In the Starbucks a man squinted the cop's way and waved him over. Pulaski bought himself a coffee--the businessman already had some--and they shook hands. Kessler was a solid man, whose thin hair was distractingly combed over a shiny crown of scalp. He wore a dark blue shirt, starched smooth as balsa wood. The collar and cuffs were white and the cuff links rich gold knots.
"Thanks for meeting down here," Kessler said. "Not sure what a client would think about a policeman visiting me on the executive floor."
"What do you do for them?"
"Ah, the life of an accountant. Never rests." Kessler sipped his coffee, crossed his legs and said in a low voice, "It's terrible, Ben's death. Just terrible. I couldn't believe it when I heard. . . . How're his wife and son taking it?" Then he shook his head and answered his own question. "How would they be taking it? They're devastated, I'm sure. Well, what can I do for you, Officer?"
"Like I explained, we're just following up on his death."
"Sure, whatever I can do to help."
Kessler didn't seem nervous to be talking to a police officer. And there was nothing condescending in the way he talked to a man who made a thousand times less money than he did.
"Did Mr. Creeley have a drug problem?"
"Drugs? Not that I ever saw. I know he took pain pills for his back at one time. But that was a while ago. And I don't think I ever saw him, what would you say? I never saw him impaired. But one thing: We didn't socialize much. Kind of had different personalities. We ran our business together and we've known each other for six years but we kept our private lives, well, private. Unless it was with clients we'd have dinner maybe once, twice a year."
Pulaski steered the conversation back on track. "What about illegal drugs?"
"Ben? No." Kessler laughed.
Pulaski thought back to his questions. Sachs had told him to memorize them. If you kept looking at your notes, she said, it made you seem unprofessional.
"Did he ever meet with anybody who you'd describe as dangerous, maybe someone who gave you the impression they were criminals?"
"Never."
"You told Detective Sachs that he was depressed."
"That's right."
"You know what he was depressed about?"
"Nope. Again, we didn't talk much about personal things." The man rested his arm on the table and the massive cuff link tapped loudly. Its cost was probably equal to Pulaski's monthly salary.
In Pulaski's mind, he heard his wife telling him, Relax, honey. You're doing fine.
His brother chimed in with: He may have gold links but you've got a big fucking gun.
"Apart from the depression, did you notice anything out of the ordinary about him lately?"
"I did, actually. He was drinking more than usual. And he'd taken up gambling. Went to Vegas or Atlantic City a couple times. Never used to do that."
"Could you identify this?" Pulaski handed the businessman a copy of the images lifted from the ash that Amelia Sachs had recovered at Creeley's house in Westchester. "It's a financial spreadsheet or balance sheet," the patrolman said.
"Understand that." A little condescending now but it seemed unintentional.
"They were in Mr. Creeley's possession. Do they mean anything to you?"
"Nope. They're hard to read. What happened to them?"
"That's how we found them."
Don't say anything about them being burned up, Sachs had told him. Play it close to the chest, you mean, Pulaski offered, then decided he shouldn't be using those words with a woman. He'd blushed. His twin brother wouldn't have. They shared every gene except the one that made you shy.
"They seem to show a lot of money."
Kessler looked at them again. "Not so much, just a few million."
Not so much.
"Getting back to the depression. How did you know he was depressed? If he didn't talk about it."
"Just moping around. Irritated a lot. Distracted. Something was definitely eating at him."
"Did he ever say anything about the St. James Tavern?"
"The . . . ?"
"A bar in Manhattan."
"No. I know he'd leave work early from time to time. Meet friends for drinks, I think. But he never said who."
"Was he ever investigated?"
"For what?"
"Anything illegal."
"No. I would've heard."
"Did Mr. Creeley have any problems with his clients?"
"No. We had a great relationship with all of them. Their average return was three, four times the S and P Five Hundred. Who wouldn't be happy?"
S and P . . . Pulaski didn't get this one. He wrote it down anyway. Then the word "happy."
"Could you send me a client list?"
Kessler hesitated. "Frankly, I'd rather you didn't contact them." He lowered his head slightly and stared into the rookie's eyes.
Pulaski looked right back. He asked, "Why?"
"Awkward. Bad for business. Like I said before."
"Well, sir, when you think about it, there's nothing embarrassing about the police asking a few questions after someone's death, is there? It is pretty much our job."
"I suppose so."
"And all your clients know what happened to Mr. Creeley, don't they?"
"Yes."
"So us following up--your clients'd expect us to."
"Some might, others wouldn't."
"In any case, you have done something to control the situation, haven't you? Hired a PR firm or maybe met with your clients yourself to reassure them?"
Kessler hesitated. Then he said, "I'll have a list put together and sent to you."
Yes! Pulaski thought, three-pointer! And forced himself not to smile.
Amelia Sachs had said to save the big question till the end. "What'll happen to Mr. Creeley's half of the company?"
Which contained the tiny suggestion that Kessler had murdered his partner to take over the business. But Kessler either didn't catch this or didn't take any offense if he did. "I'll buy it out. Our partnership agreement provides for that. Suzanne--his wife--she'll get fair market value of his share. It'll be a good chunk of change."
Pulaski wrote that down. He gestured at the photo of the pipelines, visible though the glass door. "Your clients're big companies like this one?"
"Mostly we work for individuals, executives and board members." Kessler added a packet of sugar to his coffee and stirred it. "You ever involved in business, Officer?"
"Me?" Pulaski grinned. "Nope. I mean, worked summers for an uncle one time. But he went belly up. Well, not him. His printshop."
"It's exciting to create a business and grow it into something big." Kessler sipped the coffee, stirred it again and then leaned forward. "It's pretty clear you think there's something more to his death than just a suicide."
"We like to cover all bases." Pulaski had no clue what he meant by that; it just came out. He thought back to the questions. The well was dry. "I think that'll be it, sir. Appreciate your help."
Kessler finished his coffee. "If I can think of anything else I'll give you a call. You have a card?"
Pulaski handed one to the businessman, who asked, "That woman detective I talked to. What was her name again?"
"Detective Sachs."
"Right. If I can't get through to you, should I call her? Is she still working on the case?"
"Yessir."
As Pulaski dictated, Kessler wrote Sachs's name and mobile number on the back of the card. Pulaski also gave him the phone number at Rhyme's.
Kessler nodded. "Better get back to work."
Pulaski thanked him again, finished his coffee and left. One last look at the biggest of the pipeline photographs. That was really something. He wouldn't mind getting a little one to hang up in his rec room. But he supposed a company like Penn Energy hardly had a gift shop, like Disney World.
Chapter 12
A heavyset woman walked into the small coffee shop. Black coat, short hair, jeans. That's how she'd described herself. Amelia Sach
s waved from a booth in the back.
This was Gerte, the other bartender at the St. James. She was on her way to work and had agreed to meet Sachs before her shift.
There was a no-smoking sign on the wall but the woman continued to strangle a live cigarette between her ruddy index and middle fingers. Nobody on the staff here said anything about it; professional courtesy in the restaurant world, Sachs guessed.
The woman's dark eyes narrowed as she read the detective's ID.
"Sonja said you had some questions. But she didn't say what." Her voice was low and rough.
Sachs sensed that Sonja had probably told her everything. But the detective played along and gave the woman the relevant details--the ones that she could share, at least--and then showed her the picture of Ben Creeley. "He committed suicide." No surprise in Gerte's eyes. "And we're looking into his death."
"I seen him, I guess, a couple, three times." She looked at the menu blackboard. "I can eat for free at the St. James. But I'm going to miss dinner. Since I'm here. With you."
"How 'bout I buy you some food?"
Gerte waved at the waitress and ordered.
"You want anything?" the waitress asked Sachs.
"You have herbal tea?"
"If Lipton's an herb, we got it."
"I'll have that."
"Anything to eat?"
"No, thanks."
Gerte looked at the detective's slim figure and gave a cynical laugh. She then asked, "So that guy who killed himself--did he leave a family?"
"That's right."
"Tough. What's his name?"
A question that didn't instill confidence that Gerte would be a source of good info. And, sure enough, it turned out that she really wasn't any more helpful than Sonja. All she recalled was that she'd seen him in the bar about once a month for the past three months. She too had the impression that he'd been hanging out with the cops in their back room but wasn't positive. "The place is pretty busy, you know."
Depends on how you define busy, Sachs reflected. "You know any of the officers there personally?"
"From the precinct? Yeah, some of them."
As the beverages arrived, Gerte recited a few first names, some descriptions. She didn't know anybody's last name. "Most of 'em who come in're okay. Some're shits. But ain't that the whole world? . . . About him." A nod at Creeley's picture. "I remember he didn't laugh much. He was always looking around, over his shoulder, out the windows. Nervous like." The woman poured cream and Equal into her coffee.
"Sonja said he had an argument the last time he came in. Do you remember any other fights?"
"Nope." Sipping coffee loudly. "Not while I was there."
"You ever see him with any drugs?"
"Nope."
Useless, Sachs was thinking. This seemed like a dead end.
The bartender drew deeply on her cigarette and shot the smoke toward the ceiling. She squinted at Sachs and gave a meaningless smile with her bright red lips. "So why you so interested in this guy?"
"Just routine."
Gerte gave a knowing look and finally said, "Two guys come into the St. James and not long after that they're both dead. And that's routine, huh?"
"Two?"
"You didn't know."
"No."
"Figured you didn't. Otherwise you woulda said something up front."
"Tell me."
Gerte fell silent and looked off; Sachs wondered if the woman was spooked. But she was merely staring at the hamburger and fries coming in for a landing on the table.
"Thanks, honey," she growled. Then looked back at Sachs. "Sarkowski. Frank Sarkowski."
"What happened?"
"Killed in a robbery, I heard."
"When?"
"Early November. Something like that."
"Who'd he see at the St. James?"
"He was in the back room some is all I know."
"Did they know each other?" A nod toward Creeley's picture.
The woman shrugged and eyed her hamburger. She pulled the bun off, spread a little mayonnaise on it and struggled with the ketchup lid. Sachs opened it for her.
"Who was he?" the policewoman asked.
"Businessman. Looked like a bridge-and-tunnel guy. But I heard he lived in Manhattan and had money. They were Gucci jeans he wore. I never talked to him except to take his order."
"How'd you find out about his death?"
"Overheard something. Them talking."
"The officers from the precinct?"
She nodded.
"Any other deaths that you heard of?"
"Nope."
"Any other crimes? Shakedowns, assaults, bribes?"
She shook her head, pouring ketchup on the burger and making a pool for dunking the fries. "Nothing. That's all I know."
"Thanks." Sachs put ten down on the table to cover the woman's meal.
Gerte glanced at the money. "The desserts're pretty good. The pie. You ever eat here, have the pie."
The detective added another five.
Gerte looked up and gave an astute smile. "Why'm I telling you all this stuff? You're wondering, right?"
Sachs nodded with a smile. She'd been wondering exactly that.
"You wouldn't understand. Those guys in the back room, the cops? The way they look at us, Sonja and me, the things they say, the things they don't say. The way they joke about us when they think we can't hear 'em . . ." She gave a bitter smile. "Yeah, I pour drinks for a living, okay? That's all I do. But that don't give 'em the right to make fun of me. Everybody's got the right to some dignity, don't they?"
Joanne Harper, Vincent's dream girl, had not returned to the workshop yet.
The men were in the Band-Aid-mobile, parked on east Spring Street across from the darkened workshop where Duncan was about to kill his third victim and Vincent was about to have his first heart-to-heart in a long, long time.
The SUV wasn't anything great but it was safe. The Watchmaker had stolen it from someplace where he said it wouldn't be missed for a while. It also sported New York plates that'd been stolen from another tan Explorer--to pass an initial call-in by the cops if they happened to get spotted (they rarely checked the VIN number, only plates, the Watchmaker lectured Vincent).
That was smart, Vincent allowed, though he'd asked what they'd do if some cop did check the VIN. It wouldn't match the tag and he'd know the Explorer was stolen.
Duncan had replied, "Oh, I'd kill him." As if it was obvious.
Moving right along . . .
Duncan looked at his pocket watch and replaced it, zipped up the pocket. He opened his shoulder bag, which contained the clock and other tools of the trade, all carefully organized. He wound the clock, set the time and zipped the cover of the bag closed. Through the nylon, Vincent could hear the ticking.
They hooked up hands-free headsets to their mobile phones and Vincent set a police scanner on the seat next to him (Duncan's idea, of course). He clicked it on and heard a mundane clatter of transmissions about traffic accidents, the progress of street closings for some event on Thursday, an apparent heart attack on Broadway, a chain snatching. . . .
Life in da big city . . .
Duncan looked himself over carefully, made sure all his pockets were sealed. He rolled a dog-hair remover over his body, to pick up trace evidence, and reminded Vincent to do the same before he came inside for his heart-to-heart with Joanne.
Meticulous . . .
"Ready?"
Vincent nodded. Duncan climbed out of the Band-Aid-mobile, looked up and down the street, then walked to the service door. He picked the lock in about ten seconds. Amazing. Vincent smiled, admiring his friend's skill. He ate two candy bars, chewed them down with fierce bites.
A moment later the phone vibrated and he answered. Duncan said, "I'm inside. How's the street look?"
"A few cars from time to time. Nobody on the sidewalks. It's clear."
Vincent heard a few metallic clicks. Then the man's voice in a whisper: "I'll call you when she's ready
."
Ten minutes later Vincent saw someone in a dark coat walking toward the workshop. The stance and motion suggested it was a woman. Yep, it was his flower girl, Joanne.
A burst of hunger filled him.
He ducked low, so she wouldn't see him. He pushed the TRANSMIT button on the phone.
He heard the click of Duncan's phone. No "hello" or "yes."
Vincent lifted his head slightly and saw her walk up to the door. He said into the phone, "It's her. She's alone. She should be inside any minute."
The killer said nothing. Vincent heard the click of the phone hanging up.
Okay, he was a keeper.
Joanne Harper and Kevin had had three coffees at Kosmo's Diner, otherwise just another functional, boring eatery in SoHo, but as of today a very special place. She was now walking to the back door of the workshop, reflecting that she wished she could have lingered for another half hour or so. Kevin had wanted to--there were more jokes to tell, more stories to share--but her job loomed. It wasn't due till tomorrow night, but this was an important client and she needed to make sure the arrangements were perfect. She'd reluctantly told him she had to get back.
She glanced up and down the street, still a bit uneasy about the pudgy man in the parka and the weird sunglasses. But the area was deserted. Stepping inside the workshop, she slammed the door and double-locked it.
Hanging up her coat, Joanne inhaled deeply, the way she always did when she first walked inside, enjoying the myriad scents inside the shop: jasmine, rose, lilac, lily, gardenia, fertilizer, loam, mulch. It was intoxicating.
She flicked on the lights and started toward the arrangements she'd been working on earlier. Then she froze and gave a scream.
Her foot had struck something. It scurried away from her. She leapt back, thinking: Rat!
But then she looked down and laughed. What she'd kicked was a large spool of florist wire in the center of the aisle. How had it gotten there? All of the spools hung from hooks on the wall nearby. She squinted through the dimness and saw that somehow this one had slipped off and rolled across the floor. Odd.
Must be ghosts of florists past, she said to herself, then regretted the joke. The place was eerie enough and an image of the fat man in the sunglasses came back immediately. Don't go spooking yourself.
She picked up the spool and saw why it had fallen: the hook had slipped out of the wood. That's all. But then she noticed something else curious. This spool was one of the new ones; she hadn't used any wire from it yet, she thought. But she must have; some was missing.
She laughed. Nothing like love to make a girl forgetful.
The Cold Moon Page 13
