The Man Who Understood Cats

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  “A pacifist?”

  “Claimed he went temporarily berserk.”

  Fifty-Five

  Margolis lived in the east tower of Marina City. Thinnes and Crowne joined Regg, an FBI agent who looked like a government operative, from his Secret Service haircut to his generous-in-the-armpits three-piece suit. Regg flashed his badge at the white-shirted security guard who let them in through a door that was like the laddered, stainless steel burglar doors found in bank vaults and prisons. That writer the reporters were always quoting was right, Thinnes reflected, about the very rich: they were as much a different breed as the very poor. It was hard not to be a snob about them. They were such slaves to their possessions and to the images they had of themselves. Thinnes had seen them do some very weird things to maintain appearances.

  They didn’t speak on the ride up. When they got off the elevator, an FBI agent dressed as a laborer—with utility belt, tools, and ladder—was standing between the elevator door and Margolis’s apartment, watching the door. Thinnes reached in and pulled the stop button. Regg asked the agent, “He in there?”

  The agent nodded. “He just had a pizza delivery.” He laughed. “Guy must be delivering something more. Been in there five minutes.”

  Margolis’s apartment door started to open, and the agent scrambled up the ladder and busied himself changing the tube in the overhead light fixture. Thinnes, Crowne, and Regg dodged back into the elevator as the delivery man came out with a large pizza box. He called out, “Hold the elevator!”

  Thinnes pretended to pull the stop button. The pizza man hurried to get in, and Thinnes pushed the stop and hit the button for the lobby. As the elevator descended, the three officers stared at the man, who showed unmistakable signs of nervousness. “The guy didn’t want it,” he said. “Said it was cold.”

  “Just so your trip won’t be a loss,” Regg said, taking out his wallet, “how about selling it to me?” He began to extract money.

  The pizza man shook his head. “Against company policy.”

  “How about letting me have a look?”

  The man shook his head again and glanced nervously at Thinnes and Crowne. Crowne was pulling on gloves.

  Regg flashed his ID. “Please?”

  The man looked very unhappy but didn’t protest as Crowne took the carton and opened it. Inside lay the stolen painting without its heavy coating of applied paint. The man blanched. “The guy told me he didn’t want his wife’s divorce lawyer to get hold of it.” He looked from Thinnes to Crowne to Regg. “He gave me a hundred bucks to deliver it. Look. I’ll show you.” He dragged out his wallet and pulled a hundred-dollar bill from it, offering it to Regg, who shook his head and pointed to Crowne.

  The man gave Crowne the bill. Crowne looked it over. “It’s a hundred, all right,” he said, and dropped it on top of the painting in the carton. The elevator stopped.

  Regg asked the pizza man, “Would you be willing to sign a statement to that effect and testify in court?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  The doors opened. Thinnes showed his badge to people waiting to get on. “Use another elevator.”

  Regg told Crowne, “Give him a receipt.”

  The pizza man swallowed his outrage. Regg signaled through the security grids to a business-suited man with a newspaper—another agent—and a sharp-looking woman with a briefcase, who were waiting in the lobby. The guard let them pass. As they came to the elevator, Regg pointed to the pizza carton and asked the woman, “This what we’re lookin’ for?”

  She looked inside. “I’ll have to test it, but that looks like it.” Her accent sounded Italian.

  “We have to dust it for prints first.” Regg said to the agent in the suit, “Why don’t you take care of that? And take this gentleman in”—he indicated the pizza man—“and get his statement.” The agent nodded. “Oh, and we’ll need another warrant, immediately, to search for stolen artwork. He pointed to the pizza man again. “He’ll give you the address.”

  “Yeah.” The agent took a folded plastic bag from between the pages of his newspaper and shook it out, holding it while Crowne put the pizza carton inside. Then he took the carton and jerked his head at the pizza man, and they started away.

  Regg looked at the woman. “Let’s get on with it.”

  When Margolis opened the door looking smug, Thinnes, Crowne, Regg, and the woman were standing outside.

  “Vincent Margolis?” Regg asked. Margolis nodded. Regg took a folded paper out of his inside jacket pocket. “We have a warrant to search this apartment.” He handed it to Margolis and stepped forward, forcing Margolis to step back into the room.

  Margolis stared at the warrant. Thinnes and the others went past him and started looking around. It was a very North Shore apartment, with its crystal and chrome, “in” colors, original art, and excellent reproductions. Everything about it said money.

  Crowne made a beeline for the nearest painting. “How about this one?”

  The woman shook her head. “That’s a reproduction.”

  “Who are you?” Margolis demanded. He sounded subtly alarmed.

  “Dr. Julietta Maserati,” Regg answered for her. “From the Department of Antiquities, Rome.”

  Margolis didn’t have a response to that. Thinnes waited with him while Crowne, Regg, and Dr. Maserati traipsed through the apartment, examining every piece of art. Margolis appeared bored and annoyed by the whole procedure. When Crowne and the expert finally seemed to be giving up, Margolis began to relax, but he tensed as they neared the bathroom door.

  Thinnes said, “Ray, check the bathroom.”

  Margolis froze.

  Crowne went in the bathroom and came out with a tiny painting. He asked the woman, dubiously, “How about this?”

  She took the picture and got very excited as she pored over it. Thinnes never took his eyes off Margolis.

  Maserati looked at Regg. “This is almost certainly on the list.”

  Regg said, “Mr. Margolis, you’re under arrest for possession of stolen art. You have the right to remain silent—”

  “I want to call my attorney!”

  “All in due time.”

  Fifty-Six

  They used the same interview room they’d used to question Berringer. Thinnes and Crowne watched from outside with Evanger as Oster, Regg, and an agent from customs questioned Margolis. Margolis’s attorney was blocking admirably.

  Evanger was resigned. “We might as well cut him loose.”

  “Mind if we go a few rounds with him first?” Thinnes asked.

  “Why not?” The lieutenant called the three interrogators out.

  Crowne headed for the coffee maker. Thinnes went in. He nodded at the attorney.

  “Counselor. I’m Thinnes, Violent Crimes. I’m investigating a homicide.”

  The attorney was obviously caught off guard. “Are you planning to charge my client?” Margolis said nothing.

  “At the present time, we’re just trying to gather facts.”

  “My client doesn’t have to—”

  “Incriminate himself,” Thinnes said, sharply. “But if he isn’t guilty, he’d be wise to cooperate with our investigation. Isn’t that so?”

  The attorney pouted. “Yes.”

  Ignoring him, Thinnes said, “Sit down, Margolis.”

  Margolis sat on one side of the room; Thinnes sat across from him. The attorney stayed where he was, his arms folded and his disapproval obvious. Hostility seemed to condense in the air between them.

  Crowne came in with four coffees in a cardboard tray. He handed one to Thinnes and offered one to the attorney. Obviously disgusted by the delay the coffee signaled, the attorney looked at the clock and shook his head. Crowne handed a cup to Margolis, who took it as if it was his due, and put the extra coffee on the floor, against the wall. “If you know anything, you might as well tell Thinnes,” he told Margolis. “We call him ‘Pit Bull’ cause he never lets go.” He pulled a chair over and sat down. Tipping back against the wall, he t
ook out his notebook and pen.

  Thinnes said, “Now, then. Mr. Margolis—may I call you Vincent?” Margolis didn’t answer, except to scowl. “Vincent. Perhaps you can tell me what you know about Allan Finley?”

  “Nothing.” Thinnes waited. Margolis finally felt compelled to add, “I don’t remember ever meeting the man, so I can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill him.”

  Thinnes waited until he was sure Margolis wouldn’t say any more.

  “How long have you employed Wilson, Reynolds and Close?”

  “Five years.”

  “You’ve never had any complaints about their accuracy?”

  That got a rise. “Should I have?”

  “I don’t know. I’m with homicide, not bunko.” Margolis relaxed. “The first time you ever heard of Finley was when I asked you about him?”

  Margolis sighed. “I read about him in the paper the morning after he was found dead. I remember noticing the story because it involved my accounting agency. But I distinctly remember it said he killed himself. Why are you saying he was murdered?”

  “I’m asking. Where were you the night he died?”

  “What time?—”

  He was interrupted as an officer stuck his head in the room and said, “Phone for you, Thinnes.” Thinnes left and went to watch from outside through the one-way glass as Crowne took over his chair.

  “Listen, Margolis,” he said, “Thinnes’s got his reputation on the line here. He’s not gonna give up till you give him something.”

  “I don’t have anything to give him!”

  Crowne shook his head. “Just some little face-saving tidbit.”

  “Honest to God, I never met Finley.”

  “Well, what about this other thing? The smuggling?”

  “My ex-wife set me up! She imported the stuff! It came from her gallery! I had no idea the paintings were stolen!”

  “Okay, okay. Take it easy. Why don’t you tell Thinnes that? Get his mind off Finley. He’s kinda nuts about Finley—spoils his record.”

  The attorney stepped over and struck the back of the chair next to Margolis with his fingertips. “Vincent, these men are pulling the oldest con in the book! That one”—he indicated the door through which Thinnes just left—“plays the heavy, and this one”—he pointed to Crowne—“pretends to be your good friend. I’d advise you to keep quiet!”

  Crowne stood and pretended to be furious. “Counselor, I’d advise you to confine your advice to matters of law.”

  At that point Thinnes went back in. Crowne vacated his seat and Thinnes sat down, staring at Margolis. “Was Finley blackmailing you?”

  Margolis just missed hiding his surprise.

  “Is that why you had him killed?”

  “No!”

  “No, he wasn’t blackmailing you, or no, you didn’t have him killed?”

  The attorney said, “I protest!” He moved away from the wall, Crowne casually stepped between him and Margolis, anticipating the man’s attempt to go around by coincidentally sidestepping in the same direction as the lawyer, then reversing himself in the old shall-we-dance? maneuver. While this was going on, Thinnes continued grilling Margolis.

  “You were being blackmailed?”

  Margolis didn’t answer, but it was obvious that he was.

  “Who was blackmailing you?”

  “I don’t know! No one!”

  “Why was Finley killed?!”

  “I don’t know!” Margolis was unconvincing.

  The attorney finally disengaged himself from Crowne. “That’s all!” He told Thinnes. “Vincent, don’t say another word. Thinnes, you have no right to browbeat—”

  “Just one more question,” Thinnes said, mildly. He turned back to Margolis and asked softly, “Who was Christopher Margolis?”

  Margolis, already on the ropes, turned white. He seemed almost terrified. “How did you know?” He looked at Crowne, who shrugged.

  The attorney looked totally bewildered as Margolis put his elbows on his knees and covered his face with his hands.

  “You want to tell me about it?” Thinnes asked Margolis gently. It’s funny, he thought. I can think like a man like Margolis, but to save my life, I can’t imagine what it feels like to be him.

  Thinnes wondered how his own son felt about him. The obvious hero-worship of Rob’s childhood had long since disappeared, but Thinnes liked to think that the boy at least was not ashamed of him. What could Margolis’s son think—what could he have thought, he corrected himself—of his old man?

  Margolis said, “I killed him.” He didn’t look up.

  Crowne was dumbfounded. “Finley?”

  The attorney snapped, “Vincent, shut up!”

  Margolis was oblivious to the attorney. He looked at Thinnes. “I told him if he wouldn’t change his life-style, I’d disown him. I said I never wanted to see him again.” He looked away. “I didn’t. The next time…” Margolis covered his face to hide his sobs. The others were shocked; the attorney livid as well. Margolis finished without looking up, “…was at the morgue.”

  Thinnes asked, even more gently, “Your son?”

  Margolis nodded. The attorney made an I-give-up gesture.

  “He was gay and someone threatened to make it public?”

  “Worse!” The attorney started to say something, but Crowne nudged him to get his attention and put a finger over his lips; the delay let Margolis decide to go on. “He threatened to make it public that—that my son was turning tricks for a living. It would have sabotaged the biggest deal of my life.”

  “It was true? He was hustling?”

  Thinnes’s question broke through Margolis’s anguish. “Yes!” he shouted, suddenly outraged. “I’ve spilled my guts—happy?” he practically spat at Thinnes.

  Thinnes didn’t seem to notice the anger. He kept at it like a cat after a bird. “Who was blackmailing you?”

  “I don’t know!” Thinnes’s lack of emotional response seemed to calm Margolis. “It started before Chris died. A phone call, a man. Said he’d—said everyone would find out my son was whoring for queers if I didn’t pay. So I paid. After Chris died, I thought it would end. But it didn’t. By then, it wasn’t money, it was real estate deals. He’d call and give me instructions.”

  “You never thought of going to the police?”

  “By that time, I was in over my head.” He looked at his attorney. “I want to talk to my lawyer before I say more.” Thinnes nodded. “Believe me, if I could identify the…” He shook his head. “I would.”

  “Your son was an artist, wasn’t he?”

  “A fiction invented by my ex-wife and her lover.”

  “Who?”

  “Dr. James Caleb. He turned my wife against me. He convinced my son he was an artist with no head for business. Caleb denied it, of course. He said his lawyers would crucify me if I said anything in public that I couldn’t prove. But I know.”

  “How did your son die?”

  “In a car accident.”

  In the hall outside the interrogation room, Crowne asked, “How did you know he was being blackmailed?”

  “I didn’t, but he seems to be telling the truth about Finley, so the whole thing hinges on whether we can believe Dr. Caleb. If he’s honest, our killer is also a blackmailer. And it stands to reason that if Margolis is involved at all, he’s as likely to be a victim as anyone else with something to hide.”

  Crowne nodded. “If you can believe Caleb.”

  “Caleb’s the one who brought up blackmail in the first place. If he’s not on the level, he could be our killer. I think it’s time I lean on him a bit.” He looked at his watch. “You want to go pick him up?”

  “What’re you gonna be doing?”

  “Looking up Christopher Margolis’s death certificate and the report on the investigation.”

  “All right, but I’m off at five and I’ve got a date. You can take Caleb home…or whatever.”

  Fifty-Seven

  Translated into English, the d
eath certificate listed the cause of death as blood loss due to severe, multiple injuries sustained in a car crash. The manner of death was accidental. The only surprise was that Swann had conducted the death investigation. He hadn’t had anything to add to the patrol officer’s report.

  The desk sergeant told Thinnes that Swann had the day off, so Thinnes hunted him down by phone.

  “You got the wrong number buddy,” Swann’s voice told him. “Ain’t no cops live here.”

  “Mind if I come over and see?”

  “Hell, yes. What’s so damn important it can’t wait till tomorrow, Thinnes?”

  “You did the death investigation on a Christopher Margolis a few years back.”

  “If you say so.”

  “This is important.”

  “This is police business. An’ I’m off duty. I ain’t crazy, like you. When I’m off, I am off.”

  “Please.” When Swann didn’t answer immediately, Thinnes added, “I’m gettin’ near to the end on this one.”

  “I don’t remember the name.” There was a resigned shrug in Swann’s voice. Thinnes read him some of the particulars. “When was that?” Swann asked.

  “Five years ago.”

  “Five years ago! How d’you expect…? Oh, yeah. I do remember. Kid killed in a car crash. Musta been goin’ ninety.”

  “Any possibility of foul play?”

  “No way.”

  “You sure?”

  “Damn straight. Kid’s old man came screamin’ into Area Six that queers killed his kid. Guy had money and clout, so you can be sure we went over that car with a fine-tooth comb.”

  “And?”

  “And what we found is just what’s in that report. Only good the old man’s accusations did was to make damn sure everybody connected with the case’d remember his name, and everybody in the district’d talk about it. The dumb fuck.”

  It wasn’t unusual for bereaved parents to say outlandish things. Usually no one paid much attention. Thinnes waited for the punch line.

  “Commotion jogged the memory of one of the guys in vice. Seems the kid was suckin’ somebody’s cock in Grant Park, right in front of God’n a coupl’a shocked old maids, who insisted on callin’ the cops. Kid was a juvenile at the time, so his old man got him off an’ got the whole thing hushed up. But of course, he couldn’t get the vice cop’s memory expunged.”