Reilly leaned back in his leather-upholstered swivel chair, shaking his head. “And it has to be you.”
“Hell, no,” Cardozo said, “it could have been you.”
Reilly looked at him with undisguised hatred. The man, Cardozo realized, was retirement fodder, waiting out his last year and a half till that pension could be cashed in. Determined, in the meantime, to take no controversial stand, to offend no superior.
“Vince, I’m sure you mean well.” Reilly’s eyes said the exact opposite; he wasn’t sure at all. “But we have to face the political realities. Braidy has power. I don’t, you don’t, Carl Malloy sure as hell doesn’t.”
“So lots were drawn and Carl Malloy won the lead role in the annual sacrifice?”
“Don’t complicate this.”
“I’m trying to uncomplicate this, and if you want I’ll go down there and talk to that asshole myself. Is that what you want?”
“No, Vince. I want you to drop Malloy.”
“It’s not going to be a popular move with the Patrolmen’s Benevolent Association.” Which was obviously the reason Reilly wanted Cardozo to do the firing rather than handle it himself. “Is that an order?”
Reilly’s bloodshot eyes locked in on his. “For the time being it’s a serious request.”
“Then for the time being I’ll seriously consider it.”
“WE HAVE A PROBLEM,” Cardozo said.
“I don’t have a problem,” Captain Lawrence Zawac said. The trimmed dark mustache that didn’t quite cover the scar on his upper lip reshaped itself around a smile. “What’s yours?”
“IAD is pressuring my commander to pressure me to boot Sergeant Carl Malloy off my task force.”
“Not true, not true.” Zawac shifted papers on his desk. “Bridget Braidy is pressuring your commander, not us.” The entire wall behind him was covered with framed photos. There was no way you could look at Zawac without seeing Zawac shaking hands with George Bush, Zawac shaking hands with Liz Smith, Zawac shaking hands with Tom Cruise.
“So where do you stand?” Cardozo said.
“It’s a tempest in an ice-cream dish. Not worth investigating. And it sure as hell isn’t worth a good cop’s shield or his pension.”
Zawac was the cop, Cardozo remembered, who had gone from lunch with the Cardinal to a TV talk show and proposed the city recriminalize condoms. “I’m having a hard time believing my ears.”
“Believe them,” Zawac said. “Everyone knows what Bridget Braidy is. She’s a publicity-hungry bitch.” Zawac was smiling as though he and Cardozo both understood the differences between human nature and cop nature, but his slate-colored eyes seemed to stand back from the smile, observing his visitor. “No one takes Bridget Braidy seriously.”
“I know one person who takes her seriously. Me.”
“I’ll handle Braidy. The corruption investigation of Carl Malloy and the ice cream is closed.”
“DARLING,” a man’s voice said.
Leigh turned and saw Waldo standing in the doorway. She picked up the remote from the coffee table, aimed it at the TV, and killed the sound.
“I have to go,” he said.
“Aren’t we spending the evening in?”
“Not tonight.” He was carrying a suitcase. “I’m catching the eight-forty to London.”
Her heart gave a sudden kick within her chest. She got up from the sofa and stared at him, looking for some sign in his face that this was a joke. “You were going to cancel that trip.”
“I tried. I’ll only be gone till Sunday.”
Her foot felt along the floor for her shoes, couldn’t find them. She crossed the library carpet barefoot. “You said you’d, stay home or take me with you.”
“I said you’d be taken care of. I’ve hired security.”
She met his gaze. There was something chilled in his pale blue eyes, and furrows pulled down the corners of his mouth. She felt that she and Waldo were continents drifting apart on their own separate tectonic plates.
“You can’t leave me,” she said. “I’m in trouble.”
“The hell you are. You’ve never been finer.”
“I’ve been drinking again.” She held up her glass. “Scotch in my diet Pepsi. Waldo, I’m scared.”
“Look,” he said, “having a drink isn’t the end of the world—don’t buy into that AA ideology so totally that you crucify yourself for being human.” He gave her arm a pat. His glance slid just a little to the side. “Leigh, this is Arnold—your guard.” She pulled back and turned.
A man of middle weight and middle years stood in the hallway watching her. There was no expression at all on his face. His graying brown hair had been shaved practically to his scalp, and he had eyebrows as pale as the bristles on a toothbrush.
She didn’t move or say anything or even show a reaction. She felt naked and small and threatened without her shoes.
“Arnie Bone, ma’am.” The stranger held out a hand. Steel-colored eyes fixed on her. “Very pleased to make your acquaintance.”
IT WAS ALMOST MIDNIGHT when Leigh reached forward and opened the drain. Floris-scented suds began their slow downward spiral.
She stepped out of the tub and wrapped herself in a terry-cloth robe. She toweled off a patch of mirror and brushed her teeth. After flossing she worked a Stim-U-Dent around all the crevices, gargled, and spat.
When she came back into the half-lit bedroom, the air conditioner was making a whispering sound in the curtains. She crossed to the window and stared down into the community garden. Light from the other town houses slanted across the paths and flower beds. Her mind felt sluggish.
“Will you be needing anything, ma’am?”
Leigh whirled. She instantly registered two facts: Arnie Bone was standing in her bedroom, and the door was shut.
“Don’t you knock before you come into a room?”
“I did knock, ma’am.” He had taken off his suit jacket. His pale, heavy-jawed face was in motion. He was chewing something. “I was wondering if you need anything.”
“No.” Her hand turned up the collar up the robe. “No, thank you.”
“Are you turning in now, ma’am?”
“Yes.” She crossed the room and opened the bedroom door. “Thank you.”
“Okay.” His smile was rueful. “I’ll be here if you need me.”
“Mr. Bone,” she said.
“Arnie. The name’s Arnie.”
“Where will you be?”
“Just down the hall.” A smile creased his lips. “Mr. Carnegie told me to take his room.”
“All right. Good night.”
“Good night, ma’am.” She locked the door behind him.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Friday, May 24
“YOU’VE GONE BACK AGAIN,” Luddie said quietly.
Leigh felt a flush mounting in her face. All she’d mentioned was Waldo deserting her for four days, and the guard Waldo had hired that she couldn’t stand, and the hang ups and silences on her answering machine that were driving her crazy. She’d carefully skirted the drinking. How had he caught it? Was she talking too fast, too loud? Was there liquor on her breath?
“Don’t you want to tell me about it?” he said.
Her first wild impulse was to deny it, to scream, Three diet Pepsis with a teeny bit of Johnnie Walker is not going back. And anyway that was yesterday, I’ve only had one today.
But the look on his face stopped her. She was prepared for anger, for judgment, and instead she saw sorrow and disappointment and concern. She couldn’t bear the way those eyes saw into her and heaped forgiveness on her.
“Sometimes,” she said, “I wish you’d shout at me.”
“Next thing you’d want me to beat you. Punishment’s what you’re doing to yourself. I’m not here to add to it.”
She gazed out the window of Luddie’s living room at the summer sky and the city it glowed upon. “I wonder what you expect of me. Do I have to be a saint?”
Luddie didn’t answer.
She peeled away the implications of that silence. She wanted to throw her coffee cup straight at that patient face. “Haven’t things ever gotten tough for you? Haven’t you ever … gone back?”
“Sure. When I was a state department slug, when it hurt that Happy didn’t have a mother, that I didn’t have a wife; when it hurt that the whole rest of the human race had wives and mothers and I had nothing.”
“How did you stop hurting?”
“I quit the government and I prayed.”
She sighed. “Prayer is not going to stop the hang ups and silences on my answering machine.”
“How do you know? You’ve tried everything else.”
She turned. She had a sense he was playing with her, though there was nothing in his face to show it. “You don’t pray about things like phone calls.”
“Why not?”
She stared at him. “God’s too busy.”
“But you’re not.”
They sat there in silence. She could hear Happy in the next room, playing with his toy xylophone.
“Do you seriously think Jim Delancey is phoning you?” Luddie said.
“I didn’t say that.”
“I know what you said. I’m talking about what you’re thinking, because it’s an extremely alcoholic thought pattern.”
“Look, I have great respect for your sobriety, maybe I even envy it; but you can’t blame everything rotten in this world on booze. It’s not Johnnie Walker phoning me, it’s a real person and I happen to believe it’s Jim Delancey. And that’s me talking, not Johnnie Walker.”
“You’re obsessed with Johnnie Walker.”
“I’m weak, Luddie. And I’m frightened.”
“Have you mentioned these calls to your lieutenant?”
“I have, and why do you call Vince Cardozo my lieutenant?”
“He has a crush on you, doesn’t he?”
“Does he?” She felt weary and transparent and humiliated. “You seem to have a lot more confidence in my charms than I do.”
“Leigh—cut it out. Stop begging. It’s your worst habit. You know I love you.”
She began sobbing. Everything in her collapsed. She couldn’t help it. She covered her eyes. “No, I don’t. How could you love me when I keep fucking myself up and letting you down?”
“I give up. If spending three years listening to you and trying to keep you sober isn’t love, what the hell is? What do you want me to do—put the make on you?”
“No.” She shook her head. She tried to dry her eyes. She had a claustrophobic sensation of being trapped, of having all her old reliable exits blocked. “It’s too late for that. You know me.”
“Leigh, that attitude is pure alcoholism. And, frankly, if you don’t do some serious praying and get a grip on yourself—I think you might start drinking again.”
She looked at him and blinked. “Start drinking?”
“I’ve seen it happen to others. Don’t think you’re immune.”
He doesn’t know, she realized. He doesn’t see. “Luddie, what’s my biggest problem? Right here and right now?”
He smiled. “Resentment. The surest road to the next drink. You’ve gone back to your old grievance collecting. Are you aware of it?”
LEIGH TURNED THE HANDLE. The bedroom door opened inward, coming gently to rest against the doorstop before it could connect with the bedroom wall.
Christ, she thought. That was close. She felt giddy and relieved, like a little girl who’d barely escaped a spanking.
A digital two was blinking on the answering machine. She pressed the Replay button. The first call was a hang up. The second began as silence, with noises in the background—faint electronic signals leaking in from other circuits.
A voice spoke, startling her.
“Ma’am?” Arnie Bone stood in the hallway outside her bedroom door. “Are you all right?”
“You don’t have to guard me indoors,” she said. “Why don’t you go ask the cook to make you a snack?”
A shadow crossed his face. “If you’re sure you’re all right.”
“I’m sure.”
He raised a finger, touching the brim of a cap that wasn’t there. She watched him go. He moved without noise but heavily, like a baseball player going to the plate—purposeful, centered, not about to let anything distract him from his task. She disliked his walk.
She went and closed the bedroom door. As she turned a voice began speaking on the answering machine.
“I’m watching you.” It was a deep voice, rasping and hoarse. “Shut your evil trap—or you’ll go to the head of the line.”
There was a half tick of an instant where she realized intellectually what she’d heard, but her mind refused to believe it. She stopped the tape and played the message again.
Panic coiled in her stomach.
But this time she wasn’t scared of panic. She went into the bathroom and unscrewed the Chanel Number Five cologne bottle and poured two fingers of Johnnie Walker into the toothbrush tumbler.
CARDOZO STARED at the Aldrich and Gardner glossies. He tried to put out of his mind all knowledge that these designs were carved into human flesh.
He asked himself: What are these? He tried to see them as drawings. What did they represent? He tried to see them as symbols. What did they embody?
A light on the phone blinked. Cardozo snapped up the receiver before it could buzz. “Vince Cardozo, how can I help you?”
“I’m sorry to bother you …”
The voice was hesitant, almost apologetic. He recognized Leigh Baker, and he felt an involuntary little glow in the center of his rib cage.
“That’s okay. Bother me.”
“I got a threatening phone call today.”
He reached for his pen. He kept his voice easy and calm, not letting anything show. “What was the threat?”
“Shut your evil trap—or you’ll go to the head of the line.”
It was a revealing choice of words, and they set off a familiar and unpleasant resonance in his memory—part teacher talk, part abusive adult-to-child talk. The kindergarten as hell. “Did you recognize the voice?”
“No. He was disguising it. The pitch was low, soft. Almost a whisper.”
“Did he have an accent?”
“No—no accent.”
“Was there any kind of reverberation or delay? Could these have been long-distance or satellite calls?”
“They sounded local.”
“Did you hear any background sounds—television, music, other voices, traffic?”
“No.”
Cardozo ran the options through his mind. “I think we’d better install a trace.”
“All right. If you think so.”
“If we tap from inside the house and we have permission of the resident, we don’t need a court order. The only question I’m legally required to ask you is, are you a resident?”
“I don’t know how the law defines that.”
“Let’s go by how you define it.”
“It’s Waldo’s house, but he’s away and I suppose I’m a resident at the moment.”
“Fine. I’ll be over with a man after I get through here. Would six, six-thirty be okay?”
“Six or six-thirty would be fine,” she said. “I haven’t any plans.”
That seemed odd to him: a woman like Leigh Baker spending an evening in New York, not having any plans. “Can you get the servants out of the house? It’ll take a half-hour, hour.”
“I’ll make sure they’re not here.”
“And till I get there it might be a good idea to let your answering machine take your calls.”
WHEN LEIGH BAKER OPENED the front door, she was wearing a dress of a pale peach and her hair had a tousled and magnificent look, as though half an hour ago she’d paid a hairdresser two-hundred dollars to mess it up just right.
“Miss Baker,” Cardozo said, “I’d like you to meet my friend Tommy Thomas. Tommy’s with Nynex.”
“How do you do, ma’am,” Tomm
y said.
Leigh Baker’s eyes went right past Cardozo and raked Tommy from his face down to his shoes and then back up.
Cardozo could understand why: Tommy’s sandy-brown hair was salon-cut and he wore a beautifully tailored lightweight dark gray suit. The small leather case in his left hand was made of pigskin, and it carried his initials in gold, just beneath the combination lock. When Leigh Baker took that lingering second look, Cardozo felt a tiny sting of regret that he hadn’t spent a thousand dollars more grooming himself.
“Which part of the house do you need to see?” Leigh Baker asked.
“Phone lines usually come into the cellar,” Tommy said.
“Then to the cellar we’ll go,” Leigh Baker said. The remark had an odd kind of prefabricated merriness that didn’t fit Cardozo’s impression of her. Why do I suddenly hate Tommy Thomas? he wondered.
Don’t bother answering, he told himself.
Tommy Thomas was Cardozo’s telephone connection.
When you needed a phone tap, the official way was to go through the law-enforcement bureaucracy. The procedure took up to three weeks, and it left a paper trail four departments wide. The unofficial way was to go through the phone company, the people who had invented the phone and the phone tap and the phone trace and who still controlled the state-of-the-art technologies of all three. This took anywhere from five minutes to an hour, and in the end, three hundred fewer people knew about it.
Leigh Baker led them through the kitchen and down a flight of stairs.
Though the chandeliers were brass instead of crystal, Waldo Carnegie’s idea of a cellar could have been someone else’s idea of a ballroom. Oriental rugs dotted the polished oaken parquet, and the walls and the ten-foot ceiling were paneled in molded walnut. The pipes that criss-crossed overhead were polished brass, as though someone had decided, Hell, if we can’t make them invisible, we might as well make them expensive.
Tommy Thomas crossed the cellar and opened a small brass cabinet door, exposing a pocket of agitated dials and wheels and blinking lights. “This looks like some kind of temperature-stabilizing mechanism. What’s he got down here, a wine cellar?”
“Yes, he has, and they say it’s a very good one.”
Deadly Rich Page 24
