by Cleo Coyle
He and Alf could have been brothers. Karl’s eyes were muddier, more brown than green, but his face had the same round shape. Like Alf, Karl had a mustache, although his wasn’t a bushy walrus; it was trimmed in a horseshoe shape more closely to his face. He also wore his hair long, but not long enough to do Alf’s retro-sixties ponytail thing.
I heard Matt curse. “Son of a—”
“What’s the matter?”
He reappeared, his face a shade paler. “It’s Kovic. At least I think it’s Kovic. He’s in the bedroom, Clare. He’s dead.”
TWENTY-FIVE
MATT grabbed me before I got past him. “You don’t want to see that.”
“I have to!”
I pulled away and moved into the bedroom. The smell was more pronounced here. Like sulfur or burned hair combined with the slightly metallic stench of fresh blood. Kovic lay on the floor beside the bed, facedown, head turned, eyes open. For a moment, my feet felt frozen to the floor.
“There was no sign of blood or a struggle in the foyer or living room,” I murmured. “The killer must have met Kovic at the front door, and then led him at gunpoint to this bedroom . . .”
The room was a shambles. Every drawer was pulled out, its contents spilled onto the floor. Even the mattress had been molested, the pillowcases stripped away, sheets and blankets tossed around.
“Obviously the shooter was looking for something. I wonder if he found it.”
Matt stepped up behind me. “Doesn’t matter. Not for this poor bastard.” He leaned over the body. “Looks like he was shot twice in the back. Those bullet holes are too small to be exit wounds.”
I remembered Quinn’s stories about working crime scenes and stopped Matt from touching the body to confirm what the exit wounds looked like in the corpse’s front. Instead, I bent low, trying to figure out something else. Staring at the dead man’s face, I noticed that Kovic’s wide-open eyes were moist. There was saliva on his chin. It hadn’t dried yet. The spittle was still wet.
“Kovic wasn’t shot very long ago,” I whispered. “I think we just missed the killer.”
Matt tensed. “Now I wish I had that Beretta.”
Stepping out of the room, Matt moved back into the apartment’s hallway. I joined him, noticing that the bathroom door was open, but a second door beside it was closed.
“Feel that?” I whispered.
He nodded. “There’s a draft.”
I pushed the closed door open. Immediately a gust of frigid air filled the hall. Inside we found a second bedroom, half the size of the one with Kovic’s corpse. This room had been ransacked, too, and the window facing the fire escape was wide open, curtains blowing wildly on the freezing night wind.
“Oh, God,” I said. “When we were coming in, I heard shuffling in another room—I thought it was Kovic, but it was obviously the killer. He must have heard us and fled through the window!”
Matt looked outside and down the dark fire escape. “I don’t see anyone.”
With my gloved hands, I picked up a silver-framed picture that had been knocked to the floor. It was a photograph of a beaming Vicki Glockner at her high school graduation. Her dad was standing at her side, his arm around her shoulders, his face so happy, so filled with pride.
“This was Alf’s room,” I whispered, my voice suddenly gone.
Matt frowned, watching me. “I’m sorry.”
I shook my head, swiping wet eyes, and put the photo back on the dresser. “Whatever the killer wanted, I don’t think he got. He obviously tossed Karl’s bedroom, then Alf’s room, and then he must have heard us coming in and run . . .”
Matt took my arm. “Let’s grab that cat and get the hell out of here.”
“No.” I pulled away. “We have to call the police.”
“Why? So they can pin this murder on us? Think, Clare. We’re trespassing. Again.”
We argued back and forth for a minute until we finally reached an agreement. Matt would take Alf’s kitten back to my apartment above the Blend (and risk the high holy wrath of Breanne finally noticing that her escort had temporarily abandoned her). And I would call 911 and stick around for the police to show up.
But first we had to find the kitten, which seemed to have vanished.
“Here kitty,” I cooed. “Kitty-kitty . . .”
As I began making kissy-kissy sounds, I heard something familiar—
Jingle-jingle-jingle . . .
The sound came from the kitchen, where I found the little fur ball batting around a single silver sleigh bell. The ornament had come loose from a red-and-green pet pillow with an image of Santa Claus in his sleigh embroidered across the front and jingle bells sewn into its fringes.
An open—and empty—can of BumbleBee tuna served as the kitten’s dish. A smelly shoebox sat in an opposite corner, beside a trash can filled with illegally mixed garbage—more tuna cans and a lot of other detritus that should have been separated for recycling. The shoebox was lined with soiled newspapers and cat poo. I didn’t see a water bowl.
The kitty’s antics had intensified since I entered the room. With my gloved hand I took the empty can and trickled a little faucet water into it. The kitten was lapping it up when Matt entered, Java’s carrier in hand.
“The NYPD forensics team will find kitten hair,” I told Matt as he set the carrier down. “But they have to assume Karl got rid of it, so we have to make it look like that . . .”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning you have to take that shoebox with you.”
Matt took a look and shuddered. “No way.”
I glared. “Way.”
“Look, we found the door unlocked,” Matt said. “Just tell the cops it was ajar and they’ll think the pet got out.”
“Got out where? We’re on the fifth floor of an apartment building. Kittens can’t reach elevator buttons!”
Matt folded his arms. “But taking that disgusting thing is interfering with a crime scene. People go to prison for that.”
I faced him, hands on hips. “Stealing the kitten is interfering, too. And it’s not like we’re tampering with evidence. I’m sure the killer didn’t go anywhere near that cat poop.”
“Of course not,” Matt said flatly. “We’re the only ones stupid enough to do that.”
“Mr. Outback is squeamish?”
“Yes. When Mr. Outback is dressed in pricey Armani and has to return to a cocktail party smelling of feline feces, he’s as squeamish as Shirley Temple.”
I scooped up the adorable kitten and cuddled it. The cute little thing immediately began to purr. “Awww . . .” Its soft fur was as white and silky as latte microfoam. “I think I’ll call her Frothy.”
She didn’t mind being tucked into Java’s carrier, as if she knew I was here to take care of her. But the box was so large and Frothy so small that I slipped the loose jingle bell and Santa Claus pillow inside, too. At least the tiny thing would have something familiar to cling to on her scary trip downtown.
Matt lifted the carrier. “I’m out of here.”
“Wait!”
“What?”
“The key!”
Matt put the carrier down. I handed him the key to my duplex. He met my eyes. “You’re sure?”
“Of course! How else are you going to get in?”
“Right.”
“Listen,” I said, touching the exquisite Armani fabric covering the man’s forearm. “I’ve got a spare at Mike’s. So please don’t stress about getting the key back to me right away. You can hold on to it.”
“Oh?” My ex-husband paused and studied my face with an odd intensity. “You’re sure about this . . .”
“Yes, of course.” I knew Matt would be party-hopping all night with his new wife, and I’d taken him away from her long enough. But he was looking at me so strangely. “Did I miss something?”
He didn’t reply, simply arched his eyebrow with a kind of satisfaction. Then he took out his keychain, slid the key on, and picked up the carrier again.
“Not again!”
“The shoebox!”
The box o’ kitten poo was nested in its own lid. I picked up the stinky square of cardboard, peeled the lid off its bottom and capped the box shut.
Matt held the thing at arm’s length. (I didn’t blame him.)
“Give me a five-minute head start before you call in the law,” he said, then slipped out of the apartment, the jingle-jingle-jingles of Frothy’s Santa cat pillow diminishing as he disappeared down the building’s hallway.
I hoped no one would notice Matt leaving the place, but I did realize that a hunky guy in a tux, carrying a tinkling cat carrier in one hand and a stinky box of cat crap in the other might be too much for even jaded New Yorkers to ignore.
With five minutes to wait, I decided to keep my gloves on and poke around the dead man’s apartment. The bedrooms had been tossed already. But the killer hadn’t had time to ransack the living room.
Could there be some kind of lead here?
I checked the answering machine. All the messages had been deleted. I looked for a computer, but all I found was a printer and an adapter cord. I suspected there had been a laptop here, but the killer had taken it.
After five minutes, I came up with zip, so I dug out my mobile phone to call the police. When I saw the mailbox icon on my cell’s screen, I realized I’d missed a call. I’d forgotten to take the cell off its vibrator setting. Worried it might be Matt needing more time, I quickly played it. The message wasn’t from my ex-husband but my ex-mother-in-law.
“Hello, dear, I didn’t want to tell (static) while Ben Tower (static), so I waited until . . .”
Reception was lousy, so I moved closer to the window to improve the signal. As I did, I brushed against the plastic dry-cleaning bag holding the Santa costume. The slippery plastic slithered onto the floor, taking the adjacent overcoat with it. That’s when I noticed a white envelope peeking out of the coat’s pocket. There was something familiar about the Santa Claus postage stamp in the corner.
Forgetting Madame’s message, I stooped down and carefully slipped the envelope free. As the typed name Omar Linford revealed itself, the hairs on my skin began to prickle. I opened the envelope and pulled out the letter.
Dear Omar: I have a new proposition for you. If you care about your son’s future, you will read every word of this note and do what it says. I know all about Junior Linford’s little hobbies . . .
Oh my God. I’d found the note blackmailing Omar Linford—the one someone had tossed me off the ferry to get. Now I knew who that someone was.
“Karl Kovic, you son of a—”
I shook my head, at last putting it all together . . . After I’d left Shelly Glockner’s house, she must have rushed to the back yard, where Esther noticed Kovic going out to the Jacuzzi. Then Kovic watched and waited until I left Linford’s place. He followed me onto the ferry, grabbed my bag, and threw me into water with a temperature a tad chillier than Shelly’s hot tub.
Gritting my teeth with fury, I grabbed a pen and piece of scrap paper from my bag and scribbled down the series of bank account numbers at the end of the note. I was willing to bet the account was a joint one controlled by Alf and Shelly Glockner—giving her access to the money as soon as Omar deposited it.
I’m sure she and Karl went behind Alf’s back. But . . . did they kill Alf, too?
That part didn’t make a lot of sense. Killing Alf would screw up their plan, wouldn’t it? Alf was their fall guy in case Omar went to the FBI. Why kill him?
I remembered the life insurance money, but that didn’t seem to fit, either. They could have waited until they got the payoff from Omar—unless he already told Alf he wasn’t going to pay and they became desperate . . .
The permutations were making my head hurt, and it didn’t address the question of who killed Karl, either. Would Shelly have done something like that? If she had, why would she have to ransack the apartment? Wouldn’t she have sweet-talked Karl out of whatever she wanted, and then killed him?
I tried making Omar Linford the villain here—but that didn’t seem to fit, either. If the point was to kill Karl because of his threat to go to the police about Junior Linford, then the deed was done. Why ransack the apartment? For the note, maybe? It would be incriminating, showing a motive for Linford to have murdered Karl and Alf. But then why would Omar have admitted to me that he was being blackmailed in the first place?
I shook my head, still unable to put it all together. The bank account numbers were a good lead, though, and I took care in refolding the note and returning it to Karl’s coat.
With a deep breath, I finally placed the call to 911 and reported the murder. I told the dispatcher I’d wait for the police and ended the call. While I listened for the sirens, however, I suddenly remembered Madame’s recorded message and replayed the thing—
“Hello, dear. I didn’t want to tell you this while Ben Tower was listening, so I waited until I poured him into a cab. My goodness, when someone else is footing the bar bill, that man can drink like Moby Dick!”
No surprise there.
“Anyway! Tower told me one more thing about the man you mentioned—Karl—sorry, dear, I can’t remember the last name. I don’t know if this will help at all, but near the end of our time together, Tower kept saying Karl’s got something big coming. The payoff was going to put him in another tax bracket; that’s how Tower put it, anyway. He said Dickie Celebratorio was involved, although I didn’t get the impression Dickie was the center of this scandal, just a part of it.”
Dickie?
“You recognize Dickie’s name, don’t you, dear? He’s that big party planner, a real PR king. Mr. Dewberry says Dickie knows all the celebrities and politicians. He helps them out, does favors for them, and they attend his promo galas, benefits, and openings in return. Very high-profile man. Tower wouldn’t tell me what kind of scandal Karl had discovered or who it actually involved. Frankly, I don’t think he even knew the details, but he said Karl was sure one of Tower’s tabloid clients would pay big for the story and photos . . .”
I frowned, hearing that new lead, suddenly wishing I’d waited to call 911. With sirens already wailing in the distance, I had little time to search anew based on Madame’s call. What could I possibly find that could help me in just a few minutes? I glanced around, considered the Santa costume and then realized—
The coat. Of course!
I’d found the blackmail letter in Karl’s left coat pocket. Why stop there? Frantically, I went through the rest of Karl’s pockets. I dug out change, a Metro card, some throat lozenges, and . . . a folded scrap of paper.
The sirens were much louder now, only a few blocks away. I quickly unfolded the paper scrap. Read the barely legible scrawl—
6 PM $$$ Dickie. Watch for CC.
The note had a date on it, too. Today’s date! I checked my wristwatch. It was almost six thirty. I smiled with triumph, despite the tragic circumstances. If anyone else read this note, I doubted they’d have a clue what it meant. But I’d been on this case for days now and I knew—
Karl was blackmailing someone and Dickie Celebratorio was either involved in the scandal or acting as some kind of go-between. At six today, presumably at his own apartment, Karl was supposed to meet someone to hand over something (probably digital photo or video files) in exchange for money. But there was no exchange. Something went wrong and Karl was murdered. Or—
Karl was simply set up for a cold-blooded execution. And, according to the note in his pocket, the person who set him up was “Dickie.”
Outside, the sirens finally stopped wailing. Loud voices were shouting on the street below.
I’m out of time.
I put everything back in Karl’s coat pockets and then read the note one last time, trying to think everything through. That’s when it hit me. Those words: Watch for CC.
“CC,” I whispered, my flesh turning cold. “Clare Cosi.”
TWENTY-SIX
THIR
TY minutes later, I hit the sidewalk running outside the Wiseman Apartments, pushing through a curious crowd eager to learn why three police cars and a crime-scene van were camped in front of Karl Kovic’s building. Curious eyes followed me as I dashed down the block and hurried to reach Broadway—the quickest bet for flagging a cab downtown.
When detectives from the Twentieth Precinct arrived on scene, I didn’t have time to explain the saga of Alf Glockner, Karl Kovic, Ben Tower, and the Dickie Celebratorio connection. So I sold them a digest version of what had happened.
“I came here looking for Mr. Kovic. He hadn’t shown for his roommate’s memorial service, and I wanted to see how he was doing . . .” Which was true. “That’s when I found Karl’s corpse.”
Fortunately, the responding detectives accepted my statement and released me. At this point, I knew the only cops who could truly understand the whole story were Mike Quinn, Charlie Hong, and (heaven help me) Emmanuel Franco.
Right now, tonight, I had a window of opportunity to confront the jet-setting Dickie Celebratorio over his role in this sordid mess—before he dashed off to Rio, Dubai, Cap d’Antibes, or God knew where for the holidays—and I wasn’t going to pass that up.
Propelling myself forward, I dug into my shoulder bag, pulled out my cell, and hit a speed-dial button. “Pick up, pick up, pick up,” I chanted like a mantra.
“He-LO-ooo,” Tucker answered in a three-note vocal exercise. I could hear other actors warming up in the background, too.
“Tucker! Thank God.”
“Clare!” he said, alarmed. “Please don’t tell me there’s an emergency at the Blend. I’m getting ready to put on a show here!”
“Everything’s fine at the Blend. I need you to get me into Dickie Celebratorio’s big holiday bash, ASAP!” (Because once my friends with the gold shields arrive, we’re all going to have a little powwow with the dubious party planner.)
“I can swing getting you in here,” Tucker replied. “But you have to do me a huge favor in return.”
