by Tim Stevens
“They’ll be looking for our car,” said Shelly. “And for a Goth girl and a guy.” A particularly non-descript guy, she thought, but let it pass.
Shelly slipped the tips of her fingers beneath the join of the wig and peeled it off. It was a top-quality product, custom-designed for her by a man she’d met in Colombia who was expert at changing people’s identities. Underneath, her hair was her usual short, blond cut.
Wayne was gaping at her. She laughed.
“Don’t you like it?”
“No, no, you look great. It’s just... how did –?”
“How did this wig stay on while we were doing what we were doing?” Again she laughed. “It didn’t come cheap, I can tell you.”
She stowed the wig in the overnight bag she’d retrieved from the car before they’d pushed it into the river. In the bag was a change of clothes. She slipped on a pair of khaki cargo pants and a long-sleeved sweatshirt, light in color. Simple clothes, but the alteration in the overall color scheme made a huge difference to her appearance, she knew. Using a powder puff and a small mirror she wiped the makeup off from around her eyes and her lips, and applied a pale lipstick.
“Got no spare clothes for you, Wayne, but that can’t be helped.” She’d helped him clean the blood off his face and arms earlier using bottled water, but his clothes wouldn’t stand up to forensic scrutiny. Which meant they’d have to avoid getting caught until he could change.
As they headed out of the clearing and back toward the town, Shelly took out her phone. She’d already ditched the phone she’d taken off Wong, in case the cops traced it, but she’d kept his gun in the overnight bag as a spare.
She Googled the name Torvald, narrowing it down to link it to New York. Most of the hits she dismissed immediately as likely irrelevant.
But, further down the first page, she saw one she liked: Carl S. Torvald, president of Lexington Bank.
She read a little about him. There was nothing there to suggest he was the one she was looking for, and besides, she didn’t even know if the guy who’d hired Wong was in New York. But it was worth a try.
Then she realized she didn’t need to speculate. Louis Q. Mykels might know if this particular Torvald was the guy.
She found the number on her phone, the one she was supposed to use to get in touch with the anonymous man who’d recruited her, and dialed.
Chapter 23
By the time Venn and Harmony reached the Division of Special Projects office, Venn had already called Harpin to update him on what had happened in Chinatown and later, and to share the information Fil had found out.
“Huh,” said Harpin. “My guys missed Mykels’ name on the guest list. Or, if they saw it, they didn’t recognize it as significant.”
“You have any thoughts on how Ignatowski’s murder could be linked to the Triad guys?” asked Venn.
“Can’t say I do,” said Harpin. “And by the sound of it, you don’t either. Let me think about it.”
In the office, Fil beamed at them. He’d been a solemn, almost humorless young man when he’d first joined them more than nine months earlier, but he was definitely lightening up, Venn thought.
“Got something interesting for you,” he said.
“A clear shot of the woman on the CCTV footage?” said Venn.
Fil’s face fell. “Ah. No, not that yet. I’ve got a program working on it, though, but it’s necessarily slow. No, what I’ve discovered is, a connection between Louis Mykels and Carl Torvald.”
Venn brightened. “Yeah?”
“They were both at Harvard at the same time. Torvald studying business, Mykels art, of course.”
Venn waited.
Fil spread his hands. “Well... that’s it.”
“Okay.” Venn couldn’t help feeling a stab of disappointment. “It’s something, I guess. They may have known one another then. But likely not. Harvard’s a big place. And their professional fields don’t exactly overlap.”
“I’m hunting down everything I can about the years they were there,” said Fil. “Yearbooks, news reports, the rest. They overlapped in the years 1985 to ’87.”
“Keep trying,” said Venn. “In the mean time, I’d like to look at what you’ve got so far on the CCTV picture.”
Fil wheeled his chair over to another computer and waggled the mouse to get rid of the screensaver. On the monitor appeared the frozen monochrome image of the black-haired woman behind Wong. Wong himself had almost stepped out of the frame, with only his shoulder in the shot.
Venn gazed at the woman, at the one-quarter view of her pale face visible to the side of the sweep of tousled black hair that almost obscured it. Her eye wasn’t looking at the camera, which was hardly surprising. Instead, she appeared to be looking straight at Wong’s back. The outline of her cheek was fuzzy, as yet undefined by the image-enhancing process.
She could have been anybody. Just one of millions of young women in New York City.
And yet, she wasn’t just any young woman. She was possibly complicit in the murder of Micky Wong. Who himself wasn’t just any innocent victim, and whose sudden and unexplained death was unlikely to be any kind of coincidence.
Venn watched the image on the screen sharpening with agonizing slowness, pixel by pixel.
Harmony appeared at his shoulder. “You know her?” Her tone was joking.
“Not that I can tell,” Venn said.
Fil called across just then: “Whoah. Something else.”
They both looked at him.
“Louis Mykels and Carl Torvald weren’t just at Harvard at the same time,” said Fil. “They were in the same fraternity in 1986 and ’87.” He glanced back at the screen. “Epsilon Phi Kappa.”
Venn felt a stirring of interest. He said, “Still may not mean much. Big university. The frat houses would be big, too.”
“And even if they did know one another,” added Harmony. “Hell, even if they were asshole buddies. It doesn’t necessarily link them to any of the stuff that’s going on now.”
A glimmer of an idea appeared somewhere deep in Venn’s mind. He said, “Fil. You got all that stuff on Martha Ignatowski? The biographical info?”
“Sure,” said Fil. “Like I said, I haven’t completed it. What’re you looking for?”
“Her college years.”
Harmony looked at Venn. “Oh. You think...?”
Fil worked the keyboard for ten seconds before he said: “Bingo. Martha Ignatowski was an undergraduate at Harvard from 1986 to 1989.”
The stirring of interest turned into something stronger, quickening Venn’s pulse a notch.
He got up.
“I told the cops back in Chinatown to pick Mykels up from Connecticut and escort him back to Manhattan,” he said. “I’ll get them to bring him here. We need to ask him a few questions.”
“Shake him down,” said Harmony.
“Just a few questions,” Venn said.
Chapter 24
Louis Q. Mykels was dressed in chinos, a linen jacket and a white cheesecloth shirt which set off the darkness of his skin. It was a world away from the sleek suit he’d been dressed in at the gallery exhibition when Venn had last seen him, but nonetheless he looked elegant, like he’d just come off a yacht.
The Chinatown cops had sent two patrol cars to pick him up in Connecticut. One of the cops had ridden back with Mykels in his own car. They’d brought him to the Division office and Venn had asked them to hang around. Then he’d taken Mykels into his private office with Harmony and shut the door.
Mykels looked grave but composed. “Any updates, Lieutenant?”
“Maybe,” said Venn. He watched Mykels. If the guy was flustered by Venn’s gaze, he didn’t show it. “I was wondering if you might be able to help, Mr Mykels.”
“Please. Louis.” Mykels raised his eyebrows. “If you mean, have I been able to think of somebody who might hate me so much they want me dead... well, I’m afraid the answer’s still no.”
Harmony hadn’t spoken yet, not e
ven when Venn introduced her to Mykels. Now she said: “You friends with Carl Torvald?”
Her bluntness often irritated people she and Venn were questioning. But Mykels regarded her amiably.
“Friends – hardly. I know him, of course. I was at a cancer fundraiser of his just two days ago. Which I assume you know already, since his name has come up. But we’re acquaintances. We’ve known one another a number of years.”
He glanced at Venn, as if to ask what this was all about. Before he could speak, Venn said: “How many years?”
“How many years have Carl and I known each other?” Mykels looked off to one side. “Twenty-five, I should say. Perhaps more. We were at Harvard at the same time.”
“And you were buddies with him then?” said Harmony.
Mykels half smiled. “We were never buddies, Detective. But we moved in some of the same circles. He had an interest in art. We were both sports fans, particularly football. We’d play in informal games together. Run into each other at parties. That sort of thing.”
“What about Martha Ignatowski?” Venn this time.
Mykels said patiently, “What about her, Lieutenant?”
“You see her at Torvald’s fundraiser?”
“Of course. She was the star guest. I spent perhaps ten minutes talking with her.”
“How long have you known her?” said Harmony.
Mykels looked from Harmony to Venn, understanding dawning in his eyes. “Ah. I see. You’re involved in the investigation of Martha’s murder.” He nodded. “Yes. And she was there at the fundraiser. You believe there’s some link between her and this threat toward me?” He sounded as if he was genuinely interested, genuinely keen to help.
Venn didn’t want him to get comfortable.
He said: “You meet Martha Ignatowski at Harvard, too?”
A small smile played about Mykels’ lips, as if he knew where this was heading. “Yes, as a matter of fact I did. She was Martha Cobbs back then. A popular girl.”
“Popular, how?” said Harmony rudely. “She sleep around?”
“I’ve no idea, Detective.” Mykels looked slightly pained. “What I meant was, she was active in campus life. An organizer. Parties, other social events. It was obvious then that she was going places. I’ve no doubt that had she chosen to, and not married into wealth, she could have become a top businesswoman.”
“And she was your friend,” said Venn.
“Yes,” said Mykels easily. “Yes, I suppose she was.”
“You date her?” said Harmony.
“No.” Again Mykels smiled. There was no regret in his voice. “She knew exactly what she was looking for in a man, did Martha. And what she was looking for was money. I didn’t fit the bill. I was an art student. Not the best prospect.”
“But you’ve done okay for yourself now,” said Venn.
“Yes. But at the time, I was just another hopeful. I can fully understand why I wasn’t Martha’s type.”
“You sorry about that?” asked Harmony.
Mykels appeared to consider. “Yes and no,” he said. “Was I attracted to her? Of course. She was beautiful. Feisty. But she was also ruthless. I imagine she may have been hard to live with.”
“You keep in contact with her after college?” Venn asked.
“Only in the sense that we encountered each other on the social and fundraising scene here in New York,” said Mykels. “We didn’t have dinner together, or speak on the phone, or anything like that.”
“Why would somebody want to kill her?” said Harmony.
For the third time, the smile was back on Mykels’ lips. “I believe that’s your job to find out, Detectives. But my opinion? Because of course I’ve thought about it ever since I learned yesterday of her murder.” He ticked off on his fingers: “One. Jealousy. Maybe she has a new man. Maybe he didn’t like the way she’d behaved in front of other men. So he beat her to death. Two. Money. Someone broke into her house – and I know the reports say there was no evidence of forced entry, but you never know – and she surprised him. Those are the two main motives for a violent killing of this nature, Detectives. In my less-than-expert opinion.”
Venn watched him in silence. He’d made Mykels sit down, but neither Venn nor Harmony had followed suit. Mykels didn’t look intimidated by the arrangement, or by the questions.
“Is that all you wanted to ask me?” Mykels looked from one to the other. “Because I’d really like to discuss what happens next. About this threat against me.”
“It’s too risky for you to return home,” said Venn. “You got someplace else you can stay?”
“I have a room at the Mount Jackson Hotel,” said Mykels. “You know it? On Central Park.”
Venn did know it, though he’d never been there. Very upmarket.
“I keep quiet about it, for reasons of privacy,” said Mykels. “But I could stay there for a week, or however long it takes.”
“We’ll post police protection,” said Venn. “Uniformed and plainclothes.”
Mykels frowned. “Will that be necessary?”
“For the moment, yes,” said Venn. “You can come and go, but it’s best you have at least two men with you at all times. Until we catch whoever’s behind this.” He went to the door and opened it. “I suggest you head for your hotel. The officers who escorted you here will take you there and stay with you until a more regular detail has been put in place.”
Mykels stood up. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Venn, standing aside to let him pass. “And thank you for your cooperation with us.”
*
They watched him cross the parking lot to his car with the officers.
Harmony said, “Good looking guy.”
“Huh,” said Venn.
“But a creep.”
He glanced at her. “You think so, too?”
“Oh yeah,” she said. “He’s smooth, there’s no denying that. But he’s holding back on us.”
“Like Torvald did.”
“Yeah,” said Harmony. “Just not as obviously as Torvald.”
Venn stared down at Mykels, who had stopped at his car and was talking with the officers.
“Damn. I wish we could tap his phone.”
“Never get a warrant,” Harmony said.
“No.”
She looked at Venn. “You thinking of –?”
He shook his head. “An illegal tap’s too risky. Guys like him are wise to illicit surveillance. Intrusion from journalists, and so on. If he gets wind of what we’re doing, he’ll kick up a fuss. We’ll be screwed.”
Harmony gazed gloomily out the window.
“Doesn’t mean we can’t try something else, though,” said Venn.
He told her.
Chapter 25
Shelly boosted the car with practiced ease, popping the lock with a length of flexible steel she kept in her purse – the car had no central locking system – and hotwiring the ignition in less than a minute.
Wayne just stood by and stared dully at her while she worked.
It was an old Nissan station wagon, a drab blue in color but in good condition despite its age. Shelly had chosen it because she guessed it didn’t have an alarm, and she was right. The car stood on the road beside a church, from which massed voices rose in Sunday evening worship.
Wayne got in beside her without prompting, and Shelly thought that was good. He was starting to act less like a zombie now. She gave his thigh a playful but not un-erotic squeeze.
“Gonna be okay, Wayne,” she said. “Just stay cool like you have been.”
Once she’d pulled out and had gotten her bearings so that they were headed back toward New York, Shelly pulled out her phone and tried Mykels’ number again. She’d called twice before, but both times his phone had been switched off and she’d gotten voicemail. She hadn’t left a message.
This time he answered after three rings, just as she was about to give up hope again.
“You know who this is?”
she said.
“Of course.” He had a sexy voice, she had to admit. And now that she knew who he was, she thought his voice was a perfect fit for the suave, handsome artist she’d seen in the magazines and on the news.
“We need to talk,” she said.
“Is it done?”
Instead of answering the question, she said, “Who’s Torvald?”
There was a pause at the other end. “Why do you want to know?”
“Because he’s trying to have you killed. He’s hired a bunch of Chinese hoods. I just killed one of them.”
Another silence. Then: “Carl Torvald is an acquaintance of mine. But what does this have to do with –?”
“Listen up,” Shelly interrupted, though not snappily. “The terms of our agreement have changed. I have photographic evidence that places you and your car at the scene of the Ignatowski house the night she was murdered. In order for me to keep that evidence to myself, I want double the original fee.”
Yet again, he hesitated before answering. “Blackmail,” he murmured. “A dangerous game.”
“Not as dangerous as assassination, and that’s what I do every day,” said Shelly. Beside her, she saw Wayne twitch at the A-word.
“You haven’t told me yet if you’ve carried out the job I hired you for,” Mykels said.
“Oh, it’s done all right,” said Shelly. “How’d you think I got hold of the photographs? Anyhow, back to the new arrangement. Double the fee, for collection within twelve hours, or I release the photos.”
“No,” said Mykels.
Shelly braked, almost running a red light against heavy cross-traffic. She was startled. Mykels was obviously a cool cat, but there was a difference between that and being downright stupid.
She said, “Come again?”
“No,” he repeated. “I’ll pay you triple the fee.”
“What?”
“Triple your original fee. If you keep the photos to yourself, and if you kill Carl Torvald.”
It took a moment to sink in. Then Shelly smiled.
The guy was smart, after all.
“Okay,” she said. “Deal.”
“It won’t be easy to kill him,” Mykels said.
