14


THE MINUTE OLLIEwalked through the door of his apartment, the phone started ringing. He ran across the room, and was breathless when he picked up the receiver. Fats Donner was on the other end.

“I found your opera singer,” he said. “Where can we meet?”

Ollie named a pizzeria on Culver and Sixth; what the hell, he thought, kill two birds with one stone.

“And don’t bring your kindergarten class,” he said.

“I’ll pretend I don’t understand that,” Donner said, and hung up.

Ollie grabbed a bite from the fridge before heading out.

IF DONNER WASremembering correctly, this was the same pizzeria where two hitters shot and killed Danny Gimp not too very long ago. This made him uneasy. He dimly recalled that the killing had had nothing at all to do with the profession he and Danny shared, but it still made him nervous to be sitting here in a public place with a cop as conspicuously large as Ollie, especially since he himself was not all that invisible. Such a pair could easily attract attention, he figured, and wished he’d asked Ollie to meet him at The Samuel Baths again.

“So who is she?” Ollie asked.

“How’d you make out with Herrera?”

“So far, he ain’t worth the deuce I paid you, and I ain’t all over him like fleas, either.”

“Maybe you’re not such a good detective, dad.”

“Maybe I am. Maybe it’s your information that stinks.”

“Then maybe you don’t want to know who this opera singer is.”

“Maybe you’d like to give me her name free of charge, considering the Emilio Herrera stuff wasn’t worth shit.”

“He’s out there, all you have to do is find him. Do you want this on the opera singer, or do I walk?”

“Let’s have a pizza,” Ollie said.

They ordered two pizzas, not for nothing were they men of considerable girth. Ollie ordered another one, which they split. Donner was thinking Ollie would try again for a free ride here. He was right.

“So tell me her name,” Ollie said.

“I’ll need a hundred.”

“I already gave you two.”

“This is fresh information.”

“Like the last information was fresh, huh? Who has no record in the files and who I still can’t find on the street.”

“Maybe you’re looking on the wrong street.”

“Tell me why I should trust this new stuff?”

“Sure, dad. Number one, sheisan opera singer. Number two…”

“Shewhat?”

“She’s an opera singer. In fact, she’s currently doing a recital at Clarendon Hall. Are you familiar with Clarendon Hall?”

“Where the terrorists hit around New Year’s?”

“The very.”

“She’s singing there?”

“Right now.”

“Thanks,” Ollie said. “Then I won’t need her name.”

“You aced me, you fat hump,” Donner said, and bit into his pizza.

• • •

VERONICA D’ALLESANDROwas still onstage when Ollie got to Clarendon Hall at ten-thirty that night. He showed the manager his police identification and told him it was urgent that he speak to Miss D’Allesandro as soon as she came off. The manager thought this was about another terrorist attack.

Ever since the Israeli violinist was killed by a suicide bomber here last December, everyone in the city was on edge. The World Trade Center attacks hadn’t helped much, either. Nor had what happened at the Pentagon. This was a nation of people walking on eggs. You saw anybody who looked like an Arab, you wanted to call the FBI. Ollie hated Arabs as much as he hated Jews or anybody else in this world. Ollie was an equal opportunity bigot. He felt anyone who didn’t look or sound the way he himself did deserved a swift kick in the ass. The manager’s name was Horowitz, which Ollie would have considered a major coincidence if he’d been at all familiar with classical music, which he wasn’t. All he heard was a money-lending Jewish name, and suspected Horowitz would charge admission to go backstage. He was surprised when the man took him at once to the singer’s dressing room.

Veronica D’Allesandro looked like that lady in all the Marx Brothers films, Geraldine Dumont or whatever her name was. A pouter pigeon chest with pearls hanging down its front, her hair clipped close to her head in what used to be called a bob, a pretty face for a woman her age. Ollie told her how much he’d enjoyed her performance, which he hadn’t even heard, and then asked her if perchance she had purchased from a Jewish pawnbroker named Irving Stein a tan pigskin Gucci dispatch case…

“Why yes!” she said, her eyes opening wide in surprise.

Ollie figured he’d impressed her.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Miss Doll-a-sandri,” he said, “but that case was stolen and is…”

“No!” she said.

“Ah, but yes,” he said. “It is evidence sought in an auto smash-and-grab that took place on April twenty-second, the day before you purchased it.”

“Oh dear,” she said.

“I’m afraid I must reclaim that case,” Ollie said. “Would you happen to…?”

“But I paid for it!”

“Seven dollars, if I’m correct.”

He was already reaching for his wallet.

“Yes, seven dollars,” she said, shaking her head in wonder.

Ollie figured he was still impressing her.

“The Department is required to reimburse you for reclaimed evidence,” he said, which wasn’t true. “Would you happen to have the case here with you?”

“Yes. I bought it for my music. I was carrying my music in it.”

“An appropriate use, ah yes,” Ollie said, and counted out seven singles and handed them to her. “I hope you haven’t handled it too much, we’ll be looking for fingerprints.”

“Oh dear,” she said again.

“Yes, dear,” Ollie said, and smiled cordially. “The case, please.”

The Rêve du Jour Underwear Factory was a squat brick structure nestled among a line of similar but taller buildings on Riverview Place, at the edge of the River Dowd. I know you are familiar with many languages, Commish, this being a rainbow coalition city of many desperate or even disparate tongues. But in case you do not know what “Rêve du Jour” becomes when it is translated from the original Spanish, which runs rampant in this city, then let me give you a bit of assistance.

“Rêve du Jour” means “River of Joy.”

It was my guess, as I approached the building, that perhaps the owner or owners had derived the name from the proximate closeness of the factory to the river, but that was mere speculation, and detectives are not paid to speculate. Besides, a person—even a Spanish person—would never in a million years consider the Dowd a “river of joy,” since it was more polluted than an Irishman on St. Patty’s Day—no offense, Commish, just a little metaphor there, or perhaps a simile.

A girl with short black curly hair and dark brown eyes was sitting behind the reception desk. She was not wearing a bra, which was surprising to me since this was an underwear factory. I must tell you that it is very difficult for a girl to find a proper bra these days, which is perhaps why the young lady behind the desk wasn’t wearing one. The trick is to find something that enhances and supports simultaneously, but that also makes it look like you’renotwearing a bra. At the same time, it can’t be too revealing. That is to say, it shouldn’t show your nipples and all through your outer garments. That may sound like mere girl talk, but believe me, I spend half my off-duty time searching for the right bra to enclose and enfold my not inconsiderate breasts. What I’m saying is that either the girl behind the desk was not wearing a bra, or else she was wearing a very good bra that made it look as if she wasn’t wearing one.

I introduced myself to her and asked if I might speak to the owner of the establishment, please.

“Mais oui, madame,”she said, in what I took to be French, which surprised me, when one considered the Spanish origins of the company name. “Will you ’ave a seat, if you please?”

You have to understand that the reception room of RUF was decorated with mannequins of women wearing bras and panties and garter belts and slips and camisoles and merry widows in reds and blacks and whites and blues and pinks and even purples. I took a seat on a sofa behind which were life-sized photographs on the wall of young women modeling many of the items the mannequins around the room were actually wearing. In effect, then, I was surrounded by a sea of female pulchritude and vertiginous femininity, so to speak, partially though scantily dressed or undressed, that would have turned the heads of many of my colleagues up the squadroom. There are times I am grateful for my gender and not easily distracted, believe me.

I was here to learn why Mr. Mercer Grant, not his real name, had brought up the little matter of the RUF, which I wassupposedto believe represented an African group that called itself the Revolutionary United Front, but which—I had learned through the kind auspices of one Mortimer “Needle” Loop—actually stood for a Spanish lingerie company called the Rêvedu Jour Underwear Factory. I was here to learn whether or not the people who owned this place knew anything at all about the disappearance and possible murder of one Marie Grant, not her real name, or her relationship with her husband’s cousin, whose real name was also not Ambrose Fields.

In short, I felt I was hot on the scent of getting to the bottom of all this—no pun intended, Commish, in that the lady in the photograph behind me was bending over from the waist in a thong bikini that exposed her buttocks in a way that might have seemed enticing to many males.

I could have sworn the receptionist said, “Mercer will see you now,madame.”

But no, what she’d actually said was“Monsieurwill see you now,madame.”

She indicated a red door set between a photograph of a very tall leggy blonde wearing a white camisole and white lace panties and a very tall leggy brunette wearing a black bra and black lace panties. I opened the door and entered a hallway hung with similar photographs of similar models wearing lingerie and scarce else, and walked to another red door at the end of the corridor. I knocked on the door.

A voice I thought sounded familiar said, “Yes, come in, please.”

I opened the door and found myself face to face with Monsieur Mercer Grant.

He grinned, exposing the gold-and-diamond tooth at the front of his mouth.

“So, Detective Watts,” he exclaimed. “We meet again.”

And that was when someone hit me on the back of the head with something very hard, and I swam downwards into oblivion on a sea of utter blackness.

And that was all she wrote.

Or so Emilio thought.

A HASTY RAINbroke over the city early Monday morning, followed by a rainbow that took the citizens by surprise, causing them to follow its arc by eye, hopeful they would catch a glitter that would signify a pot of gold at its end. Ollie considered the rainbow a good omen. Surely, there would be fingerprints all over the dispatch case. Surely some of those fingerprints would be Emilio Herrera’s. And just as surely, a he-she hooker and petty thief would have run afoul of the law long before now; Herrera would have a record; Herrera would have a last known address.

Ollie immediately checked with AFIS to see if any of the prints triggered a hit. His own prints were on the case, and they came up in the system check. Well, of course; he was a law enforcement officer. There were prints on file for Veronica D’Allesandro as well; she was a resident alien, and the Immigration and Naturalization Service had taken her prints before issuing her a green card.

A match came up for someone named Thomas Kingsley, who had served in the U.S. Army during the Gulf War. A call to the Gucci store on Hall Avenue confirmed that he was the man who’d sold the case to Ollie’s sister.

There was nothing for Isabelle Weeks, thank God. Nothing for Irving Stein, either. Worst of all, there was nothing for Emilio Herrera. The man—or woman, as he would have it—was clean.

Ollie liked to think of himself as The Lone Wolf. In fact, he visualized himself as a predator of the night, all sleek and svelte and lithe. He did not like working with other people, perhaps because he knew they did not like working with him. This was because most people in this world, especially law enforcement officers, could not accept the utter frankness Ollie considered his most admirable character trait. Well, that was too damn bad, really. If they couldn’t cope with his special and praiseworthy brand of candor, a fart on them all, and to Tiny Tim a good night.

But there were times when he was obliged to deal with other people in the department, as for example when he’d needed the help of Hogan or Logan or whatever the fuck his name was, in bringing up those serial numbers on the murder weapon, never mind his two worthless spic assistants, Pancho and Pablo.

This was one of those times.

So he put in a call to Jimmy Walsh in Vice.

THAT SAMEMonday morning, Carella and Kling went back to talk to Josh Coogan again. This time, they found him in the youth-oriented offices of Councilman Lester Henderson, who seemed to be somewhat youth-oriented himself. Coogan seemed harried. Everyone in the late councilman’s offices seemed harried. Gee, that’s too damn bad, Carella thought.

“It occurred to us that of all the people in the auditorium that morning, you had the best overview of what was happening,” he said.

“How do you mean?” Coogan said, looking puzzled. “Overview?”

“You were up there in the balcony when the shooting started. You could see everything happening down there.”

“Well, so could the guy in the booth.”

“He had his mind on the follow spot. He had a job to do. You were simply observing.”

“No, I was listening to sound checks.”

“What did that entail?”

“Volume levels, clarity.”

“Required yourears,right?”

“Okay, I get what you mean.”

“So tell us what you saw that morning,” Carella said.

As Coogan remembers it, there was a buzz of excitement in the air because everyone was expecting Henderson to announce his run for mayor at the rally that night. He’d been upstate all weekend, and it was no secret that he’d met with the Governor’s people and also with someone from the White House…

“We didn’t know that,” Carella said.

“Well, that was the skinny, anyway. The whole team was on his side, was the impression I got. So naturally…”

…if the man was going to announce he’d be making a run for the mayor’s office, everyone wanted everything to be just right. They’d worked with Chuck Mastroiani before, and they trusted him to make sure the place looked suitably patriotic and partisan, but he was nonetheless bustling around down there on the stage, ordering his crew to put an extra tuck in a draped bunting or supervising the placement of a fan so that an American flag would ripple with just the right amount of vigor. Coogan himself was in the balcony listening to what was coming from speakers around the hall while Mastroiani’s audio guy kept repeating the same sentences over and over again at the mike behind the podium. This must have been ten-fifteen, ten-twenty, they’d all been working since nine o’clock or a little after…

“What time did Henderson get to the hall?” Carella asked.

“Around nine-thirty.”

“Was he alone?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was there anyone with him?”

“No. He was alone.”

“Okay, so it’s now ten-fifteen or so…what happened?”

“Well, Mr. Henderson was rehearsing his entrance…”

…striding on from stage left toward the podium, the follow spot on him all the way, raising his arm in greeting the way he would do it tonight, stopping when he reached the podium, starting to turn to face out front when the shots came. Six shots in a row, bam, bam, bam, and Henderson was falling, it almost looked like slow motion, the follow spot on him as he went down to the stage. Mastroiani yelled, “Kill the spot!” and when the guy in the booth was too slow to do that, he yelled again, “Kill that fuckin’ spot!” and the light went off. Alan yelled, “Stop him! Get him!,” something like that, and went running off the stage to the right…

“He didn’t tell us that.”

“Yes, he went running off with Mastroiani and some of his crew following him. I went downstairs the minute I realized what had happened. By the time I got on the stage, Alan and the others were already coming back. The shooter had got away clean.”

“Where’d they look for him?”

“In the building, I guess. Wherever. I really don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

“Younever got a look at the shooter, did you?”

“I didn’t even know from which side of the stage the shots had come from.”

“Well, it was stage right,” Carella said, “we know that. You didn’t see anyone standing there in the wings shooting, did you?”

“Not a soul. I was watching the audio guy behind the mike.”

“What happened then?”

“Pandemonium. Everyone yelling at once. Alan told me to call the cops, which I’d already done, by the way…”

“You’re the one who placed the call to the Eight-Eight?”

“Well, no, I didn’t know what precinct we were in. I just dialed nine-one-one.”

“When was that?”

“The minute I got downstairs and realized Mr. Henderson was dead. I called from my cell phone.”

“Where were the others?”

“Still out in the hall, chasing whoever had shot him. In fact…”

Coogan hesitated, shook his head.

“Yes?” Carella said.

“Alan was pissed off that I’d placed the call without first consulting him. I mean, the guy is laying there dead, his sweater all covered with blood, I’m supposed to wait forclearanceto call the police?”

“What’d he say?”

“He said this was a delicate matter, I shouldn’t have taken the initiative on my own. I told him I didn’t know what to do, there’s a dead man here, I assumed we’d want the police notified at once. Anyway, it was academic. By the time he finished yelling at me, the police were already there.”

“He was yelling at you?” Kling asked.

“He was upset, let’s put it that way. He’d just gone running all over the building trying to find whoever had done the shooting, and now an insubordinate little twerp had taken action on his own.”

“Is that what he called you?” Carella asked. “An insubordinate little twerp?”

“No, those are my words. But that’s probably what he was thinking.”

“Did you talk to the responding officers?”

“Just to tell them I was the one who’d made the call to nine-oneone. Most of the time, they were shmoozing with Alan. Till all the detectives got there, anyway.” He hesitated a moment and then said, “I assume you never got anything more from that witness. Right?”

“What witness?” Carella asked at once.

“The old bum.”

“What old bum?”

“The one the blues were joking about.”

“Joking? About awitness?” Carella said.

“Well, they were telling Alan about this drunk they’d talked to outside the building.”

“Yeah, what about him?”

“The guy said he’d seen someone running out of the alley.”

“Hewhat?”

“He saw some…”

“Awitnesssaw someone running out of the alley?”

“That’s what the blues were saying, anyway. But he couldn’t have.”

“What do you mean he couldn’t have? Why not?”

“Because the alley he saw the guy coming out of was on the wrong side of the building. Alan told them straight off this was impossible. He’d just finished chasing the killer all over theotherside of the building.”

Carella was thinking that the gun had been found on the wrong side of the building, too. He was thinking that maybe the killer was a magician. Or maybe stage right and stage left were meaningless when it came to murder.

“Thank you,” he said, “we appreciate your time.”


Загрузка...