Contraband

34

Stone pointed at a chair, and Blau sat in it. Stone was about to tell him of the previous evening’s event, then decided to wait until the investigator had given him what he was paying for.

“Tell me all about Randall Hedger, Mr. Blau,” he said.

“It’s Wedgie, please.”

“Wedgie, it is.”

Blau opened a zippered briefcase and took out a file. “Okay, fifty-two years old, married once before, ex deceased.”

“How?”

“Beg pardon?”

“How did the former Mrs. Hedger become deceased?”

“A street mugging gone wrong, or at least that’s what the sheet said. Hedger was a suspect for a couple of days until his alibi checked out. Out of town in Miami for the dog races.”

“Continue.”

“I know this is odd, but the man seems never to have had anything like gainful employment. Education: barely finished high school. After that he seems to have been a run-of-the-mill street-corner hustler — there and at pool halls. He has only one arrest, for running a three-card monte game on Fifth Avenue. Charges were dismissed when the arresting officer didn’t show in court.”

“God, I hope there’s something more interesting than this,” Stone said.

“It gets more interesting. He had a string of wins on the ponies, changed bookies by request, bought himself some clothes, and started pretending to be a gentleman. Apparently, he was good at it. He ran with an Upper East Side crowd for years, forming both brief and sometimes lengthy liaisons with fashionable women, some of whom must have been kicking in cash from time to time, because you can’t support a lifestyle betting on the ponies.

“His new bookie is Pino Pantero, out of Datilla the Hun by one of the Genoveses.”

“What does he owe Pino now?”

“Got a clean page, apparently. Nobody was looking to break his legs. He met a Roberta Calder, a top designer, about three years ago, and they married and cohabited until she locked him out late last year. At Christmastime, no less, so she had to be plenty pissed off.”

“Where does he live?”

“East Sixty-Sixth, near Third Avenue: a white-brick building from the Sixties. Not a bad address.”

“Has he ever harmed anybody, in any physical manner?”

“No, but he was slow to pay his restaurant accounts at times. Elaine threw him out, tore up his tab, and told him never to come back.”

“Elaine tore up a tab? I don’t believe it.”

“It must not have been much of a tab.” Blau closed the file.

“That’s it?”

“That’s all there is. What say we call it a grand even, all in, if you can do cash.”

Stone picked up the phone and said, “Bring me a thousand dollars in cash.” He hung up. “There was something you missed, Wedgie.”

“I’m telling you, there isn’t anything else.”

“Yes, there is. Hedger got himself capped last night around ten PM. Sitting in his car, one in the head.”

Blau’s jaw dropped. “I saw him in a car about ten o’clock. Not his car, he didn’t have one.”

“Where?”

“Driving down Second Avenue, in the Fifties. He stopped at a light while I was crossing.”

“Was anyone with him?”

“Nope.”

Joan came in and handed Stone an envelope. Stone handed it to Blau. “Mr. Blau will give you a receipt. Thanks, Wedgie.” He went back to his desk as Blau left.

Stone called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“I’ve got a sighting of Randall Hedger just before ten last night.”

“Tell me.”

“He stopped at a traffic light on Second Avenue, in the Fifties. Fellow I know was crossing the street and saw him, alone in his car, which my acquaintance says didn’t belong to him, because he didn’t own a car.”

“Who was this acquaintance?”

“One Werner Blau, aka Wedgie.”

“A P.I.?”

“Yep.”

“How do you know him?”

“Your wife’s guy recommended him. He was looking into Hedger’s background for me.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Almost nothing. Most interesting thing is, he did okay with the ponies.”

“As a kid, he had an arrest for three-card monte on Fifth Avenue, charges dropped, cop a no-show.”

“That Blau found,” Stone said. “Who belonged to the car he died in?”

“A woman named Estelle Parkinson, like the disease. Socialite, had a profitable divorce.”

“Anybody talk to her?”

“Nobody answered the door. They’re trying again this afternoon.”

“It sounds like whoever did this is going to get away with it. Anything in the way of forensics in the car?”

“Some makeup and ownership documents for the car in the glove compartment. She’d had it less than a month.”

“A Mercedes, wasn’t it?”

“An S550, the big one.”

“And now it’s an orphan.”

“Nah, it’s just in her estate.”

Stone heard somebody speak to Dino, then he covered the phone for a minute. Finally, he came back. “Breaking news,” he said. “Housekeeper found Estelle Parkinson dead in her apartment, blunt-force trauma. ME puts it between nine and ten last night.”

“Jesus. What delivered the blunt force?”

“Undetermined. It must be covered with blood, though. Nothing like that in the car with Hedger.”

“Fists?”

“I haven’t seen the report yet.”

“Be interesting if the ME had a look at Hedger’s paws.”

“I’ll let him know. He may not even have got to the autopsy yet. I’ll let you know. See ya.” Dino hung up.

Stone hung up, too, baffled.