“Whatever I can do.”
“Mr. James, when you interviewed Miss Wickham about her movie, did she tell you anything about her past?”
“Just what I told you. A cheerleader from New Jersey.”
“Would you be surprised if I told you she used to be a prostitute? That she had an arrest record? That the cheerleader story was all bullshit?”
He caught himself, hoping no one had heard the profanity. This wasn’t the fucking squad room.
James frowned. “Detective Lanham, a lot of fashion models at this level are pretty top drawer. You know, Grace Kelly used to be a model.”
“No black Grace Kellys, are there?”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“Sure it is. But I am surprised. How does a black chippie from Forty-second Street get to be a top fashion model? How does that work?”
“Black fashion models are much in demand these days,” A.C. said. “If they have the beauty, and the talent, I don’t suppose their backgrounds matter that much. And anyway, she made hers up, if what you say is true.”
“It’s true. I just wonder how she did it.”
“All it would take is for the right person, like Philippe Arbre, to see her in action. She had that wonderful walk. You don’t see white models, I mean …”
“Say what you mean, Mr. James. I’m not hung up about race. I hear the word ‘nigger’ every day.”
James looked embarrassed. “That isn’t what I said, Detective Lanham.”
“It’s funny. I never hear the word ‘mick’ around me, even though I’m half Irish, half white Irish. I’m as white as I am black. Except in the South. Doesn’t take much to be a nigger in the South.”
“Are you from the South?”
“Close enough. I was born in Baltimore. My father was a lawyer there. Criminal law. He didn’t make very much money, but he was a lawyer.”
“But you’re a detective.”
“I have a law degree, but I’m a cop. When my father died, my mother moved us back to Queens, where she grew up. I went to Fordham, but in New York, it just seemed better that I become a cop. I was a cop in the army, a military policeman. In Vietnam.”
“With a law degree?”
“I was drafted before I went to college.”
Now Lanham wanted to change the subject. “Have you ever heard of any mob involvement in the fashion business, Mr. James?”
“The crime syndicate? I suppose they may have some money invested in it, as they do in every business. Why, was Molly Wickham mixed up with—?”
“No. Not that we know of. But one of the other models in the show, well, let’s just say she has an interesting boyfriend.”
“Not Camilla Santee?”
“No.” Lanham smiled at James’s obvious concern. “Not her.”
The beeper in Lanham’s pocket began its monotonous summons. He pulled it out and shut it off.
“The office,” he said, excusing himself. “I’ve got to telephone.”
When he returned, James was studying the menu. A waiter was hovering impatiently nearby.
“I’m afraid I can’t stay to eat,” Lanham said, standing by his chair. “They want me to come back in.”
“Is there a break in the case?”
“A break? In the Wickham case? We should be so lucky. No, we’re just going to pick up one of her former employers, meaning her ex-pimp.”
“The man in the photograph?”
“We just want to talk to him, Mr. James, just like we talked to you. Pimps, columnists—we talk to anyone. We’ll be talking to you again, too.”
“Of course.”
After Lanham had gone, A.C. decided to skip lunch, too. He needed to get back to the office. Something the detective had said was worming around in his mind. C.C. Delasante. The initials were wrong, but the rest had to be the same. It was no wonder he’d thought the man in the limousine looked familiar.
CHAPTER 5
Peter Gorky’s “movie studio” was in the West Fifties, near the Hudson, occupying the second floor of an old brick building with windows so grimy the view didn’t matter—especially since it was of another old brick building across the street with windows just as dirty.
Gorky, a big lumberjack of a man, insisted on giving Lanham a brief tour of his premises, pointing out the inadequacies and cramped quarters with something like pride. There were five rooms. In the rear, with no windows, was one used solely for storage—crowded with cabinets and racks loaded with metal film cans, piles of cables and rolls of tape, stacked equipment Lanham didn’t recognize and probably wouldn’t understand. The next room out was for editing, a girl and a young man each working at a bench, neither paying any attention to Gorky or his guest. Then there were two offices, nearly identical and cheaply furnished. The smaller of the two had just one window and belonged to Gorky’s absent partner, who he said was out on the Coast. The larger chamber, with two windows, a Museum of Modern Art poster on the wall, and a long, old leather couch, was Gorky’s. The poster was of a nude woman and a fiendish-looking man in duster and driving goggles in an open, pre-World War I automobile.
The nicest part was the reception area, which possessed a new couch, three museum posters, and a long-legged woman named Myra, whose eyes and smiles told Lanham she did more at Gorky Productions than type and answer phones.
Gorky led Lanham back to his office and provided him with some coffee from a small machine on a corner table—white plastic conical cup in a hard brown plastic holder.
“That’s the whole show,” Gorky said, with a gesture toward his office door and beyond. “Cameras and sound equipment I rent. Sound stage I rent. Actors and crews I hire. Deals I do in restaurants.”
Gorky was bald and bearded, not quite as tall as Lanham but much more muscular. He wore a plaid cotton shirt, old jeans, and big black leather boots. He wore his shirtsleeves rolled up to his biceps and his shirt front was half unbuttoned. His arms and chest were very hairy. A pair of half spectacles hung from a gold chain around his huge neck. His smile was enormous and easy. Lanham liked him. He felt instantly and completely comfortable in the man’s presence. He’d been uncomfortable every minute he’d been with A.C. James in the Plaza.
Lieutenant Taranto had summoned him away from lunch just to sign some paperwork for the arrest of Bad Biker Bobby. The division’s interest in Darcy had led to the amazing discovery that he was liable to criminal charge. He was now wanted not merely for questioning in Wickham, Marjean Dorothy. The remainder of Darcy’s sentence on his assault conviction was being served on probation, and he had violated the terms of the judge’s ruling. To wit, he’d been observed the previous night by two witnesses—Times Square snitches—cruising the Deuce on his bike, and thus consorting with known criminals—that is, his chippies.
“Hell, anyone who stands on the corner of Eighth Avenue and Forty-second Street for ten seconds is consorting with known criminals,” Lanham had said.
“Come on, Ray. Bad Bobby is about as known a criminal as you’re ever gonna find. What do you think he was doing there, asking directions?”
“I’ve run Darcy’s photo past three witnesses, right? Nothing conclusive.”
“They didn’t say no, Ray.”
Lanham had sighed; then he’d gone back to investigating the Wickham murder case.
“I’m still shook by Molly’s getting gunned down like that,” Gorky said, gesturing this time at a copy of the morning Globe on his desk. “Jeez, right in the eye, right in front of the Plaza. It really tears you up. I mean, shit, she was good kid, Molly. A really good kid.”
“How do you mean, ‘good’?” Lanham said. He took off his glasses and wiped them carefully, not just out of habit. He wanted to see Gorky’s face clearly, and his lenses kept getting misted over from the heat.
“She had the stuff, you know? A lot of actresses are a little dumb; fashion models too. But Molly was really bright. Got it all down quick. Never temperamental, never had to be told anything twice. Got it right the
first or second time. Hell, with what we saved in takes, we actually made some money on this picture. If Molly had kept on scoring as a fashion model, and gotten a couple of breaks, she might have gotten into films in a big way.”
“Wasn’t Molly written up by that Globe columnist, A.C. James?”
“Yeah, that was nice,” Gorky said. “But no one’s going to get famous in my pictures. Not right now, anyway. You know how much I’m going to net on this thing? I figured it out today. $50,701.12. Sure, we got written up in the Globe—Newsday, too. And we got some great reviews in L.A. But you know how many theaters we opened in? Fifty, maybe, nationwide.” Gorky leaned back, tilting his chair against the wall and folding his hands behind his head. “It’s doing good in Europe, though. Especially France. So next year we go to the Cannes Film Festival, right?”
“Who do you know who might want to kill her?” Lanham asked. The question was part of the ritual. He almost never got a useful answer.
“Hard to say. A girl that good-looking, she may have stiffed a couple of guys who were hot after her pants. But that’s nothing to get killed over. She was a real good kid. If it wasn’t for her background, you might even call her nice.”
“Did you know about her background?”
“I knew some of it, yeah.”
“Did you know she was once a hooker, that she had a record?”
Gorky thought about his answer, then shrugged.
“I guess I knew that, but so what? I mean, she wasn’t sent over by MCA. And anyway, how many actresses do their job-hunting standing up? I was at a party in L. A. once where, except for two stars, all the women there were hired. And what’s the difference between a film like mine and the fashion shows and the street? One way or another, the girls are all selling their bodies. Some you look at, some you fuck.”
“Did you ever sleep with Molly Wickham?”
Gorky came forward in his chair, placing his hands on his desk.
“We were friends. For a while, we were close friends, okay?”
Lanham stopped to take out his notebook, to consult it, not to write. Unless he was taking a formal statement, he tried to avoid displaying this symbol of the public record. Notebooks tended to intimidate witnesses—not to speak of suspects.
“How did you meet Molly Wickham?” he said.
“You know. Saw her somewhere. Liked what I saw. She was a real looker.”
“Molly Wickham did some work for a photographer named Peter Bernstein,” Lanham said, eyes on his notebook entries. “Did lingerie ads, girlie-magazine layouts. We get the idea she may have done a porn film or two for him as well.”
Gorky’s eyes became very serious, but he said nothing.
“We can’t find Peter Bernstein, photographer,” Lanham said. “He’s not listed anywhere anymore.”
Silence.
“Do you know Peter Bernstein, Mr. Gorky?”
Gorky looked away, toward the nearest window. He tried to grin, but it came out a weak, embarrassed smile.
“Okay, you’re going to find out anyway, right? Maybe you already know. I’m Peter Bernstein. I changed my name when I did my first legit film. Are you guys going to bust me for some home movie I made years ago? That’s not even illegal anymore. I mean, hell, look at the crap you see on that blue channel on New York cable TV. Jeez, Sylvester Stallone once did a skin flick. Now he’s the king. He not only dated that society broad, Cornelia Guest—he gave her the brush.”
Lanham reached and snapped open his briefcase, taking out the photo of Wickham and Belinda St. Johns he had removed from Wickham’s apartment.
“Did you take this?” Lanham said sharply.
This time Gorky managed the grin. It was far from sheepish.
“No, I didn’t,” he said. “But I wish I had. Who’s the other lady?”
“If it’s who I think it is—and we’re pretty sure it is—she was on the cover of a fashion magazine last month.”
“No shit. Where did you get ahold of this?”
Lanham took back the picture.
“If you see the lady, tell her I’ll be happy to work with her anytime,” Gorky said.
Vince Perotta would love to hear that.
“Do you ever work with video tapes, Mr. Gorky?”
“Sure. Especially for commercials. I’m shooting a tape next week. Dog food.”
“Do you ever do pornographic tapes?”
Gorky spread out his hands. “Detective, hey. This is Gorky Productions now.”
“When’s the last time you talked to Molly?” Lanham said.
Gorky hesitated. “A couple of weeks ago. She always had trouble with her boyfriends, and she had big trouble with her latest. The feds were on to him for something and they came around to ask her about him. She asked me what to do. I told her not to stiff them.”
“Do you know this boyfriend’s name?”
“She never said. Some guy who lives in Washington and comes up every month or so. Some government type. The feds told her there was a problem about national security. I told her to level with them. I mean, she and this guy didn’t spend a lot of time discussing Mideast terrorism or arms control, right? They drank and partied. He mostly drank. I told her to tell the feds everything, because all she really knew was how he liked her to hold his dick, you know?”
“Is that what she told them?”
“I don’t know. I never saw her again after that until I picked up the paper this morning. What a miserable fucking way to get your picture on page one.”
Lanham closed his notebook. “Okay, Mr. Gorky. Thanks for your time.” He paused. “You don’t drive a motorcycle, do you?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. It’s a BMW. It’s downstairs, in back. You want to see it?”
“I’ll look at it on the way out. If you think of anything that might help us, let me know. We really want to nail this guy.”
“Sure. And if you ever get a chance, see The Last Round. It’s fucking terrific.”
The motorcycle was bright red and the license number wasn’t remotely like the one the witnesses had seen. In a way, Lanham was glad. He still liked Peter Gorky.
Newspaper morgues are the tombs of secrets. Events, happenings, utterances public and private, reports of arrests, confidential memos, and obscure trivia that might otherwise be lost and buried in the onrush of time are stored away like a pharaoh’s treasures, awaiting the future moment when chance and curiosity prompt their rediscovery. A political career rising on a reputation for probity and respect for family values might fall victim to the fact that twenty years before a person of the very same name had been arrested on a morals charge and a reporter had recorded that occurrence in a two-paragraph filler item filed away with all the other published news of the day.
In an earlier era of newspapering, when yellowing clips were kept in metal file cabinets and morgue clerks more often than not ran bookie operations on the side and served as whiskey stewards for alcoholic staffers in need of a quick shot to get through a night or morning, a search through this archaeological pile could take hours. Once, when A.C. was still covering politics, he had looked through more than four hundred old photos in the morgue before coming upon the one he needed to prove a presidential candidate a liar.
With the advent of high-tech journalism, newspaper morgues had become “research centers” and the clerks “librarians” or “researchers.” The old file drawers of clippings had become computerized data, and the most laborious search could now be completed in a matter of a few minutes.
A.C. depressed the button on the computer console that brought the Pierre (Pete) Delasante file to life. Another button activated the electronic process that allowed him to scan through the entire file, story by story. The first headline snapped into place at the top center of the green computer screen:
DELASANTE TRIAL SET
Pierre “Pete” Delasante, 46, the former White House aide charged with using his administration connections to help clients of his Washington consulting and lobbying firm,
will go on trial July 29 before Federal District Judge Samuel Groen, it was announced by the Justice Department today.
Delasante, a onetime Columbia, S.C., college professor and congressional aide …
The story went on to relate how Delasante had been indicted that April after charges were brought by special prosecutor Warren Donovan alleging that Delasante had conversations with the White House and the Defense Department while he was representing several American defense contractors and the governments of Guatemala, Chile, and Paraguay.
Delasante had left his White House national security post the previous September. While he had never been a high-ranking presidential aide on the order of Michael Deaver or Lyn Nofziger, two Reagan administration presidential assistants who’d fallen afoul of federal conflict of interest law, Delasante’s was considered a more worrisome case because of his intimate knowledge of National Security Council workings, presidential national security priorities, and other classified matters.
Hastings Bellows Ltd., the multinational media conglomerate, had offered to buy Delasante’s firm for a reported $7 million in March, but the offer had been suspended pending the outcome of criminal proceedings against him.
Delasante had admitted to a drinking problem, which had contributed to his leaving the White House, but his attorney, Cyrus Hall, said that would not be an element in his defense, as it was in Deaver’s case. Hall said he intended to challenge the constitutionality of the application of the federal conflict of interest law to lobbying because it violated First Amendment rights to freedom of speech. He said a guilty verdict in Delasante’s case would be appealed all the way to the Supreme Court, no matter what the financial cost.
Cyrus Hall, one of the most expensive lawyers in New York. Cyrus Hall, showing up at Mortimer’s with Camilla Santee.
There were more stories about Delasante’s legal troubles. His name also appeared in a short feature section write-up about a glitzy New York charity event he had attended. The only other item in the computer file was a brief sketch written about him in a group of profiles of new White House staff run in the Globe after the new adminstration had taken office. Delasante’s said he was a graduate of Clemson University and had earned a doctorate at Duke. His Washington career had included serving as a staff aide on the House Armed Services Committee and later with the Severn Institute, a defense-oriented capital think tank. There was no record of military service, though Delasante had been of draft age during the Vietnam War.
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