask and dropped it into her tote bag. She stood and went to the door and then stopped and turned. “Leigh, hon, think about what I said. If you need the name of Jackie O’s security people—”

  “I can handle my safety, Dizey. But thanks.”

  Dizey gave her a hard-mouthed look, eyebrows arching. “Be careful. Love you much.”

  As soon as Dizey had closed the door behind her, Leigh crossed to the bar and lifted the receiver of the cellular phone. She punched in Avalon Gardner’s number.

  A nasal male voice answered on the third ring. “Yes?”

  “Avalon, it’s Leigh. Dizey just played me a tape she claims is you.”

  Avalon didn’t answer.

  “Did you go on record defending Jim Delancey?”

  “I wasn’t defending anyone or anything except common sense.”

  “It sounded as though you were excusing him.”

  “Let the dead bury the dead, Leigh. It’s time to get on with the business of living.”

  “You said Jim Delancey has paid his dues?”

  “And he has.”

  “He kills my daughter and serves three years? You call that payment?”

  “Leigh, we have an honest difference of opinion, and I’d rather not go nuclear over it.”

  “I’d like you to retract that comment before Dizey prints it.”

  Avalon drew a deep breath. “It happens to express my considered ethical belief, and I have no intention of retracting.”

  “Then I never want to talk to you again.”

  “Suits me.”

  Leigh broke the connection. She dialed Tori’s direct line at work.

  “Tori Sandberg.”

  “Tori, it’s Leigh.”

  “You sound in a foul mood.”

  “I am. Has Dizey tried to get you to accuse Jim Delancey on the record?”

  “I’m not accusing anyone on or off the record, and I don’t think you ought to talk to Dizey.”

  “I had to. She’s promised to plug the film. Tori, she mentioned threats. Is something going on? Have you gotten any phone calls or letters?”

  “Threatening phone calls or letters? No. Why, have you been getting any?”

  “I can’t tell.”

  “Now, look, you know a threat when you hear one.”

  “There’ve been hang ups on my answering machine. And a few—silences.”

  “Silences?”

  “Someone just listens. You haven’t had anything like that?”

  “No, I haven’t—and I think you should tell the police.”

  “I NEED SOMETHING to wear to Annie MacAdam’s dinner,” Tori Sandberg said.

  “Dinner next Monday or dinner next Thursday?” Gloria Spahn said.

  Tori had not heard about next Thursday’s dinner. “Next Monday.”

  “A tad late in the day, don’t you think?”

  They were sitting on the white brocade sofa in Gloria’s showroom, sipping iced coffee. Gloria was wearing one of her own designs, a luncheon suit of gray silk, high-skirted with a fracture in the jacket that showed a hairline of bare cleavage right down to the first rib. The suit made her look spe
ctacularly but almost unhealthily thin. Tori had run over from the office, and she was wearing one of her work dresses, a red-and-blue Sixties-revival Pucci-style print. She realized she’d somehow gotten orange Magic Marker on the skirt.

  “I honestly thought I had something to wear and”—Tori shrugged and smiled—“I don’t.”

  “But you have that adorable salmon Saint Laurent. It’s a great standby—always perfect for dinner at Annie’s.”

  “I thought it might be nice to surprise Zack with something he hasn’t seen me in.”

  Gloria eyed Tori for one long, appraising moment. “Since when does a literary woman believe a man even notices?”

  “I may edit a magazine, but I hope I’m not a fool.”

  “You’re not, darling. I don’t let fools through that door. Okay, for Zack we’ll make an effort. What did you have in mind?”

  Tori had come to Gloria Spahn because Gloria was very much the right designer these days. Her reputation had been riding a thermal updraft of media exposure, and her clothes had a way of making women—even grandmothers—look rich, sexy, and confident. Tori was one of the few women in her set who had not yet married a rich husband or inherited a trust fund. Her investments had taken a clobbering on the stock market, and she felt a need for some of Gloria’s image enhancement.

  Tori hesitated. “What do you think Zack would like to see me in?”

  Gloria stepped back a few inches. Her glance flicked over Tori thoughtfully. “You have a tall, slender body, you’re toned, your tits are small but you’ve got the greatest ass on the Upper East Side. There’s no reason to stick with the lady image. You could carry off a sexy number, and I’d love to be the designer who brought you out.”

  “And I’d love to wear something that hasn’t been seen in New York.”

  Gloria seemed surprised. “We’re talking one of a kind? For dinner at Annie’s?”

  “Why not?”

  “Annie serves Salisbury steak!” Gloria took three steps back. “Will your hair be that color?”

  “I—I hadn’t planned to change it.”

  “I’m only asking because the dress I have in mind—actually, I’ve two dresses in mind and they’d both look great on you—but you might consider talking to Ron Zaporta before the party. He does coloring at the Pierre. He’s booked solid, but I could get him to slip you in.”