I liked him better when he was talking about painting and not himself, and while I’m no art lover, I must admit I liked his canvases. I was drawn into them, following the lines his brushes made. But the color, I loved his color. I stepped over a bird’s nest and what looked like part of a wig.
“Here are some of my smaller works.”
“How do you get your ideas?” I asked. I looked up through a skylight and saw a few evening stars. Nothing too bright, but my feet were cold.
“What’s behind that door?” I asked, pointing.
“More storage. Large stretchers, rolls of linen.”
“Let me see?” I asked, becoming curious.
Star Newcomb shrugged and fished for a key. “That’s where I keep my reluctant models. Two nights locked in there and when I free them, they’re so happy to be out, I can set them into any pose I want.” He laughed again, and this time I felt a distinctive frisson of fear travel up and down my spine.
The door creaked open, revealing a shallow space. I reached in my bag for a flashlight and shone it over some huge rolls of canvas and stretchers. A long piece of wood began to fall toward Star, who propped it up again. As he did so, my eye was caught by movement on the floor. The tail of a mouse or who knew what. I stepped backward. Another, a smaller creature, definitely a mouse, scampered out and flew toward me, stopping at my shoe. I jumped, and the mouse darted out of sight. Star closed the door again, locking it. “Sorry, I called the building manager last week. The exterminator is coming tomorrow.”
I wasn’t spooked by the mouse—I’d seen enough on my many cleaning gigs in high school—but Star had begun to shake.
He walked over to some shelves on the far wall. They held palette knives, something he called gesso, rolls of canvas, brushes, jars, and a bunch of art books in various sizes. Next to it was a barrel filled with shorter rolls of linen and more wooden stretchers. “I do a lot of sketching in the mornings and late at night. Unless, of course, I happen to get lucky. He shot me a knowing look.
I stepped away and took up one of the books, feeling the grit of dust on the cover. Thumbing through the thick pages, I saw drawings, not abstracts, but pictures of bark, close up, and doors. I turned pages and saw sketches of people sitting in subway cars.
“I’m interested in the texture of things, like the texture of surprise on a woman’s face.”
I nodded as if I understood what he was saying, and continued turning the pages. They smelled of plaster and I came across drawings done on a white substance.
“I plan on gesso, so I slather it over the face of the page like shaving cream.”
Interesting, but this was getting me nowhere except to realize the guy was obsessed with drawing and painting. I put the book down, reached for another, and his hand covered mine. Instinctively I pulled it out from under his, but he squeezed it tight and drew me closer.
I gulped, feeling that warming sensation, and bit my lip. What was wrong with me? I smelled his cologne, not a bad scent at all. I waited a half-second, long enough to have a good talk to my lower region, and drove my heel into the toe of his shoe. “Next time I won’t be so gentle.”
He seemed to fold into himself, and I gave him a moment. To his credit, he recovered quickly. Shrugging and giving me the shadow of a smile, he led me back to an area I’d call a sitting room. The furniture looked like it had been liberated from a nearby dumpster, and there was dust all over the place, but two walls were filled with windows. The view of Brooklyn and Manhattan lights winking in the distance was breathtaking. Why did such a pig get to live in a space like this? Probably made up to every gallery owner in town. I had to move a stretcher, but found the edge of a couch not covered in tarpaulin and sat while Star paced.
I was beginning to enjoy his discomfort, until I heard my mom telling me I could be cruel. Her remark, echoing from the grave, sobered me, and I almost felt sorry for the guy, so I pulled out my notebook and flipped through pages, giving him time for his emotions, whatever they were.
In a while he sat down opposite me, shifted his body to the edge, his head cradled in his hands. When he began to speak, his voice was muffled like it was coming from a deep well. “Late last night, I can’t remember what time it was, might have had too much ale, but I was on the way home from a friend’s apartment when I saw something near an ATM.”
“An ATM where?”
“The one on Atlantic down the street from Pete’s Ale House toward Court Street. Wait, I’d had a few too many and started walking on Atlantic, turned the wrong way on Court. I was opposite a bank when I realized my mistake. Sovereign Bank, I think. Yeah, that was it. I was about to turn when I saw two people inside the lobby. Shadows, really. A man and a woman. Understand, I was more than half in the bag, but something made me stop. It was the woman.”
“What woman?” I asked and kicked myself for interrupting.
“She looked like Whiskey, but it could have been anyone. From the back, yes, she was a dead ringer.” He wiped his slobbery fingers on his jeans.
“Go on.”
He sat back on the futon, his arms crossing his chest, not saying anything. He took a bite of nail. “I should have stopped, I know that now, but I was in no condition and …”
“And what? So far you’ve given me nothing.”
“All right, I don’t know what time it was, and I should have stopped. I should have said something to the guy, but I just wanted to get the hell away.”
“Take it from the top. What did you see? Give me details.”
His cheeks were flushed, his eyes darting around the room. I wasn’t convinced he was capable of the truth, but how many of us are?
“It was Whiskey all right, I’d know that pose anywhere, her jutting cheekbones, her gesture, so exquisite in the light, it trumps everything for me. I’d give anything to paint her, but she would have none of it, like she was afraid of getting close. One or two times, that was all that was in her. I realized it the first time we were together. She left me in the middle of the second night. Whiskey has her fears, we all have, you know.”
“Spare me the lecture, and get on with what you saw.”
“She was standing near the ATM, and she kept turning around and talking to the guy standing behind her. They were together, I could tell.”
“What do you mean, together?”
“Whiskey without a guy by her side? That doesn’t happen. Oh, they were together, all right, they’d been carnal together, between the sheets. I can tell. She’d been giving it to the guy good.”
He picked up a piece of muslin and twisted it around in his hands. I watched his face blanch and his fingers redden.
“He was standing too close to her, I thought, but I didn’t do anything, I should have stopped, but I didn’t do anything.”
“You’re repeating yourself. Why should you have stopped?”
“I was going to, don’t you see?” He straightened. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
“You’re wasting my time. Give me more information.”
He looked at me like I’d just said something in a foreign tongue. “Describe him.”
“Short, but tough, an aging street thug, I’d say.”
“And you didn’t help?”
He hung his head again. “I was going to, but he had a gun.”
My heart slammed against my chest.
“There was no one else around, and I felt myself swaying. What would happen if the guy got frightened, if the gun were loaded? He’d let go of Whiskey and aim the gun. I pictured it,” he said, biting his nails and twisting his eyes left and right.
“So you ran away, knowing she was in trouble.”
He stood then and paced. “You sound like my mother.”
That shut me up for a second. Outside, life went on. I could hear traffic rumbling on the overpasses.
He sat and faced me again. “The look on her, such relief when she saw me. She called out. ‘Star,’ she said. I keep hearing her calling me. She reached out to me, her finge
rs trying to grasp onto me, like I was her lifeline. ‘Star!’ But the guy swiveled around and gave me such a look. It wasn’t just that.”
“Then what was it?”
“The guy pointed the gun at me, I swear he did. At me! I could hear the shot, feel its blow. What could I do? Don’t you see, my whole life flashed before me. He’d shoot and that would be the end. I panicked. I thought of all the paintings I’d never create.”
Spare me.
He stood again, glancing into the interior of his studio before pacing again. I thought I heard movement coming from far away, but it must have been more rodents.
Star Newcomb formed a pistol with his hand and aimed it at me. “Then the guy said, ‘Get lost or I shoot!’ In that second, don’t you see, I didn’t care about anyone, it was all about me. My dad was right—I’ll never amount to anything.”
I said nothing. In spite of my loathing, I felt sorry for the guy. And after my behavior tonight with Denny, who was I to judge?
“I wasn’t Whiskey’s protector. For all I knew she was in on something. Maybe she and the guy were robbing a bank, and who was I to interrupt?”
He slumped again into the chair.
I almost believed him, but something swept through me, a cold wind. Don’t you see, I was absent the day the trust pill was passed out. After I studied his face, I asked, “So you ran away from a woman you once bedded, knowing she was in deep trouble?”
Star Newcomb froze, except for his mouth, which trembled. His eyes were pleading, but I stared him down. I didn’t give him a crumb. Maybe I should have—did I know what I would have done if a gun had been aimed at my chest? I let the silence expand.
Saliva drooled from one corner of his mouth. As if he read my thoughts, he asked, “What would you have done? Tell me? What would you have done? Oh, you’re so clever, so righteous, but what would you have done with a gun pointed at you? Have you ever been so close to success you could taste it? I couldn’t help it, everything, my career flashed before me. And I’m just getting on my feet, just beginning to make it. You’ve no idea how in debt I am. This studio, for instance, the rent keeps climbing. My art expenses are close to ten thousand a month. The commission from one good show would take me over the top, I keep thinking, if only Thornton would promote me like she could.”
“Thornton?”
“Sylvia Thornton, my gallery owner. But it’s all reputation. I need one great series, say, arresting faces along with my expressionistic works. A mix, something to bind them together—angle, the same palette—no other artist has achieved that much, yoking together such disparate schools of art. Are you sure you won’t pose for me?”
He grabbed my chin and held my face up to the light.
It was time to leave. I gave his hand another slice.
“You’ve got to believe me,” he said, cradling his arm. “But she’ll be all right. Whiskey will be all right, I know she will. Whiskey’s a fighter. She’ll be fine, I know she will. Don’t you see, I watched my career swirling down the drain. But he had a gun, the guy had a gun, I know he did. I was helpless, that’s what I was.”
As he was rambling, I called Jane. “I’m with someone you’ll certainly want to interview. He saw Whiskey Parnell early this morning.” I gave her Star’s name and directions to his studio.
She sounded bored, like she wasn’t in the mood to hear leads from me. Said the chief was on her tail, something about having too many loose ends to tie up, and she was needed on a brutal murder case. She went on to say she had nothing for me, but she’d dispatch someone from her team to pick up this Star Newcomb fellow.
I turned to him. “Stay here. Someone from NYPD will be around in a few minutes. They’ll ring your bell. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll answer.”
“Why me?”
“Because you’re the last person who saw Whiskey Parnell before she disappeared—except for her abductor. And you’re going to make a statement, that’s what you’re going to do. If I were you, I’d start writing down everything you’ve just told me.”
“This is going to look bad, isn’t it?” he asked.
I raised my arms in a crucified gesture.
The Mole
I had to give Jane some backstory about our involvement in the Mitch Liam case, which meant I had to talk to Lorraine, and I had to do it in person. Since I was close by, I decided to pick up Mom’s old Beretta parked a few blocks from our brownstone in Vinegar Hill and drive down to Carroll Gardens. I half-expected its tires to be slashed, too, or the windows smashed into spiders’ webs, but as I rounded the corner, there it was, intact, in all its rusting glory.
I don’t use the old beater all that much, so I told Mom to make it start. She told me not to be so bossy. I had to brush some leaves off the front windshield and stood still when the reflection of a streetlamp shone in my eyes. An ache began deep down in me and rode up through my stomach to my forehead. Mom’s car, you see, and I hadn’t used it in a long time. When a vehicle has close to 197,000 miles, hearing the engine cough and get into its own rhythm is always a miracle, but the car purred with the first turn, and I rode all the way to Carroll Gardens, my mind engulfed in memories as it always is when I slide into the seat and feel Mom’s presence.
“Where’s Denny?” was Robert’s greeting when I rang the bell. As if he didn’t know.
“Long story,” I mumbled.
“You two had a falling out?”
As if he didn’t know. His face looked like a wolf’s did after it smelled blood.
“He’s back, but had to return something to one of his buddies,” I managed.
Robert didn’t believe me, I could tell. He had something to do with Denny’s call to Jane, I was sure of it, so I stared him down, daring him to say another word. Instead, he yelled for Lorraine, who came running.
“Quick, while we have a second,” I said after we were seated in the parlor, “tell me what you discovered about the Mitch Liam case.”
“I know Mitch Liam was murdered and I know who hired the assassin, at least I think I do. Catania’s mother told me.”
The room was beginning to spin and I gulped for air.
“You’d better sit down,” Lorraine said, clutching her throat. “Too much happening today. Anyway, the connection is a man they call ‘the Mole’ and he works for the city—some small job in contract services—but he’s one of Brooklyn’s wiseguys. I can’t tell you what his rank is in the Gambino family, but he’s close to the top.”
“He’s the one who ordered Mitch Liam’s death?”
Lorraine shook her head. “Not ordered. Arranged. Did the hiring.”
I let the news sink in. “So someone else ordered him to arrange it?”
She nodded. “He’s the one to find. Only …”
“Only what?”
“I’m close to the truth, and as your slashed tires indicate, from now on, mining for names becomes more dangerous.”
I felt that last sentence like a shiver down my spine. “Do you still want to continue?”
“Of course. We need to find the source.” She smiled. “I’ve never felt so alive.”
I said nothing.
“This morning, I heard there was an attempt on Joe Catania’s life.”
“But he’s secured in the Municipal Detention Center,” I said.
“Wouldn’t be the first time. Perfect spot. The mob gets rid of squealers, and prison is an easy place to get the deed done. Joe Catania should have known that. Why he chose to live in the MDC when he stays here …”
“Why visit Brooklyn at all?” I asked. “They gave him and his family a new identity, a house in Northern California.”
“But Brooklyn is his home. I suppose he wanted to be close to his mother. They found him on the floor, a belt around his neck, the chair overturned.”
“He’s talking?”
Lorraine shook her head. “In a coma. They took him to a hospital in Rockland County, according to my information. The room is heavily guarded. But our wellspri
ng has dried up—Catania’s mother called me this morning to say goodbye. She’s flying to Palermo tonight, supposedly to care for her sister. Getting out while she can—I give her less than a year to live.”
“They don’t touch women!”
“Dream on,” Lorraine said, rich color flooding her face.
I stared at her for a moment, my mind flashing back to my meeting with Joe Catania a few months ago arranged by Tig Able, of course. Catania used to be a significant player in organized crime in New York, a regular in all their Bensonhurst haunts, and knew who did what, when, and why. A few years ago, Tig told me, he was persuaded to turn state’s evidence and was now in the U.S. Marshall’s witness protection program, his family someplace in Northern California. So how, with all that protection, was the mob able to get to him? And who was this thug they call “the Mole”?
I should have been frightened, but instead, Catania’s story got me into some deep thinking, not about Mitch Liam—I was convinced his death was no accident, a product of mob revenge—but about Whiskey Parnell. Could her disappearance somehow have a connection? Did Whiskey Parnell know too much? Was Arthur involved with the mob? I needed to read the rest of her diaries, but my heart knew the answer.
Next thing I knew, Lorraine was gently patting my arm.
I shook myself awake. “No matter, we have enough information to ask for the Mitch Liam case to be reopened.” Which is where Jane would come in handy—Jane and Trisha Liam and, of course, Tig Able. “So you think this Gambino guy, ‘the Mole,’ wanted us off the Mitch Liam case, which is why he had someone slash my tires?” The question wasn’t really meant for Lorraine, who didn’t have to answer it. Not for the first time today, I wished Mom was here. She had so much experience with graft and corruption, had so much dirty stuff done unto her, she could have pointed my nose in the right direction. Anyhow, Lorraine was nodding.
“And Whiskey?”
Lorraine shrugged. “I don’t see how—”
“Lorraine!” Robert wailed from another room.
“Got to go. Robbie must need a glass of water or something.”
Whiskey’s Gone (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 3) Page 16
