Dopplegangster

by Laura Resnick

  “Lucky,” I said faintly, “help me stand up. Max, go to the door and show him in.”

  Max trotted around the nearby bookcase and headed for the door while Lucky hauled me to my feet. I felt like a toddler learning to walk, sure I would topple over at any moment. But I took a couple of faltering steps away from Lucky and toward the bookshop’s entrance.

  The door crashed open. The bells rang wildly. Nelli gave a little bark and lunged in that direction.

  Lucky grabbed her collar. “No, don’t,” he admonished. “This one might be the real thing.”

  I heard Max say in a rush, “Ah, Detec-yahhh! Esther’s fine! She’s right here! There’s no need for a gu—Agh!”

  The sound of scuffling feet moved rapidly toward me. Max came around the bookcase by stumbling backward. He was propelled by Lopez, whose left hand was on Max’s throat. A gun was in his right hand. Lopez pointed it at Nelli and Lucky while his gaze went to me. Nelli growled.

  I said, “No, Nelli! No!”

  Max’s knees sagged and he made a little choking sound, as if the grip on his throat was tightening. His distress agitated Nelli, who growled more vehemently.

  “Are you all right?” Lopez said to me.

  “You have to let him go, you’re upsetting the dog,” I said, terrified of what was about to happen.

  “Maybe that’s not what’s making her growl,” Lucky said in an ominous voice.

  “No,” I said to Lucky. And then to Nelli, “Stop that!” And then to Lopez, “Please let Max go.”

  “Are you all right?” he demanded.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine, everything’s fine,” I babbled. “You called at a bad moment, that’s all. I’m fine. Now please let him go.”

  Nelli’s growls were getting louder.

  Lucky’s hand crept toward the pocket where he kept his knife.

  Lopez wasn’t looking at the gangster, but he saw the motion anyhow. “Freeze!”

  Lucky froze. We all froze. Nelli even stopped growling.

  Lopez said more calmly, “You’re sure you’re okay?”

  I tried to sound calm, too. “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  I shook my head. “It’s hard to explain, but . . .” I searched for something that would get him to let go of Max, so Nelli would calm down. “They were protecting me.”

  It worked. He released Max. Then he said, “Is there anyone else here?”

  “Well, not anymore,” Lucky said.

  Max staggered toward me, wheezing for air. I caught him by the arm and patted his back.

  As Lopez holstered his gun, he looked around at the unsanitary mess covering this portion of the shop. “What the hell is going on here?”

  Realizing that Nelli was calmer now, Lucky released her collar. She looked uncertainly at Lopez for a moment, then crept forward and delicately sniffed his legs while Lucky said, “Oh, this mook came into the store a little while ago and got out of hand, that’s all.”

  “Who?”

  Lucky looked at me. I looked at Max.

  Max said faintly, “We have not yet ascertained the name of the individual responsible for the mayhem here tonight.”

  Good answer.

  Looking again at the mess surrounding us, Lopez asked, “What is all this crap?”

  “It’s ephemeral matter,” Lucky said. “Makes a helluva mess, don’t it?”

  “What’s it doing here?”

  “It came with the mook,” Lucky said.

  Lopez stared at him. “Did the mook say why he had a load of feathers, dirt, and pebbles with him?”

  “He didn’t happen to say why,” Lucky said. “Fortunately, it’s over now and everyone is fine. It’s good thing me and Nelli came back from our walk when we did.”

  “Nelli?” Lopez looked down at the dog. She paused in her olfactory examination of him to meet his gaze. After a moment, she wagged her tail hesitantly. “Max’s new roommate, I take it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And why are there two swords and an ax on the table?”

  “They’re antiques,” Lucky said. “Max was showin’ us his collection.”

  Lopez studied the objects. I had a feeling he was looking for blood. My gaze went involuntarily to the blade which had beheaded his perfect double tonight. Fortunately, the weapons were so old, they really did look like collector’s items. It occurred to me they were probably valuable.

  “All right,” Lopez said, “I’ll need a statement from each of you—except Nelli—and a description of the guy who came in here.”

  “We didn’t get a good look at him,” Lucky said.

  Lopez looked at Lucky, who looked at Max, who looked at me.

  I said, “Um . . .”

  There was a long, extremely uncomfortable moment of silence.

  Lopez sighed and said, “Everyone who isn’t Esther, take a walk.”

  Lucky bristled. “You got a warrant?”

  “I don’t need a warrant to talk to her.” Lopez glanced at him. “And I’m sure I can come up with a reason for probable cause if I decide to search you right now for an unlicensed gun.”

  “Max, let’s take a walk.” Lucky clipped Nelli’s leash back onto her collar.

  “Er . . .” Max looked doubtful.

  “It’s all right.” I squeezed Max’s arm reassuringly. We knew from Nelli’s reaction that this was the real Detective Lopez. “Take Nelli for a walk.”

  Already halfway to the door with Nelli, Lucky added, “And bring some plastic bags, for the love of God. What do you feed this dog, anyhow?”

  “Don’t say ‘dog.’ ” Max stumbled after them.

  As soon as the doorbells chimed to hail their departure, I said to Lopez, “Have you seen your own perfect double?”

  That caught him flat-footed. “Huh?”

  “Have you seen anyone who looks just like you?”

  He frowned. “You mean . . . ever?”

  “No, I mean quite recently. Today. Maybe yesterday?”

  “No,” he said. “Now what the he—”

  “Think hard,” I said. “It might be someone who you think just looks a little like you.”

  “What are you talking about?” he said impatiently.

  “We tend to think we look like the image we see in the mirror. But that’s a reflection, so what we’re seeing is actually in reverse. Actors have to know what others see when they look at us, but many people are surprised by their own appearance in photos and don’t really know what they look like.”

  “Fascinating,” he said. “Now let’s talk about—”

  “So have you seen anyone who looks even a little bit like you? Same height and build? Same age and coloring?”

  “Probably dozens of people,” he said. “So what?”

  “He was wearing the same clothes you’re wearing now,” I said. “Blue jeans, pale shirt, denim jacket . . .”

  “He? Who are we talking about?”

  I froze as I realized what I had just said. “The same clothes . . .” Both versions of Charlie were wearing the same suit on the night that Lucky and I saw his doppelgangster at Bella Stella’s. And Lopez’s doppelgangster had been wearing what the real Lopez was wearing tonight.

  “He who, Esther?”

  Did this information mean anything?

  “What was Johnny Gambello wearing when he was pulled out of the East River?” I asked.

  “What?” Lopez was confused by the sudden change of topic.

  “Was it a red shirt and white leisure suit with silver trim?”

  Frowning at me, he shook his head. “No.”

  So was I on the wrong track? No, not necessarily. Johnny had gone home and talked to his wife after seeing his doppelgangster. So maybe he changed his clothes sometime after he was duplicated and before he died.

  So maybe . . . “Yes!” I said, grasping it.

  “Yes, what?” Lopez prodded.

  Maybe the clothing the doppelgangsters wore could help us pinpoint when they had been created!


  “I have to tell Max,” I said, heading for the door.

  Lopez grabbed my arm. His grip was hard. “Tell him what? No, wait, never mind. Whatever you think you have to tell Max, you and I have things we need to talk about first.”

  “You’re right.” My thoughts were scattered. I was still in shock from seeing him beheaded. I had to pull myself together. Focusing on the single most important thing we needed to discuss, I said, “You’re in danger.”

  “Yeah, of getting suspended.” He released my arm.

  I looked at him in surprise. “Because of the note that I gave Danny?”

  “The one with your phone number? And Max’s land line? Yeah, I found it near the body.”

  I gazed at him in confusion. How could he and his double both have found it?

  He continued, “At the time, I was . . . upset.”

  “Upset,” I repeated faintly.

  He rubbed a hand over his face, looking tired. “But you know, it’s been such a hell of a day since then, I kind of forgot about it.”

  “What?” I didn’t understand. The doppelgangster had been furious.

  With a weary, resigned expression, he reached into his pocket and pulled out . . .

  “Photos?” I said.

  “Surveillance photos.” His voice was flat, tired, a little cold. “We look at most of them digitally. These are just a few that I printed out for myself tonight. Call me sentimental.”

  They were four-by-six color prints with a matte finish. He laid them out slowly on the table for me to look at, one by one.

  The photos had all been taken at night on a city street. The composition wasn’t good, and neither was the lighting. There was a dark car outside what looked like the entrance to a church, a couple of men, a gumata with big hair and shiny clothes that were a little too small for . . .

  “Oh, my, God!” I blurted. “I didn’t realize how that blouse gapped when I moved.”

  Even with the bad lighting, you could see a glimpse of my bra in one of the shots. I looked up at Lopez to explain that I’d put together that costume on short notice.

  Our eyes met, and I realized that probably wasn’t important just now.

  I gasped as another thought occurred to me.

  “You’ve got me under surveillance?” I demanded.

  “No,” he said with forced patience. “We’ve got capos in the major crime families under surveillance, Esther.”

  “Oh. Right.” And I was so naive, this hadn’t occurred to me when I met with Danny “the Doctor” Dapezzo in Little Italy last night. “Of course.”

  He put another photo on the table. It showed me handing a small piece of paper to Danny. The next photo Lopez laid down was a shot of me, Max, and Nelli leaving St. Monica’s together last night.

  Lopez said, “What in the name God did you think you were doing?”

  “Napoli’s going to want to question me again, isn’t he?” I said in resignation.

  “No, he thinks these are pictures of Danny’s daughter.”

  “What?”

  Lopez shrugged. “There’s definitely a resemblance. Well, when you’re dressed like that, I mean.” After a moment he added, “She hasn’t got your cheekbones. And your shape’s a little different. But since it was dark and the pictures aren’t that good, Napoli didn’t notice.”

  “But you did.” Of course.

  “I look at you a lot more than he does.”

  “You have to tell him,” I said quietly.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t want to be the cause of you doing something you think is wrong.”

  “Too late now,” he muttered.

  “You can still fix this.”

  “Well, I know this will sound unconvincing if I wind up having to explain it later to someone, so I hope I don’t . . . but we’re already wasting time on one dead end, thanks to the Falcone kid’s story, and I don’t think we should waste any time on another.”

  “So it was Angelo who claimed credit for the hit?”

  “Yeah. And, like I figured, it’s all over the news now. You haven’t seen it?” When I shook my head, he continued, “Something like this makes it harder for the DA to prosecute a case after the cops find and arrest the real killer. So we can’t afford not to treat Angelo seriously, even though he’s full of shit. We have to take him apart so well that he can’t be used to help a slick defense lawyer create reasonable doubt with a jury.”

  “Take him apart?”

  “Prove he didn’t kill Danny,” Lopez said. “And prove he had his reasons—however dumb, warped, and shortsighted—for lying and saying that he did.”

  “I see.”

  “And that takes time. So I don’t want to waste any more time or stretch the team any thinner by giving Napoli a crazy old bookseller and well-meaning actress to chew on.”

  “Oh.”

  “Did you have anything to do with killing Danny Dapezzo?”

  “No!” Caught off guard, I was startled and indignant.

  “But you knew him?” His voice was clipped.

  “Briefly.”

  “How briefly?”

  “I met him the night before he died.” I added in surprise, “Last night, I mean.” It already seemed like a long time ago.

  “Did you see him today?”

  “No. But you must know that, since you had him under surveillance.”

  “Surveillance isn’t like what you see in the movies,” he said. “We don’t have the budget or the manpower to cover these guys nonstop. So we don’t know where Danny was between leaving St. Monica’s last night and winding up dead in his cousin Vinny’s wine cellar this afternoon.”

  “I don’t know where he was, either.”

  “So what were you and Max doing at St. Monica’s with half a dozen wiseguys last night?” He added, “And why were dressed like that? Both of you?”

  “We were trying to fit in. It was a sit-down. Max and I were Lucky’s, um, guests.”

  “Why did Lucky bring you two to a sit-down?”

  “He thought we could help prevent a mob war.” Unnerved by Lopez’s stony expression, I said in a rush, “That’s why I’m involved in this. Max, too. To stop anyone else from getting killed. To prevent a mob war. All we’ve done is talk to people! Trying to get information and to convince them not to act rashly.”

  “Trying to get what information?”

  “Trying to find out who’s behind the killings. The Gambellos didn’t hit Danny. Danny said the Corvinos didn’t hit Charlie and Johnny—and Lucky believed him,” I said. “Lucky and Danny couldn’t stand each other, but neither of them wanted another mob war, and that’s why they met last night.”

  “What did they say at the meeting?”

  I thought about it. “Actually, I guess Max did most of the talking.”

  “Oh, good God.” Lopez rubbed his forehead as if it suddenly ached. “We’ll be lucky not to have corpses all over Mulberry Street by tomorrow.”

  “That’s what we’re trying to prevent! And as far as I can tell, the Corvinos want to avoid a war just as much as the Gambellos do. But these are jumpy, violent guys who don’t trust each other, so every time someone else gets killed—”

  “You have got to get out of this.”

  “And now it’s gone beyond that! Now you’re—”

  “Esther, I’m taking you—”

  “Listen to me!”

  “No, you listen to me.”

  “You’re in danger.” I tried to keep my voice calm and rational, not to sound hysterical. It wasn’t easy. “Whoever is behind these murders has targeted you. You’re next. He’s trying to kill you.”

  “These guys don’t hit cops, Esther,” he said. “They’re not geniuses, but they’re smarter than that.”

  “This one,” I said, “is breaking the rules. He’s trying to kill you. You must believe me. You’re in terrible danger.”

  He frowned. “Who is it?”

  “We don’t know yet. That’s wh
at we’re trying to find out! It’s why we’re involved in this.”

  “All right, now you’re going to listen to me.” He took my shoulders in his hands. “You’re a civilian. Max is a loon. You ignored me after I told you to stay out of this, and now you’ve gotten yourself right in the middle of a very dangerous situation. I’m taking you into protective custody. Max, too, God help me.”

  A little while ago, I was ready to embrace protective custody with open arms, and to drag Max with me. But not now. “Not while this . . . this . . . this person is trying to kill you! I won’t go! And Max won’t go! He can help you! He’s probably the only one who can help you!”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I want you to listen to me. Just listen.” I took a steadying breath and tried to organize my thoughts. “Do you know anything about doppelgängers?”

  19

  “Me?” Lopez said, standing in the middle of the bookshop with his hands on his hips. “Me.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Well, not you you. But your perfect double.”

  I had done my best to explain what we knew, and what the danger was. I thought I had been methodical and cogent despite my agitation about the mortal danger he was in now. But while I talked, his expression went from impatient, to skeptical, to—at the moment—appalled.

  “This . . . this crap,” he said, “that’s all over the floor and the chairs and the bookcases and your hair—”

  “It’s in my hair?” Revolted by the thought of doppelgangster detritus in my hair, I started brushing at it with my hands.

  “You’re saying it was a supernatural creature that looked and sounded exactly like me?”

  “Yes.”

  “And if I saw it, I’d be cursed with certain death?”

  “Yes,” I said, relieved he was getting the picture.

  “And Max beheaded it to save my life.”

  “Yes.”

  “Esther . . .” He shook his head. “What the fuck is in the coffee that Max gives you here?”

  I sighed. “I’ve seen these . . . these things. With my own eyes. Lucky has seen them, too.”

  “Lucky drinks the coffee here, too, doesn’t he?”

  “Danny Dapezzo saw his doppelgangst—uh, doppelgänger before he died.”

  “And by amazing coincidence,” Lopez said, “Danny shared food and drink with Max the night before.”