Masquerade for Murder

Chapter Thirteen

The Meatpacking District on a Sunday night was dead, the businesses for which the area took its name shuttered till tomorrow, the weathered buildings wearing graffiti like scars. Refuse blew down the cobblestone street like tumbleweed except where slowed by fetid-surfaced puddles.

No inhabitants were showing themselves. Even the underground gay scene with its leather shops, bathhouses and notorious sex clubs (The Manhole, The Hellfire Club) were, like God Almighty, taking a day of rest or anyway a night of recuperation. The rain stopped yesterday but the sky was still a dirty gray, not ready to turn loose of the world below. The block where Velda and I had visited the bustling movie location was a sinister ghost town now, the production having moved on.

My farmhouse visit had been Friday and yesterday was a day of prep, for what I faced tonight. The only development on Saturday had been the press reporting that the Ulster County Sheriff’s Department, operating on an anonymous tip, discovered four bodies in a farmhouse, carnage that appeared to be the result of a falling-out among thieves.

The spate of bank robberies in upstate New York was being tentatively tied to this event, according to unnamed sources within the PD, and the whereabouts of the rented farmhouse’s occupant, Harold P. Strutt, were not known. Meanwhile, New York State Police were looking for Strutt, who had a criminal record and whose 1978 white Camaro’s license number was included in the All Points Bulletin seeking him and it. Identification of the other fatalities was being withheld, but registration of vehicles at the property matched identification on the bodies of the shooting victims. No fingerprints were found at the scene other than those of the victims and the missing occupant.

Velda, reading the Daily News in her pink terrycloth robe at her kitchen table over a breakfast I’d cooked, gave me an arched eyebrow. “Sounds like you had fun last night. You got in at what... four?”

“What you don’t know can’t hurt you.”

“Risk it.”

So I filled her in. I hated making an accessory out of her, but it couldn’t be helped — I would need her with me on the next phase of the job.

Nibbling at a naked slice of toast, she said, “Then it really is Vincent Colby who’s our killer. It’s not a frame job.”

“Not a frame job, no.”

She gestured with a crust, fairly insistently. “What I don’t understand is... why? Does Silver Spoon get his kicks out of murder? Is he some uniquely twisted spin on the serial killer concept? And why would he stage his own hit-and-run?”

I shrugged as I chewed my toast with its butter and strawberry jam. Politely swallowed before saying, “There’s method to his madness, doll. Vincent Colby worked out at that Yuppie gym with sensei Sakai, got himself fit and learned some moves. He trained with a stunt man until he knew just how to roll with that Ferrari’s punch. No, he knew just what he was doing.”

“Fine. But, damnit, Mike — again... why?”

I smiled; the jam was sweet. “I think I know. Won’t be easy to prove, though.”

“Since when do you need proof?”

“Since I promised Pat.”

She nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I get that. Casey Shannon was Pat’s friend. And you owe the guy that much. So how do we make that happen?”

I told her.

Her eyes seemed to have forgotten how to blink. “That’s a little out there, isn’t it?”

“Open to suggestions.”

She had none.

And she wasn’t with me Sunday night, while I waited outside the warehouse where that little Satan’s spawn actress got saved several times by a movie star named Burt. Me, I was in costume, trenchcoat and hat and .45 in its speed rig, ready for my starring role as a hardboiled dick. The rod had a fresh shiny new barrel, the old one tossed down a sewer, having left its signature all over the dead guests at that farmhouse.

The lonely, ugly street, with its puddled cobblestones and crumbling brick and filthy sidewalks, made the perfect setting — even in color, this was a black-and-white movie. The only sign of life besides the occasional scurrying rat were the lights of the Florent a few blocks down, a coffee shop with great burgers and zany drag waitresses and a clientele out of Fellini.

A cab rolled up and its passenger climbed out with easy confidence. Vincent Colby — in a black silk t-shirt, lagoon blue two-button blazer, and loose matching slacks — paused to give the hackie a C-note, which explained how he got the guy to come here. The cab made its exit quickly, as if its driver knew being seen in these parts on a night like this would be embarrassing or maybe dangerous.

Young Colby strolled over, hands in his pockets, casual, a little smirky, the long, rather feminine eyelashes and product-dampened dark curly hair reminding me (as I’d observed the first time we met) of a Roman Emperor. I’d wondered if he was more Julius Caesar or Caligula.

Now I thought I knew the answer.

We didn’t bother with a handshake.

“What’s the joke?” he asked, hands on his hips now. He was smiling but irritation was in it.

“I didn’t know there was one.”

He gestured with contempt to his surroundings. “Why meet here, Mike? In the asshole of the city?”

“Privacy. Not exactly paparazzi around. Hey, can you think of any place more out of the way?”

He shrugged, smirking again. “Coney Island off-season. Which is now.”

“I didn’t think of that. You should’ve suggested it, when I called.” My turn to shrug. “This’ll have to do.”

I went over and unlocked a door with a key I’d borrowed and gestured for him to step inside.

He did, and froze as he took in a room full of darkness but for a card table and two chairs in a circle of white courtesy of a spotlight beam from a klieg light high up.

He muttered, “What in the shit...”

I put a chummy hand on his shoulder. “They were shooting a movie here last week, and I visited. They haven’t picked up some of the equipment yet. Thought this might be fun.”

His sideways look included a curled upper lip over perfect teeth. “Fun?”

I gestured grandly. “I know how you like theatrics, Vincent. Melodrama. Well, that’s disappointing. Thought you’d get a kick out of this place. More mood than anything the Tube offers up, that’s for sure. Except for maybe the Dungeon Room.”

He pointed to the table and chairs in the spotlight; they almost glowed in the otherwise stygian space. “What is this?”

“We’re going to talk. Just the two of us. Unseen by anyone or anything, but for the ghosts of dead steers and butchered pigs and slaughtered lambs.”

He started to bolt but I had him by the arm.

“No,” I said, fingers tight on his sleeve. “You’re staying. We have a lot to talk about. Your cab isn’t waiting, remember? None out there to flag down, either.”

“Hammer...”

“And you don’t want me talking to anybody else, before you hear what I have to say... do you?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Do I have to drag you?”

He shook his arm from my grasp. “No.”

“Good. After you, then?”

He looked stricken, but then he swallowed, straightened and complied — whether from fear, curiosity or both, I couldn’t say. At any rate, he strolled into the darkness, hands in his pockets again, heading toward the circle of light and the waiting table and two chairs. I followed close, but not too close. The last time I’d been in the dark with him, he’d tried to cave my little chest in.

The lighting gave us both an ivory cast, and the situation an unreal feel. Our chairs were opposite each other, as if I were about to tell his fortune.

Maybe I was.

I said, “I will make you a promise.”

“Will you?”

“Let me put your mind at ease. I’m not greedy. I have no interest in any ongoing blackmail. You will pay me a flat fee, for services rendered. Considering your tax bracket, it’ll be cheap at twice the cost. One hundred grand. You spend more on your yearly fitness club fee.”

His chin came up. “You’re right. I can afford it. But what I can’t do is imagine what you could have to sell to me.”

I tossed a hand. “Just your life.”

His head went back an inch.

“Well,” I said off-handedly, “there’s no death penalty now. But your life of luxury, your exciting career of high finance, your clubbing and your latest conquest and your fun little hobby of killing people... which I think has been going on longer than anyone might imagine, except perhaps the late Casey Shannon... all that will be over.”

“Will it.”

“Yes. But they’ll love you inside. Good-looking boy like you. My advice is, partner up right away, with some big strong bruiser — you don’t want to get passed around. And you probably know about soap and showers.”

He thumped the tabletop with a forefinger. “If you have something to sell me, Hammer, put it on the table.”

“What I have isn’t tangible. It’s the results of my investigation into your hit-and-run and the various killings that followed.”

He huffed a laugh. “You can’t use anything you may have found. You work through an attorney, so you’d be violating the client confidentiality privilege.”

“Not at all. Oh, it’d be shaky ethically, I grant you... but you’re not my client, Vincent. Daddy is.”

His blank expression was all the response I got, or needed.

“Your first line of defense,” I said, “is not terribly impressive. You have alibis for the killings of Kraft, Jordan, and Mazzini. All performed over the span of a few days, by the way, and that is impressive. But back to your alibis. Your father? Your current squeeze? Weak, Vincent. Thin. Parents, wives, lovers, the most worthless alibis in the book. Now, you may be rich enough, successful enough, respectable enough, to make that play, just the same. I mean, I’ll bet your pater would hire one hell of an attorney. Gerry Spence, maybe. How about F. Lee Bailey? Dershowitz would be perfect!”

For the first time a frown had its way with that smooth skin. “Why would I need a defense lawyer? I didn’t do a damn thing.”

I raised a gently lecturing forefinger. “What’s interesting to me, Vincent, is that while you’re clearly deranged, your victims are never random, as is so often the case with someone who gets off on murder the way you do. No, you always pick out someone... deserving. Someone who’s done you dirty — like Sheila Ryan’s abusive ex, for instance. Or like the prostitute who blackmailed you... oh, I know, I know, not established, but that will come out. And I’m guessing Roger Kraft tried to squeeze more money out of you, too, although you may just have been tying off a loose end. And Shannon — a decent man, but he hounded you unmercifully even after he was no longer a cop. Why should you have to put up with that? By the way, did he have anything? On that floppy disk you stole, I mean... and after all the trouble I went to in finding it!”

He stood. “That’s enough of this bullshit. You don’t have anything to say that even vaguely interests me. There’s a coffee shop a few blocks from here. I’ll call for a ride from there. Goodbye, Hammer. I’ll tell my father to fire you first thing tomorrow.”

I raised a “stop” palm and smiled. “Sit down and I’ll tell you what does impress me. Not your pitiful line-up of alibis. No. I’m talking about your Plan B, Vinnie. You don’t mind if I call you Vinnie, do you? It’s a better name for a murderer than ‘Vincent’ — unless your last name is Price, maybe.”

He thought about it. Then he smoothed his jacket — Armani again, I’d wager — and sat. “Plan B...?”

“Yeah. That’s what the hit-and-run fakery was about. You really trained for that — getting into shape with a ten-degree black-belt sensei. Really going for it, learning techniques from an actual movie stunt man.”

“I don’t know any movie stunt man.”

“Sure you do. Oh, I admit I don’t have anything on those earlier kills — the secretary you undoubtedly raped and strangled, and the broker at your firm you ran down in that parking ramp. How many like them have happened over the years? Now, how you used the hit-and-run episode — that was cute.”

“Cute?”

I corrected myself: “Ingenious. You devised a Plan B that covers every murder since you had your personality-twisting concussion. You played it to the hilt, the whole Jekyll and Hyde bit — plenty of witnesses to your uncontrollable outbursts to contrast with your otherwise normal behavior. I saw it myself, more than once. All the time you logged with doctors, who assigned meds, which I bet you didn’t take, and constant psychiatrist visits... that’s the Plan B — the groundwork for the insanity plea from the best lawyers Daddy’s money can buy. Might take a year or two before convincing doctors you’re well. Maybe you’d stage another accident with a blow to the head that ‘cures’ you. Clever. Sicker than hell, but clever.”

Colby had started smiling halfway through my little speech. Then he stood and began to clap and laugh, the laughter sounding crazed to me, ringing off the brick walls.

He leaned toward me, hands on his thighs, his smile mocking. “I hear a bunch of theorizing, Hammer. I don’t see a scrap of evidence. And I haven’t confirmed a damn thing you’ve said, and why should I? You want a hundred k for that?”

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing I don’t want, and it’s a hug. I know how that kind of hug can end up. Of course, the last time you tried it on me didn’t work out for you. You got flipped on your ass.” I gave him a nasty smile. “Here’s a tip — don’t wear a distinctive cologne to a killing. Detectives pick up on subtle little clues like that.”

But for the tiniest curl of his upper lip, he was expressionless. “You have nothing.”

“No, I have something.” I was nodding. “I really do.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes. You see, we aren’t alone.” I gestured behind me. “I have a friend in the darkness who’s helping me. And making an audio recording of all this.”

His single “Ha!” rang off the rafters from where the light was coming. “What do you have... besides your raving, your ranting, and your stupid suppositions? I haven’t admitted to anything. And I’m not about to.”

I got out the .45. “Sure of that?”

His smile disappeared but he remained calm. “Quite sure, Hammer. You waving your phallic symbol around to make up for your shortcomings does not impress me.”

“Did you happen to read the papers yesterday? Catch the TV news, maybe?”

“What if I did?”

“It must have caught your attention. I’m referring to the coverage about your other accomplice — you remember, the one you haven’t killed yet?”

He reddened. About time. “You are out of your fucking mind, Hammer.”

“So some people say. Vinnie, I’m talking about Harry Strutt. Your stunt man instructor. You must have seen it — made page three of the News — four dead bodies in that farmhouse where Harry lives. I wonder who could have killed them?”

His eyes widened.

I went on: “They were a notorious bank robbery crew, you know. Some spirited citizen performed a public service, I’d say.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you would.”

“Funny, though — your buddy Strutt wasn’t one of the victims. He must have got away.”

“Good for him.”

Another spotlight came down from above and its glow fell on a new member of our little cast. Maybe ten feet from us — bound into a chair, legs tied to the rungs, hands behind him, in a gray sweatshirt and sweat pants — was a familiar figure, easily identified despite the duct tape gag over his mouth and his bloodied, battered face.

“Harry!” Colby blurted.

I walked casually over, perhaps five feet from the newcomer. “You won’t have to kill him, Vinnie. That wouldn’t be deserving. You see, he was true to you. Loyal as the day is long. No matter what I tried, he refused to talk. He just would not sell you out. Still, he is a loose end and that’s a problem. So I’ll take care of it for you.”

I fired at the bound man’s chest — two shots whose echoing roars rang in the vast space, as the impact shook him in the chair, blood exploding out of him, two red flowering bursts in front but, in back, twin geysers carrying globs of bone and gore into the darkness, making little thumps and thuds and splishes on the floor, tiny things not at all commensurate with the big damage done.

Colby was on his feet, his arms and hands outstretched, as if there was something to be done, but there wasn’t.

I fired once more, this time at the man’s head, and a soupy slop of gray, red, and black splashed out his opposite temple, a small black hole appearing on the nearer one.

The bound figure slumped now, lifeless.

I grinned, nodded back at the slumped figure in the chair. “Your pal didn’t think I’d do that.”

I thumbed back the hammer on the .45 — the click seemed to fill the big room — and walked back over to Colby.

“Of course, Harry Strutt was lucky,” I said. “He went fast. You? You’re going to get it nice and slow... arms, legs, then your belly, where it takes a good while, but don’t worry, you won’t pass out — you’ll have plenty of time to think about what you did to a good man named Casey Shannon.”

He was shaking now, like a bad dancer at the Tube. “You can have your damn money!”

I laughed. “No, Vinnie, that was just theater! Melodrama, my man! But it did get your attention, didn’t it?”

“You bastard!”

“I get that a lot.” I shoved the gun’s snout into his belly. “Time to die, you psychotic son of a bitch...”

“No! No!”

My narrowed eyes looked into his wide ones. “Unless...”

“Unless what?”

I stepped back, the gun no longer in his belly. My voice was the essence of reason.

“Unless,” I said, “you’d care to confess. With that on tape, I would have options. We could talk real money... regular payments...”

His eyes went wild, his so-white teeth bared. “I’ll confess, goddamn you! I’ll tell you everything!”

I stepped away and folded my arms, gun still in hand. “I’m listening. Sit your ass back down. And we’re recording.”

He spilled. Spilled everything, except for the two earlier murders. I let him have those. These four kills would be enough. And Jasmine Jordan had been blackmailing him, as I’d thought, foolish girl. Kraft had wanted more money, too. Foolish man.

“That’s all,” he said, exhausted.

“Lights!” I said.

The lights came up on the huge, mostly empty room, the bricks, the catwalks, the spots hung above, all came into sharp relief.

African-American hands, never really tied (they had controls to work), came around from behind the chair in which the “dead man” sat; then Thalmus Lockhart pulled the tight-fitting prosthetic mask off his head. He’d made the mask right there at the farmhouse, utilizing the corpse of Harry Strutt, who had split his skull when he fell, hitting that projection TV.

All it took was Vaseline, alginate, plaster tape, gypsum-base plaster, sulfur-free plasticine clay, gypsum slurry, and genius. And the bullet hits and squibs and gore effects had gone off perfectly.

To say that Thal and I were even now — for me getting him out of that barroom manslaughter beef — was an understatement.

Gotta love movie magic.

Colby was on his feet again, his eyes wide, his mouth making a sex-doll “Oh!”

Revealed also, now that darkness had been banished, was Velda at a table with a cassette tape set-up, and a big microphone pointed at us like a gun. Nearby was a borrowed NYPD video camera that Chris Peters was running — Chris was not here, if anybody asks you. A Homicide captain, say.

“You can go now,” I told Vincent, returning the blanks-filled .45 to the shoulder holster. “You’ll be hearing from the authorities. Now would be a good time to talk to your old man about countries without extradition agreements with the USA.”

Any sane man would have run for the door and taken advantage of that generous offer. But, as we know by now, Vincent Colby wasn’t sane and instead chose to lurch at me, and grab me by my head with both hands, like he was clutching a soccer ball to kick. As he tried to yank me down, to deliver one last crushing knee blow to the chest, my hands gripped his neck and I jerked and twisted. The result was the loudest snap anybody ever heard, its echo rivaling the .45 shots.

He collapsed into a fashionable Armani-clad pile of dead.

“No sensei taught me that,” I told the corpse.

Velda was right there, hugging my arm. “Looks like he really did have a temper.”

Chris called, “Mike — the camera was rolling. It got everything, including... uh, what you just did.”

I shrugged. “Well, it makes backing up my self-defense plea this time a snap.”

Velda didn’t laugh at that — neither did Chris or Thal. Tough crowd.

But I took the opportunity to talk to the camera and offer an embarrassed smile.

“Sorry, Pat. I tried.”