Another Part of the City

12

Sandy’s office at Forbes was about the size of the interrogation room back at the Fifth. She sat behind a desk cluttered with clippings from magazines and newspapers, photocopies of pages from books, a jar of paste, a pair of scissors, a roll of transparent tape, pencils in assorted sizes and colors, and an ashtray brimming with cigarette stubs. The room smelled of stale tobacco smoke.

“I quit two weeks ago,” she said. “The ashtray is to remind me what a rotten habit it is.”

Reardon nodded.

“I know a man, he took fifty or sixty butts, put them in a jar of water, and shook it up like a cocktail,” Sandy said. “Whenever he’s tempted to have a smoke again, he takes the lid off the jar and sniffs at what’s inside. One whiff is enough to make him swear off again.”

Reardon wondered if this was the same man she’d been in bed with last Saturday night.

“I’ve quit at least three times already,” he said.

“Never stuck, huh?”

“The last time was the longest.”

“How long?”

“Three years.”

“And you went back?” Sandy said, astonished.

“Yeah.”

“When was this?”

“Last July.”

“How come?”

“My wife told me she wanted a divorce.”

“Oh,” Sandy said.

“Yeah.”

“That’ll do it every time.”

“Yeah.”

The room went silent.

“Is it okay if I smoke now?” Reardon asked.

“Sure, go ahead.”

“You’re sure it won’t bother you?”

“It’ll kill me, but go ahead.”

He reached into his pocket for his cigarettes, looked at her, and changed his mind.

“No, that’s okay, really,” she said.

“No. no.”

“Go ahead, you’re making me feel guilty.”

“No,” he said, “I can wait, really.”

“Okay,” she said, and smiled.

He really wanted that cigarette. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. He scratched his jawline with his right hand.

“The reason I stopped by...” he said, and shrugged. “I feel stupid as hell about this, I really do, but you’re the only one I could think of.”

“Concerning what?”

“This homicide victim.”

“The old man you were telling me about? On Mulberry Street?”

“Well, no. Well, yes. Well, they’re related, but I can’t figure out how. I mean, I know how, but I don’t know why. Or... I know why, but the why doesn’t make any sense. Would you mind terribly if I smoked?” he asked.

“Please do,” she said, and shoved the butt-filled ashtray toward him.

“Thank you,” he said, and immediately shook a cigarette from the package and lighted it. “I’m sorry,” he said, blowing out a stream of smoke.

“No problem,” she said.

“You see, this other victim, this related victim, was a lawyer...”

“Uh-huh...”

“Who went to see a stockbroker...”

“Ah,” she said.

“Yeah, which is why I’m here. Or partially why I’m here.”

“Why don’t you just tell me what you need,” Sandy said, and looked at his mouth as he drew in on the cigarette.

“Okay,” he said, “this is it. A lawyer named Peter Dodge sees an important timetable...”

“What kind of timetable?”

“Well, that’s just it. Hold on a minute, okay? He sees this timetable, and he runs right out to buy silver contracts from a firm called Rothstein-Phelps.”

“Uh-huh,” Sandy said.

“You know them?”

“Biggest commodity dealers in the city.”

“Okay. Some Arabs kill Dodge that night and the timetable is taken from him. Recovered from him, actually, since it shouldn’t have been in his hands to begin with. But a man named Ralph D’Annunzio... the one I was telling you about... also saw the timetable, and he was killed an hour later, more or less.”

“Phew,” Sandy said. “Important timetable, huh?”

“So it would seem.”

“Again... what kind of timetable?”

“That’s what I want to know from you.”

“Me? Do I look like a train conductor?” She watched him as he stubbed out the cigarette. Then she said, “You say Dodge bought silver after he saw it?”

“Heavily and long,” Reardon said, nodding.

“Well, was that accidental? I mean, his rushing out to buy silver? Or was it a direct consequence of his having seen this timetable?”

“I have no idea.”

“Mmm,” Sandy said.

“What does that mean, mmm?”

“Look, this is just winging it...”

“Sure.”

“But... I mean a timetable is a schedule, isn’t it? A list of... well... the times at which certain things are supposed to happen, isn’t that so? I mean, a train schedule is a timetable, right?”

“Yeah?” Reardon said. He was listening intently. He also wanted another cigarette.

“And this man Dodge saw the schedule and then... now this may be entirely unrelated, but nonetheless it’s what happened... he ran out to buy silver heavily and long.”

“That’s right.”

“Well... suppose this timetable was a schedule for something that would affect the price of silver?”

“Affect it?”

“Drive the price up.”

“Like what?”

“Well, I don’t know.”

She was silent for several moments, thinking.

Then she said, “Well, if the price of oil goes up, for example, then gold and silver usually follow. You said Arabs are involved, didn’t you? Well, suppose OPEC is planning a series of oil-price hikes, and suppose your man Dodge stumbled across a schedule that lists the dates and amounts of the hikes. If he’s wise in the ways of the market, he’d recognize the consequences of these oil hikes and run out to invest heavily in either silver or gold futures. Gold’s more expensive, so he might opt for silver — less cash down, you see. Maybe that’s what happened.”

“A schedule of oil price-hikes, huh?”

“Maybe,” she said, and shrugged.

“Which caused him to believe the price of silver would go up, huh?”

“Well, that’s the way it usually works, yes.”

“So he rushed out to get in on the action, buy his own little hoard of silver...”

“If that’s what you say he did.”

“Well, that’s what his partner says he did. Ran out to Rothstein-Phelps to buy silver heavily and long. Advised her to do the same thing, in fact.”

“Let me check on what kind of activity there’s been in silver this past week or so, okay?” Sandy said, and looked at her watch. “Can you meet me at the apartment in a few hours? Little after five? I should have something for you by then. We can discuss it over a drink. Okay?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Wait, you’ll need the key,” she said, and reached into her handbag. “Oh, shit,” she said, “I thought I’d thrown them all out.” She handed him an open package of cigarettes. “Here,” she said, “smoke your brains out.” He took the cigarettes. She was still rummaging for the key. When at last she found it, she handed it across the desk and said, “See you around five.”

“Thanks,” he said.

“You look troubled,” she said.

He shook his head.

“What is it?”

“I’m just wondering. Could an OPEC schedule really have caused two murders? Three if we count the one at the airport?”

“You’re the cop,” she said. “You tell me.”

The man sitting in the straight-backed wooden chair was not telling anyone anything.

His name was Joseph Phelps.

Mazzi and Samuels had spotted him coming out of the Sutton Place apartment at a little after one o’clock, but before they could even get out of the car, he’d hailed a taxi and was on his way. They arrested him at Kennedy Airport, where he was in the process of buying a one-way ticket to Brazil.

Phelps was carrying in his suitcase close to three and a half million dollars in bearer bonds. Thirty bonds in hundred-thousand-dollar denominations. Five bonds in fifty-thousand-dollar denominations. Eleven bonds in twenty-thousand-dollar denominations. And one ten-thousand-dollar bond. The equivalent of three million four hundred and eighty thousand dollars in cash.

“I thought only Nazis went to Brazil,” Gianelli said.

Phelps said nothing.

“That was a good picture,” Mazzi said. “The Boys from Brazil.”

“Who owns these bonds?” Farmer said.

Phelps said nothing.

“What do you know about a timetable Peter Dodge stumbled across?”

Nothing.

“You want a cup of coffee?” Ruiz asked him.

No answer.

Ruiz shrugged.

Reardon was going through Phelps’s briefcase. In one of the side zipper pockets he found a folded sheet of paper.

“Well, hello,” he said.

He unfolded the paper.

Across the top of the page, he read the words:

“Here’s a schedule,” he said, and handed it to Farmer.

Farmer glanced down the rest of the page.

“But is it the schedule?” he asked.

“Who — or what — is Kidd?” Reardon asked Phelps.

Phelps said nothing.

“Let me have that phone book,” Reardon said.

Hoffman handed the Manhattan directory across the desk, and Reardon began leafing through it.

“Kidd,” he said aloud, his finger running down the page, “Kidd, Kidd, Kidd, Kidd... there’s at least ten of them.” He turned the book so that Phelps could see the page. “Know any of these people?” he asked.

Phelps said nothing.

“What do you think, Loot?” Reardon asked.

Farmer thought it over for a moment. Then he said, “Chick, you stay here with me, see if Mr. Phelps wants to tell us anything. You three split

those names between you, work ’em solo. Get movin’.”

The woman who answered the door was wearing nothing but a peignoir and high-heeled sandals. She was a good five-feet eight-inches tall, Reardon estimated, even without the sandals, which added at least two inches to her height. This was the third Kidd he’d visited in the past hour. He showed her his shield and ID card, told her he was from the Fifth P.D.U. and asked if she was Jessica Kidd.

“I am, yes,” she said.

“Would it be all right if I came in for a minute?” he asked.

“Please do,” she said, and smiled.

He followed her into the living room. Long black hair trailing down her back, pale blue peignoir over pale pink flesh tones, firm ass jiggling as she walked to the fireplace and stood with the flickering flames behind her, long legs silhouetted.

“Miss Kidd, would you happen to know a man named Joseph Phelps?”

The same question he’d asked all the others.

“Phelps?” she said. “No, who is he?”

“Does this look familiar to you?” he asked, and took from his pocket the sheet of paper he’d taken from Phelps’s briefcase.

She looked at it.

“Kidd Futures Schedule,” she said.

“Yes, Miss. Do you have any idea what that means?”

“I surely don’t,” she said.

“Or these column headings under it?” he said, and pointed to the line:

“This would stand for purchase date, wouldn’t it?” he said.

“I have no idea.”

“And this, of course, is Account...”

“Really, Mr. Reardon, I don’t...”

“And this would be silver lots, wouldn’t it? And ounces of silver. And the delivery month.”

“I never studied shorthand,” she said.

“Do any of these account names mean anything to you?” he said, and showed her the page again:

“Do I have to read all of this?” Jessica said. “Really, Mr. Reardon, I’m far too stupid to understand anything about business. My interests lie elsewhere, believe me. Lie?” she said, and wrinkled her nose. “Lay? I always get the two mixed up.” She smiled. “Would you care for a drink, Mr. Reardon?”

“No, thanks,” he said, and paused. “So you don’t know anything about this schedule, huh?”

“Nothing at all.”

“And you’re sure you don’t know anyone named Joseph Phelps.”

“Positive. Who is he?”

“A stockbroker. Never handled any accounts for you, huh?”

“Never.”

“Or anyone in your family?”

“Not that I know of.”

He looked at her.

“Sorry,” she said.

“Well... thanks, anyway, Miss Kidd,” he said, “I appreciate your time.” He turned toward the door. “Incidentally,” he said, “if anyone should ask about Mr. Phelps, he’s at the Fifth Precinct. Until we book him, anyway.”

“I can’t imagine who would ask,” she said, and followed him to the door. “Goodbye, Mr. Reardon,” she said, and opened the door for him. She locked it behind him the moment he was gone, and then went back into the living room. She turned the knob on the library door, opened it a crack.

“He’s gone,” she said, and turned on her heel and went to where she’d left the brandy snifter on the coffee table in front of the fire.

Sarge came into the room. He looked enormously troubled.

“He knows,” he said, and went immediately to where his coat was hanging in the entry hall.

“Not from anything I said.”

“No, you were very good. But he knows. Or is damn close to knowing.” He nodded. “Call Olivia at the Park Lane.” he said, buttoning his coat. “Tell her a dumb cop is about to blow this thing skyhigh. Would you do that, Jess?”

“Sure,” she said. “Where are you going?”

“I don’t want to lose him,” he said.

He kissed her on the cheek.

“I’ll be back,” he said.

He had told Sandy he’d meet her at a little alter five, so he went directly to her apartment from the last Kidd on his list, wondering how Ruiz and Gianelli were making out, wondering if Phelps had finally told Farmer and Hoffman anything. He lighted some candles, draped his jacket and shoulder holster over a wooden ladderback chair in the living room, and then started a cannel-coal fire. He poured himself a scotch, went to his jacket again, took his notebook from the inside pocket, and carried notebook and scotch to the beanbag chair. Sitting, opening the notebook, he sipped at the scotch and tried to make some sense of it.

Approx ten P.M. Sunday night, December fourteenth. Amin Abbas killed getting off the Washington shuttle...

Reardon sipped at the scotch again.

Approx eleven P.M. Sunday night, December fourteenth. Associates hijack ambulance, appropriate body, search for timetable, discover it’s missing.

He nodded, looked at his notebook again.

Lunch Monday, December fifteenth, say around twelve, twelve-thirty. D’Annunzio shows Dodge the timetable. Or maybe gives Dodge the briefcase Abbas left on the plane. Either way, Dodge is now in possession of the timetable.

Approx six o’clock Monday night. The Arabs kill Peter Dodge and recover the timetable. Seven o’clock, same night. The Arabs kill D’Annunzio because he’s seen the—

There was a sound at the front door.

“Sandy?” he said, turning. “It’s open.”

The door was indeed open. As he watched, it opened even wider. The person standing in the doorframe, however, was not Sandy. It was a man who appeared to be six-feet two-inches tall and two hundred and thirty pounds wide, give or take, someone who looked vaguely familiar though Reardon couldn’t imagine why. The man came into the room swiftly and deliberately, walking past the ladderback chair over which Reardon’s holster and jacket were draped, coming directly to where Reardon was trying to get up as quickly as he could from the low beanbag, reaching Reardon just as he managed a half-crouch, and punching Reardon full in the face with his huge clenched fist.

As Reardon tried to extricate himself from the beanbag yet another time, the man brought his knee up and into his jaw, and then hit him over the bridge of his nose with the clenched fist, wielding it like a hammer, whap, blinding little arrows of light splintering up into his head, and whap again, he is going to kill me. Reardon thought, before I even get out of this fucking beanbag! The man was bigger than Reardon, and stronger than he was, and he had cold-cocked him in the fucking dumb amoeba-beanbag chair that kept trying to swallow him. and Reardon knew that if he didn’t do something fast — why did police work always get down to having to do something fast? — the big guy would stomp him into the floor and throw him into the fire or out the window because this was playing-for-keeps time. This Reardon knew with every gram of intelligence he possessed.

He abandoned trying to stand up, gave up any idea of shoving himself up out of the beanbag, rolled out of it instead, onto the floor and away from a kick the big guy aimed at his head, rolling, rolling, the big guy following him until finally his back hit the wall on the other side of the room, and the big guy reached down for him and grabbed him by the shirt, and yanked him to his feet, and Reardon brought his knee up into his groin, and the big guy yelled and let go of his shirt. Reardon knew he had to get to the gun. This guy would kill him. he was too big and too strong. Reardon desperately needed his pistol. But it was in the holster across the room, and the big guy was between him and the holster, bellowing now in rage because he’d been kneed in the balls, ready to tear Reardon apart in anger now.

The anger hadn’t been there earlier. Earlier there had been only the methodical pounding and kicking, the certainty that brute strength would prevail, but now there was anger, and Reardon figured the anger would work better for him than it would for the big guy. Anger had a great deal of energy going for it — you didn’t start up with a guy who was angry because he could easily kill you with the power of his rage — but that’s all it had going for it.

Anger made you dumb.

Anger made you reckless.

Anger made you lose.

“Come on, you dumb fuck,” Reardon said, playing into the anger, dropping his hands at his sides and sticking his chin out, and then side-stepping to the left, ducking away as the big guy threw another punch at him. “Missed, you asshole,” Reardon said, and opened himself up again, balancing himself on the balls of his feet, ready to dart left or right depending on where the next angry punch — there it was, a sharp left jab, he pulled his head to the right, danced away, and grabbed the nearest candlestick by its stem.

The candle fell from the socket, hitting the floor, the wax breaking, the wick holding the pieces like a spinal cord, the flame snuffing out at once. Reardon swung the candlestick toward the big guy’s head, the base aimed at his left temple. A big hefty arm came up, diverting the blow, the candlestick base catching him on the left cheek and opening a cut there, nothing serious, nothing to stop him from reacting with a short, sharp, right-handed jab to Reardon’s gut.

“Ooof!” Reardon went, and the big guy fell upon him in earnest.

Now I die, he thought, now the son of a bitch kills me. His punches were angry, more powerful because of the anger behind them. He stalked Reardon like a trained killer — Jesus, is he a pro? Reardon wondered — battering him, pounding him, knocking over chairs and tables to get at him, slamming him against the wall and punching him when he bounced off the wall again, anger, anger — and then the mistake that anger caused. Shoved out at him, and closed in on him, both fists bunched for the kill, but shoved him in the direction of the chair with the gun slung over it, momentarily letting his anger get between himself and his own good sense, letting Reardon at the same time get between him and the gun.

A second was all Reardon needed.

He knew this holster, knew this pistol, this holster and pistol were old friends, almost lovers, he knew them intimately. The left hand grabbed for the familiar leather, the right hand closed around the walnut grip, and pulled, and the pistol came up out of the holster and into his hand, and Reardon leveled it immediately at the fucking charging bull who was only three feet away from him now, and he said, “Freeze, shithead!” and the big guy kept coming for a moment, almost as if he hadn’t heard Reardon, and Reardon thought This one goes to the morgue, but he said, “Freeze!” again, louder this time, and the big guy stopped dead in his tracks.

His eyes looked suddenly bewildered.

Anger draining out of them.

Reason returning.

Run.

Get out of here.

Escape.

“No,” Reardon said, and waggled the gun at him. “Turn around. Now! Do it!”

The big guy turned.

“Hands behind your back,” Reardon said. “Fast!”

The big guy put his hands behind his back. Reardon cuffed them at once.

“All right, who are you?” he said.

“Am I bleeding?” he asked. “My cheek?”

“I hope you bleed to death, you cocksucker,” Reardon said. “Who are you?”

“Get an ambulance!” the big guy said. “I’m going to sue you, Reardon! I’ll sue the city! I’ll...”

“Oh, you know who I am, huh?” Reardon said. “Okay, let’s see who you are. Sit!” he said, and shoved the big guy into the chair over which his jacket and the empty holster were still draped.

“These handcuffs are too tight,” the big guy said.

“Aw, gee,” Reardon said, and patted him down till he found the pocket with his wallet. “You know what assaulting a police officer’s gonna net you?” he asked. “Attempted murder? Do you know? Huh?” He opened the wallet. “Here we go,” he said, and began flipping through the celluloid inserts. “Arizona driver’s li...” His eyes opened wide in surprise. “Robert Sargent Kidd, well, well!” He lifted Sarge’s chin with the barrel of the gun. “Who are you, Mr. Kidd? Her husband? Her brother? Were you there when I dropped in on her?”

“Get me something to put on my cheek.” Sarge said. “I’m bleeding, can’t you see I’m bleeding?”

“Yes, I see that,” Reardon said, “what a shame. Why’d you try to kill me?”

“I didn’t.”

“No? You sure coulda fooled me.” He lifted his chin again with the gun barrel. “How’d you find me here?”

No answer.

“Did you follow me here?”

No answer.

“From your sister’s place? Is she your sister?”

“Yes.”

“Were you there when we were talking?”

No answer.

“Okay, Mr. Kidd,” he said, “I guess I’m going to shoot you.”

“No, you’re not,” Sarge said.

“Yes, I am,” Reardon said. “And then I’m going to take those cuffs off you, and I’m going to tell all the friendly cops who come up here that you attacked me and tried to kill me and I had to shoot you in self-defense. Cops don’t like people who try to kill other cops. Neither do judges.” He smiled pleasantly. “What do you say, Mr. Kidd?”

“Go ahead, shoot me,” Sarge said.

“Happy to oblige,” Reardon said, and cocked the hammer.

“I’ll be better off dead,” Sarge said.

“Oh?” Reardon said. “Why? Is someone apt to be annoyed by your little goof, Mr. Kidd? Assaulting a police officer?” He put the gun under Sarge’s nose, just over his upper lip, centered on it. “Who sent you here after me?”

“I came on my own. It was my own idea. Go ahead, shoot me.”

“Don’t rush me.” Reardon said. “Why do you look so familiar?”

Sarge said nothing.

“Robert Sargent Kidd.” Reardon said, staring at him. “How do I know that name?” He kept staring at him. “Are you a painter or something? Do you have something to do with painting?” Still staring, puzzled. “No, wait a minute, you sold some paintings. I saw you on television. You and your sister. Not Jessica, another one. What’s her name?”

“Olivia.”

“Right, Olivia. And I saw her on television again Sunday night. Your father just died, didn’t he? A stroke. You’ve been all over everything these past few days, haven’t you? Including me. Why’d you jump me, you son of a bitch? What are you afraid of? Did you hear what I said about Phelps? Is that what brought you here? The silver schedule?”

Sarge shook his head.

“Okay, pal. so long,” Reardon said, and looked down at the gun barrel. “One shot should do it,” he said. “Clean and...”

“Wait a minute,” Sarge said.

“I thought you were in a hurry,” Reardon said.

“I had nothing to do with any of it.”

“Any of what, Mr. Kidd?”

“Either one of them.”

“Are you talking about D’Annunzio?” A nod. “And Dodge?” Another nod. “You had nothing to do with ordering their murders, is that what you’re telling me?”

Yet another nod.

Followed by another, this one from Reardon.

“All right,” he said. “Who did?”

On the street outside, Reardon went into the first phone booth he found and dialed the squadroom. Hoffman picked up.

“Chick,” he said, “this is Bry. I’ve got a guy cuffed to the radiator in an apartment on First Avenue. Here’s the address,” he said, and read it off. “Have you got that? His name is Robert Sargent Kidd, pick him up, will you?”

“For what?” Hoffman asked.

“Try attempted murder. That may not stick, but he beat the shit out of me and it looked damn close, believe me.”

“I’ll run right over,” Hoffman said.

“Anything from Phelps yet?”

“Diarrhea,” Hoffman said. “All we had to do was start hinting at the three counts of homicide, he’s ready to trade us his mother. He’s been telling us some very interesting things, Bry.”

“Like what?” Reardon said. “Let me hear.”

He listened.

“Uh-huh,” he said.

He kept listening.

“Uh-huh,” he said. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Very nice. Good work, Chick. Very nice. I’ve been hearing some interesting things myself, we should have a full house down there in a little while. I’m heading for the Park Lane, I’ll be in Olivia Kidd’s suite, if you need me. Have you got that? Olivia Kidd. I’m not expecting any trouble, but give me a half-hour, and then send the Marines. Listen, don’t forget that guy chained to the radiator, huh? And be careful when you take off the cuffs, he’s a fuckin’ grizzly bear. See you, Chick.”

He hung up, felt in the coin chute for his quarter, shrugged, and then began walking toward where he’d parked his car.