by Tim Stevens
Harpin said: “An attempt was made to murder Mr Mykels last night. Detective Venn here happened to be present at the scene. He prevented the perpetrators from succeeding, and was almost killed himself.” Without pausing, Harpin said, “When did you first meet Martha Ignatowski?”
Torvald stared at Harpin, his mouth hanging open an inch. He closed it, raised his eyebrows, tilted his head.
“Well, detective, that’s –”
“It’s Detective Harpin.”
For a moment, Torvald closed his eyes.
“Yes. Detective Harpin. I was about to say, that’s rather a quick switch in your questioning style. I understand what you’re doing. You’re trying to rattle my confidence, so that my answers will come out more authentic. Well, I’ve nothing to hide, so you’re wasting your time.” He took a deep breath. “I first met Martha when her husband was still alive. Three, perhaps four years ago. I have a casual acquaintance with her. She’s always moved in more monied circles than I have, despite what you might think about my wealth.”
Venn thought it was a good time to speak up. “So, this fundraiser last Friday,” he said. “Tell us about it, Mr Torvald.”
“An annual event I host,” said Torvald. “The cause is different every year. This year it was breast cancer. I approach a number of high-profile people in the Greater New York area and ask if they’d be willing to participate. The guest list is selective, and the ticket prices are substantial. Martha Ignatowski was somebody everybody wanted to meet. She was a big draw card for this event, and I appreciate her donating her time.” He glanced from Venn to Harpin and back again, ignoring Harmony. “If you want to know if Martha appeared any different that day, worried or troubled, the answer’s no. I didn’t find her to be anything other than how she normally is.”
“Which is?” said Venn.
“Friendly, confident, rather witty in fact,” Torvald recited. “A little aloof, which most people who’ve met her and who don’t know her all that well have commented on. She’s a very private person, detective. Was, I should say.” His brow furrowed a little. “Do you have any leads? Anything at all?”
Oh boy, thought Venn. Here it comes. The ‘I’m as concerned as you are to bring her killer to justice’ spiel. The ‘I’m on the same side as you’ schtick.
Venn said, “As far as leads go, Martha Ignatowski’s presence at your fundraiser is just about all we’ve got at the moment, Mr Torvald.”
Torvald raised his eyebrows. “You suspect somebody at the event may have been the perpetrator?”
Venn let that slide. Harpin spoke up: “How much contact did you personally have with her on the day?”
Torvald cocked his head to one side as if considering. “Not a lot, to tell you the truth. I met her a few days beforehand, to run through the sequence of events. Then I greeted her when she arrived, around noon. I introduced her when I gave my keynote speech. And I mingled in the crowd afterward, chatting to her sometimes.”
Harpin said, “We’re going to need a comprehensive list of not just the guests at the event, but the catering staff, too.”
Again Torvald frowned. “You think somebody –”
“The list, please, Mr Torvald,” cut in Venn. “As soon as you can.”
Torvald didn’t like Venn’s interruption. He was clearly a man who wasn’t used to being cut off. “You’ll have it before you leave here, detectives.” He glanced ostentatiously at his watch. Venn thought it was a Patek Philippe, but wasn’t sure. “If there’s nothing else...”
“Nothing at the moment,” said Harpin. “But we’ll almost certainly need to speak with you again in the near future.” He stood, the other two following suit. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr Torvald.”
Torvald shook their hands and gestured them ahead of him to the door. The atmosphere in the room was heavy with the implied threat Harpin had made.
*
“He’s lying like a white man,” said Harmony almost cheerfully, as they congregated by their two cars. Harpin had driven up solo.
“Yes,” Harpin said. “The question is, about what? He didn’t really tell us anything that could be construed as a lie.”
“The whole performance was a lie,” said Venn. “The way he acted innocent. Either he did it, or he knows who did.” He looked at Harpin. “Kind of liked your style there. The way you wrong-footed him, telling him about what happened to me last night.”
“Thanks.” Harpin looked genuinely pleased. He gazed at the sheaf of papers, neatly bound in a paper folder, which Torvald’s personal assistant had handed them before they’d left. The list of guests at the charity fundraiser, as well as the catering staff.
All told, there were three hundred names on the list.
“Guess we’d better start plowing through these,” Harpin said glumly.
Venn said, “Send a copy over to my office. My data guy, Vidal, is good at analyzing that stuff. He may narrow the list down to the most likely suspects.”
“You guy will be able to tell from this list who had the opportunity to poison Ignatowski?” Harpin looked sceptical.
“Not quite,” said Venn. “But email a copy over anyhow. Vidal’s at home today, but I might be able to twist his arm to start sorting through these. He loves this stuff.”
“Okay.” Harpin stretched. “I’ll head back to the precinct and start organizing interviews. You coming?”
Venn looked at Harmony. “Little something I’d like to check out first,” he said. “Maybe I’ll join you later.”
“Maybe you’ll join me when the hard work’s already been done, you mean,” said Harpin.
“You got me,” said Venn.
Harpin left first in his Ford Taurus. Venn sat beside Harmony in her Crown Vic.
She said, “What have you got in mind?”
“You have that informer in Chinatown still?”
“Jimmy Chiu,” Harmony said. “Yeah.”
“Think you can rustle him up on a Sunday? Arrange a meet?”
She got it: “To see if he knows anything about those Chinese guys outside the gallery last night. Yeah, I can do that. Whether he’ll want to talk to us is another matter.”
“I’m sure you’ll be able to sweet-talk him into it,” said Venn.
As they headed back to Manhattan, Harmony said, “Jimmy Chiu. Hard to believe, ain’t it?”
Venn looked at her blankly.
“His name,” said Harmony.
“Nope,” said Venn. “You’ve lost me.”
“Like the shoe designer,” she said helpfully. “Jimmy C-H-O-O.” after a second she slapped the steering wheel, exasperated. “Jeez, Venn, you really haven’t heard of him, have you?”
“’Fraid not.”
“It’s every chick’s dream town a pair of his shoes.” Harmony shook her head. “I don’t know what Beth sees in you. I really don’t.”
Chapter 11
As luck would have it, Jimmy Chiu was working that day in his sister’s laundromat on Baxter Street. It was the first place Harmony suggested they look. She didn’t want to call Jimmy in advance and give him a chance to hide.
Venn waited in the passenger seat of the Crown Vic a block away while Harmony went to get Jimmy. From force of habit, Venn scanned the crowds pouring past the car. He didn’t see anybody he recognized.
Earlier that morning he’d called the precinct which had picked up the shootings outside the gallery. The cop he spoke to told him the two men he’d shot dead had been identified. They were James Xing and Tyrus Yee, aged 22 and 27 respectively. Both had records for vandalism and theft. Yee had in addition served three years for assault. They were thought to run with gangs, but the details were unknown.
The cops had already spoken to the parents of both men, who were appalled and apparently genuinely ashamed. Neither set of parents professed to know anything about the crowd their son ran with. The cops were trying to track down known associates of the men.
Harmony appeared after ten minutes with a diminutive man of ar
ound forty by her side. He stared down at the sidewalk, as if trying not to catch the eye of anybody he passed. Venn didn’t know what he was worried about. Harmony didn’t look like a cop. Venn himself did, which was why he’d decided to wait in the car.
The rear door opened and Jimmy Chiu half-climbed and was half-pushed onto the backseat. Harmony got in and pulled away from the curb.
Venn turned in his seat. “hello,” he said. “I’m Detective Venn.”
Chiu was a skinny man with a mournful face and watchful, rather shrewd eyes. He stared back at Venn but didn’t say anything.
“So, Jimmy,” said Harmony. “This shooting up at the Desiderata Gallery last night.”
“Yeah,” said Jimmy. “I heard about that. Hell of a mess.”
“You know the dead guys?”
Jimmy gave an exaggerated shrug. “I don’t even know their names. It wasn’t on the news report. Just that two Chinese men had gotten shot.”
“I shot them,” said Venn.
Jimmy’s eyes snapped back to Venn. He seemed to press himself further back into his seat.
“Hey, man,” he said. “I mean, uh, Detective. Don’t joke like that.”
“I’m not joking,” said Venn. “I got lucky. Happened to be there at the time. Their names were James Xing and Tyrus Yee.”
For a moment Jimmy’s mouth hung open. He shut it with a snap.
“Listen, guys,” he said. “I don’t know anything about all of this. I can’t help you today, Harmony. Sorry.”
“Yes, you can,” said Venn, his voice friendly. “You know those names. I saw it in your face.”
“Come on, Jimmy,” said Harmony, watching him in the rear view mirror. “Nobody’s saying you had anything to do with this. We figure those guys were gangbangers. Several others got away. If you know who Xing and Yee ran with, tell us. It’ll never come back to you.”
Harmony stopped for a red light. Venn saw Jimmy’s hand inch toward the door handle.
With a thunk, Harmony activated the central locking mechanism.
“Uh-uh,” she said. “See, Jimmy, that was dumb. All you just did was prove to us that you know something but aren’t telling.”
The light turned green and she pulled away again.
Jimmy’s face sagged in defeat. He said: “I don’t get mixed up in that gang stuff. Never have, never will. Besides, the Triads aren’t like the Italian mob. They don’t keep a high profile so as to scare people. They work underground. Run things behind the scenes. A simple working stiff like me wouldn’t have anything to do with them in everyday life, unless I trod on their toes somehow.”
“Really?” said Venn. “You mean your sister’s never been approached with an offer for protection of her Laundromat? An offer she can’t refuse?”
Jimmy shook his head. “No, man. Like I said, it’s not like in The Godfather or The Sopranos. Not with us. Most mom-and-pop businesses like my sister’s get left alone. It’s the intruders, the new premises in town, whose proprietors are from elsewhere, that get leaned on.”
“So you’re saying these two dead guys, Xing and Yee, were in the Triads?” said Harmony.
Jimmy sighed. “I don’t know for certain. That first guy, James Xing, I never heard of. But the other one, Tyrus... he’s a badass. Done jail time for beating up a mailman once. He’s more like the wannabe wiseguys you see in the movies. Always dropping hints about how connected he is. I met him a couple times. Wouldn’t want to make a habit of it. Though I guess that’s unlikely now.”
“What do you know about his connections?” said Venn.
“He’s rumored to run with the Shadow Dragon Triad,” said Jimmy, and held his breath, as if he’d just uttered words which had taken him beyond the point of no return.
“Who’re they?” Venn pressed.
“Like I said, Detective, I don’t know a lot about these people. The less you know about them the better. The Shadow Dragons are a new group – we only started hearing their name in the last couple years. I don’t know anything about who’s in them, how big they are, what they do.”
Venn looked at the man’s small, wary eyes, and decided he was telling the truth.
He nodded at Harmony.
“Okay, Jimmy,” she said. “You’ve been fairly helpful.” From her hip pocket she pulled a billfold and counted out two notes with one hand while steering with the other. She flipped the notes into the backseat. “Buy yourself a toothbrush.”
Jimmy put his hand to his mouth reflexively. He picked up the banknotes and made them disappear.
“You hear anything more about the Shadow Dragon group, you call,” said Venn.
Harmony dropped Jimmy near Broadway, at his request – he wanted to make his own way back to the laundromat, to reduce the risk of somebody seeing him with two cops – and then said to Venn, “You want to join Harpin at the precinct and help him trawl the list of suspects?”
“No,” said Venn. “Let him and his people do the legwork, like he said. I’m kind of buzzed by this Triad thing. Let’s go do some research.”
Chapter 12
She watched the fat guy, Wayne Cronacker – Blowfly – struggle to keep his face composed as he stared first at the gun, then at the treats revealed at the top of her slightly unbuttoned blouse, and almost burst out laughing at him.
They were seated at the kitchen counter, propped opposite one another on stools. She’d laid the gun within easy reach of her hand, though if he himself decided to make a grab for it he’d have to stretch.
Cronacker looked dazed, and it wasn’t just the raging hangover he must be in the throes of.
“Sorry about the gun,” she said matter-of-factly. “But I just didn’t want you to be under any misapprehension about how serious I am. Or how serious the situation is that you’ve landed in.”
His dazedness increased, if that was possible.
“Melinda,” he tried, in a voice that sounded like it must taste of sandpaper.
Yes, she’d continue to let him believe that was her name. It suited her purposes for now.
Her real name was Shelly Anderson. Her real hair colour was a golden blonde, not the Goth black she’d cultivated ever since her return to New York City two weeks earlier. She wasn’t really an artist, as she’d told him.
Her real occupation was something you wouldn’t find listed on any employment agency’s books, or in any IRS database.
Shelly was a professional assassin.
Once upon a time, she’d been a cop. A detective second grade with the NYPD, right here in Manhattan. That seemed a lifetime ago.
Her career as a cop had come to an end almost three years earlier, when a man named Joe Venn had put a stop to it. Venn was some kind of loser private eye who somehow managed to prevent Shelly from killing both of the targets she’d been contracted to take out, a man named Professor Lomax and a woman called Dr Elizabeth Colby. To this day, Shelly marveled at how Venn had done it. Shelly had never failed to pull off a hit before, but she had to admit she’d been thoroughly outsmarted.
Venn’s victory hadn’t been total, though. Shelly had come close to getting killed at his hands, but she’d gotten away, and had spent the next two years under assorted assumed identities in Mexico and other parts of Central and South America, plying her trade as a contract killer. With her earnings from these jobs she’d slowly, painstakingly replenished her beloved collection of firearms, the one she’d lost forever after she’d been forced to abandon it in the basement of her Manhattan home. Her stash was now more judiciously distributed in various locations in New York and the neighboring states, within relatively easy reach should she need a particular piece.
Once bitten, twice shy.
Shelly had followed Venn’s career with fascination during her wilderness years, as she liked to call them. He’d become a cop once more himself, joining the NYPD and popping up from time to time in the news, in connection with some high-profile cases. Most famously of all, earlier this year he’d bagged the Sigma serial killer.
Yes, Shelly had to confess she was jealous of the other perps Venn had pursued and taken down.
But she was nothing if not a pragmatist. The work in Latin America had paid well, but it was sporadic. After the first year or eighteen months, Shelly had begun to grow restless. She’d toyed with the idea of heading for Europe and plying her trade there, but she’d been drawn toward the US once more, the land of her birth. And, more specifically, she’d gotten a kick out of the notion of pursuing contracts within New York itself. Right under the noses of the very police department which had employed her.
So when a contact of a contact had put her in touch with her current client yesterday, barely two weeks after she’d returned to the city, it was like a dream come true.
She gazed at Cronacker. Jesus, the guy had a problem. Booze, certainly, and he had that washed-out, wasted look that made her suspect he was into his nose candy, too. Plus, he’d been grinding his teeth in his sleep last night. That suggested amphetamines.
He’d been easy to track down. Once her client had supplied her with Cronacker’s car license plate, Shelly had called in a long-dormant favor within the NYPD. There was a crooked uniformed cop out in Queens whom she’d caught taking bribes years earlier, and she’d offered to keep her trap shut in return for some future service. He’d forgotten all about Shelly, it seemed, and when she’d contacted him yesterday he’d sounded like he was hearing a voice from beyond the grave. But he’d come through for her, and had gotten Cronacker’s name and home address from the DMV database.
Shelly had staked out Cronacker’s apartment and followed him to the bar, where she’d slid in beside him. He was easier to hook than a magnetic toy in a kid’s fishing set. Shelly had watched him get rapidly hammered, while she’d artfully disposed of her own drinks without actually consuming them.
