Seven ways to die

20

The Filipina housekeeper answered the doorbell and ushered Bergman into the Beekman Place apartment. She led him down a short hallway to a large living room, unlit except for a soft light over a wet bar in one corner and the city lights streaming through the windows.

“Your guest is here, Mister Nevins,” the housekeeper said.

“Thank you, Maria,” he answered and she left Bergman standing at the entrance to the darkened room.

Louis Nevins was standing with his back to him, one hand in his pants pocket, the other swirling the ice in an empty old fashioned glass. Nevins was staring through a massive corner window, the panorama of South Manhattan spread out before him. The United Nations tower framed one side of the view, and to its right, far beyond it, were the gently arched spires of the Brooklyn Bridge, and still farther a speck of light marking the lady in the bay.

“No other city like it in the world,” Nevins said, without turning. “First time I came here I cried like a baby when we drove out of the Holland Tunnel. I expected to see windmills and people in wooden shoes. What did I know? A six-year-old kid from Haddonfield, N.J. But then dad drove over to Times Square and I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was the grandest sight I’d ever seen.”

He turned to face Bergman. “I’ve been a New Yorker ever since. And today? Today is the saddest day of all the years I’ve lived here.”

“I’m sorry,” Bergman said without emotion. “Thank you for seeing me.” He offered his hand and they shook.

Nevins was tall, trim, in good shape for a man in his sixties. He was wearing rumpled brown slacks, a gray sweatshirt and expensive loafers. No socks. Cosmetic surgery had stretched the age wrinkles from his face and his thinning, gray hair was combed sideways to cover up a bald spot. On a better day he could have passed for a man in his early fifties but the whites of his swollen, brown eyes were blood-streaked and his voice, forced reed-thin with grief, betrayed his true age.

“Have a seat. You look young for a detective. How about a drink?” Nevins ran the words together into a single sentence as he walked past Bergman toward the wet bar in the corner of the handsomely furnished room.

“Thanks, but I’m on the clock,” Bergman said.

“Going to make me drink alone? How about some fruit juice? We’ve got all flavors. My companion doesn’t drink.”

“Apple juice?”

“Fine.”

Bergman sat down in a large over-stuffed chair beside a wide, round glass table with black iron legs that curved out from a ring under its center.

“Know how many homicides have been committed this year?” Nevins asked as he poured the drinks.

“Four hundred and seventy-two so far,” Bergman replied. “Eight unrelated killings in one day last July. The oldest victim was a ninety-three year old woman shot in a holdup. The youngest killer was a nine-year-old girl who stabbed her best friend in a fight over a jump rope.”

The glass of apple juice made a soft clink when Nevins put it down in front of Bergman. Nevins pulled up another chair and sat next to him.

“Statistics, Inspector Bergman. Six months from now Raymond will be just another statistic. That’s one reason I’m sad. I’m sad because the only time I will ever see his beautiful face again will be in a coffin. I’m sad because he was the best at what he did, for which I can assume some responsibility. And I’m sad because I loved him like the son I never had. I’m sad because he thought of me as the father he never had.”

“Explain.”

“His father was killed when he was a child. His mother lived in California and died years ago. He had no family, except a sister who also died a few years ago.”

“How’d she die?”

There was an imperceptible pause before he answered. “A tragic accident,” he said. He took a sip of his old fashioned. “So, tell me what really happened to Raymond.”

“He was killed in his library. It wasn’t robbery. And we feel certain he knew his killer.”

“That’s it, that’s all?”

“It’s a case in progress, sir. I’m not at liberty to say anymore. I need to talk to you about Handley. Everything you know.” Bergman took out his notebook and pen.

Nevins leaned back and shook his head slowly as he stared at the ceiling. “Jesus, how many days do you have, detective? Or weeks, I should say. I’ve known this man since he was a sophomore at Princeton. We have recruiters at all the Ivy League schools, all the major firms do. He was called to my attention the day he entered college. I had his dossier from the day he was born. I monitored him through his first year and then I mentored him, groomed him, took him on the floor of the Exchange for the first time, saw his eyes light up watching the big board. He had it all. The fire in his belly, the instinct for the edge, the risk-taking, the focus, the intelligence, he was a natural for the game.”

“And a future son-in-law for Victor Stembler?”

“Of course. That was part of the package.”

“Did he ever fire anybody or damage someone’s career?”

“Not without cause. Raymond couldn’t stand incompetence. But he never did anything with rancor. He let them down softly. Others I know are not that kind.”

“But he liked to win.” It was a question framed as a sentence.

“Of course, whatever the enterprise. If you played racquetball with Raymond you would expect to come away with bruises. But it wasn’t personal. He was a ferocious competitor. Losing was never an option.”

“How about women?”

“His one flaw. He was born with the power gene that validates sex. But to my knowledge, he never conned a woman in his life. He always made it clear up front that it was for the joy of the moment. There were only two viable relationships in his life: the Stembler Company and Linda Stembler. So how exactly did he die, Inspector Bergman?”

“I’m sorry, sir, to have to tell you…His throat was cut.”

Nevins took it like a physical blow. But he took a deep breath and recovered. “I don’t mean to be rude, son, but if our talk is going to continue, put away your notebook. From here on, this conversation is quid pro quo. You ask and I’ll ask. And I promise you, I can keep a secret.” He tapped his forehead. “There are enough secrets in this brain to send half the people on Wall Street up the river.”

Bergman thought for a moment and nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s see how it goes.”

He put the notebook in his inside breast pocket and clicked off his tape recorder mike at the same time. “Before we start,” Bergman said to Nevins, “let me ask you one thing. Is there an outside chance that maybe, just maybe, Raymond Handley may have experimented sexually with men?”

“That sounds a bit homophobic.”

“It wasn’t meant to be. At this point we’re not sure whether the killer is a male or female.”

Nevins frowned and looked down for a moment. When he looked back he was staring past Bergman, his eyes fixed on some vague spot in a dark corner of the room.

“The first time I ever saw Raymond was in one of those old school restaurants,” he mused. “You know, all teakwood and dark colors. Framed in the sunlight streaming through the window, he looked like a cutout. A beautiful young man in a boat neck sweater, hair slightly mussed. Not a blemish on his skin. Confident brown eyes. For me, it’s an image frozen in time, like a black and white photograph.”

He stopped, drawn back to the present, and looked back at Bergman.

“He was a sophomore at Princeton. We chit-chatted for a while and sometime during lunch I leaned across the table and said, ‘Has anyone ever told you you have beautiful eyes?’ And Ray looked at me, laughed, and said, ’Well, Mister Nevins, no man ever has.’ So, it was on the table and off, just like that. He knew I was gay. I knew he wasn’t. I wasn’t serious, of course. It was what we call in the business a ‘clarification question.’ No, Inspector, Raymond loved the ladies. He also knew if he got involved with one, it could jeopardize his career at the firm. So, in college, and ever since, he was a one night stand man.”

“Do any of these names mean anything to you? Trapeze Lady? Tit for Twat? The Sex Circus?”

“Look, New York is full of sex clubs,” Nevins said with a dismissive wave of his arm, “Trapeze Lady performed at the Sex Circus. But it got too public and vice shut it down. Same with the Tit for Twat. Ray went to them once or twice until I warned him off.”

“Does the Staten Island Fairy ring a bell?”

Nevins face drained and became pasty. He was obviously shocked.

“Christ, where did you hear that?”

He got up slowly, his shoulders sagging wearily. He looked at Bergman’s untouched drink, and went back to the bar to fix himself another one.

He tinkered with the fixings and, without looking up said, “Only two people ever heard of the Staten Island Fairy. It was a joke.”

“A joke?”

“That’s right. I have a jousting sense of humor. Once the gay thing was out of the way I said to Ray, ‘From today forth I’m going to teach you the way we do business at Stembler.’ And I laughed and said, ‘The Staten Island Fairy and the Princeton Hunk are going to be partners.’ It put him at ease and he laughed and we shook on it. I lived on Staten Island at the time.”

Bergman, a very cool character under the most extreme circumstances, could not conceal his surprise. Nevins returned to the table, his face etched with sadness and dropped with a sigh into his chair, his face troubled.

“An inside joke, Inspector Bergman, between the two of us. It was never said in polite society and I’m sure he never mentioned it to anyone else. Where in heaven’s name did you hear that?”

Bergman’s mind nimbly sought an appropriate answer. “It came up in one of the briefings along with those other names,” he said. “Your name was never mentioned. Maybe Handley jotted it down somewhere, you know, on a list of calls to make or something.”

Nevins paused for a moment then relaxed, accepting the explanation. His sudden change in composure was evanescent.

“ Quid pro quo time,” he said.

“One more thing. It relates directly to the homicide.”

“I hope so. We made a deal.”

“Does the Yellow Door sound familiar?”

Nevins expression changed slightly. He leaned forward in his chair and took a swig from his glass.

“Your turn,” he said firmly.

“Okay. I will depend on you to keep what I’m about to tell you in complete confidence.”

“That was understood,” he nodded.

“He was your friend, sir. You’re going to find the details odious at the very least.”

“I’m prepared for that. Will it bother you if I smoke?”

“No, sir.”

“Thank God.” He took out a pack of unfiltered Camels, tamping the end of a cigarette on the table before lighting it. He drew deeply, leaned back with his eyes closed and exhaled toward the ceiling.

As Bergman described the scene, Nevins leaned forward, took a deep drink, lit one cigarette off the other and his expression became increasingly horrified.

“Oh. Oh, my dear God,” Nevins cried. He was shaking all over. The ash on his cigarette fluttered to the floor. Bergman took it from his hand, crushed it out in an ashtray. “I may be sick to my stomach,” Nevins croaked feebly.

“Maybe it would help to lie down on the sofa.”

“No. I’ll be alright in a minute.” He paused and then added, “How do you do it? Seeing things like that all the time?”

“It goes with the territory. I don’t know how I’d handle it if the victim were a friend.”

Nevins sat up and wiped his face with the wet towel. Tears were streaming down his face which sagged with sorrow.

“Why? Why would anyone do such an abominable thing to Raymond? How could someone hate him that much?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

“Are there suspects? Do you have any ideas?”

“I was hoping you could help us with that.”

“I can’t imagine Ray being involved in anything that tawdry. Perhaps he was victimized, kidnapped or forced into it.”

“I ran the crime scene with my boss, Mister Nevins. He’s the best there is. I can assure you, Handley knew what he was getting into. Our best guess is that he thought it was a game but whoever killed him went there with murder in mind.”

“Nobody I know who knew him well could possibly be capable of such a thing. He was a lovely young man. He was tough but he never intentionally hurt anyone.”

“ Quid pro quo. Tell me about the Yellow Door.”

“I will, just please tell me how it figures into this.”

“He stopped there on his way home from Cincinnati. Met a woman in one of its private rooms. She got there before him, he arrived about midnight, she left a few minutes later. He waited about fifteen minutes and left the back way. He got home in a cab about one. We are certain that a single person committed the crime. That person got there before Raymond. That person had his keys and set up the scene. That person planned to kill him and robbery was not a factor.”

“Any description of the woman?”

“Not much. Red designer dress, about five-five, five six, depending on the shoes. She was wearing a Dracula mask, the kind that goes down to the shoulders. She didn’t take a cab to Handley’s place, if she went there at all.”

“You think it could have been someone else? I mean, it sounds like…”

“The Yellow Door, Mister Nevins.”

“Please, just help me understand this. Was he tortured? Was he in great pain? Was there a struggle?”

“I shouldn’t be telling you any of this. At this point anybody who knew him is suspect.”

“Does that include Edgar and me?”

“You’re sixty-one, born in Haddonfield, N.J. Your dad was a veep at RCA. You’re a graduate of Harvard Law with an MB from the Wharton School. You’re Victor Stembler’s closest confidant, been with the firm for thirty-eight years, a senior partner and member of the Board with an enormous salary and all the accoutrements that go with it.”

“Huh,” said Nevins, sardonically. “You’re certainly thorough. What’s my shoe size?”

“Eleven C, you wear a forty long and your shirt size is sixteen/thirty-five. That was easy, I’m sitting here looking at you.”

Nevins smiled and nodded his head.

“Your point, Inspector,” he said ruefully. “Time to talk about the Yellow Door.”