Masquerade for Murder

Chapter Two

Velda and I lived in the same apartment building, but in separate digs on separate floors. We were a couple in every way except a diamond ring and a marriage certificate, but part of me was set in my bachelor ways with my own quirky mode of doing things.

For instance, I usually only spent the night with her on weekends. That was our wacko way of keeping work and play separate. And even then I would go down to my own pad to shower and shave, then make a breakfast for both of us, and she’d come down and join me.

Weekdays, she had her own schedule, heading to the office early, catching a bus. I would sometimes walk, sometimes run the ten blocks to the Hackard Building, changing out of sweats into fresh clothes I kept at the office. Certain mornings I worked out at Bing’s Gym, taking a cab there and, later, to the office. It all had a rhythm, a regularity to it, that seemed random unless you were keeping track.

What never (or anyway rarely) changed was Velda getting in at the office on the eighth floor of the Hackard before me. She would get the coffee going (Dunkin’ Donuts brand, the only way to fly) and organize any materials or matters that needed going over by either or both of us — client phone calls, insurance reports, letters, invoicing, bill-paying, appointments that took me out of the office, the routine stuff that doesn’t make it into these write-ups.

My job was to pick up fresh Danish at the little restaurant around the corner. I would bring two, eat one and a half, and Velda would gorge herself on the remaining half. Like I told that redheaded hostess at Pete’s the night before, my secretary/partner was watching her figure.

And what a figure.

This morning, like so many mornings when I came in through the pebbled glass door that said MICHAEL HAMMER INVESTIGATIONS, I was suspicious that Velda had heard my footfall in the hall and assumed the position, bending over to access a lower drawer of her file cabinet, presenting that world class fanny of hers for my inspection and delight. Her attire this morning was typical — a black pencil skirt and a pale blue silk blouse.

“Good morning, Mike,” she said, without even looking.

“How do you know I’m not that guy who came in and crowned you not long ago,” I said, depositing the bag of Danish on the little table under the window at left where the coffee maker bubbled. “He put you in the hospital, remember?”

She stood and, a file folder in hand, smiled at me as I climbed out of the Burberry (but not cashmere) coat and walked back toward the door to hang it and my Dobbs hat in the closet.

“Don’t you remember, boss?” she replied smoothly. “You killed that son of a bitch.”

She rarely used terms of endearment at work. Separating business and pleasure, like I said.

“I remember, doll,” I said, “and it was a fucking pleasure.”

I did use terms of endearment at the office.

I went over, got myself some coffee — she had a cup already poured — and doctored mine with milk and sugar. Then I put my Danish and a half on one paper plate and her half on the other, and delivered both to her desk, where she was heading with the folder.

Velda had come to work for me within a few months of my opening this office — in this very space; it had been remodeled but still looked like it was 1952. You could almost say the same about Velda. She was near my age but looked fifteen years younger. Maybe twenty. Guys half her years goggled at her in the street, and it didn’t make me jealous, just proud.

She was tall, even in the flats she wore at work. Her raven hair was cut in a style-defying, shoulder-brushing pageboy that had auburn highlights in it now, her big brown eyes set off by light brown eye shadow, the dark long eyelashes needing no help from Maybelline, her lush lips glossed a sultry burgundy. That classical hourglass shape was supported by long legs, muscular in the dancer’s sense, and full high breasts on loan from the young Jane Russell.

“You know what I love?” she asked.

“Me?”

She was gliding behind her desk, opposite the entry of an outer office just big enough to accommodate some reception chairs on either side and our little coffee and snacks table under the left-hand window. Behind her desk and to the left a little was the door to my inner sanctum.

“What I love,” she said, nodding to the client’s chair opposite her, “is reading something fresh and new and exciting about you in the paper. Something you haven’t shared with me. You know how I adore surprises.”

She was pushing this morning’s Daily News at me, open to page three, already turned so that I could read it. After all, she already had.

The headline across the top of the tabloid page, the copy taking up a third of the page, was WALL STREET UP-AND-COMER STRUCK DOWN. Two photos of Vincent Colby — a close-up portrait shot and a candid of him and some society gal at a gala event — accompanied the article.

I set my coffee cup on Colby’s puss. “I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

She wiggled a finger with a burgundy-painted nail at the paper. “You’re an eyewitness, quoted and identified.”

“Right. I’m that fabled innocent bystander you hear so much about.”

She grunted a laugh, then reached for her half a Danish and nibbled on it like a mouse at cheese still in the trap. “And you’re identified as, ‘Michael Hammer, venerable private investigator whose numerous self-defense pleas in justifiable homicide cases have vexed the New York State court system for decades.’”

“That should drum up some business anyway,” I said through a mouthful of pastry. “Venerable means older than shit, doesn’t it?”

“Yes it does,” she confirmed. “It also says the hit-and-run victim was seen earlier talking to you and a certain captain of Homicide at the restaurant. What about?”

She was pissed — mildly pissed, but still pissed — because I hadn’t called her last night or first thing this morning to fill her in. She is understanding in ways I could expect no woman ever to be with me, but reading about me in the paper, finding out about something in that fashion and not directly from me, frosted her tail but good.

So I filled her in.

No heat was coming off her at all now, other than what was generated by those good looks that I never got used to or took for granted.

“You really were just a witness,” she said, mildly surprised. “An innocent bystander.”

“Innocent as a new-born babe, that’s me.” I leaned back in the chair, coffee cup in hand. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not on the spot.”

“It doesn’t?” She had this ability to suggest a frown without wrinkling her forehead much, if at all; one of her beauty maintenance secrets. “Why not?”

“Hit-and-run is a crime.”

“Let me write that down.”

“It’s a crime, and I was at the scene. Furthermore, I was observed talking to the victim, in the company of that ‘certain’ captain of the Homicide Division. You may have met him — Patrick Chambers?”

“I believe we have met, yes,” she said archly. “So how does any of that put you on the spot?”

“Somebody important almost got killed, under my nose. I will be expected to do something about it, else look like a chump.”

Her smile would have been as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa’s if Da Vinci had put some smugness in the picture. “You have a rather rarefied opinion of yourself, Mr. Hammer. This isn’t the old days when you were filling the tabloids so colorfully — mostly red.”

I gestured with my cup toward the paper. “The Penta thing got play.”

“Yes, and after you killed that bastard, both the News and the Post did those nice retrospectives about your ‘wild exploits’ back in the days of Howdy Doody and Milton Berle. You know what that makes you?”

“A celebrity?”

“Nostalgia.” She tapped the page three. “Nobody expects you to solve this. Anyway, it’s an accident. Not attempted murder.”

“We don’t know that.”

She studied me. Velda had me down so well, she didn’t have to study long. She put a dozen words of question into just one: “What?”

I sipped the coffee. “Something’s off about it.”

“About the hit-and-run?”

“Yeah.”

“The News says young Colby narrowly escaped death. Do you have any reason to think somebody targeted him for a kill? Are you thinking you may have a well-heeled client on the hook? You’re not usually one for ambulance chasing.”

“Maybe I’m Ferrari chasing.”

The big brown eyes narrowed. “You know, Mike — Mr. Wall Street Hotshot’s reputation is pretty darn stellar. Colby is generally thought, around town, to be a good guy. Attends, and even occasionally throws, charity events. That AIDS benefit on Broadway last month? That was him.”

I sighed. Shook my head. “Truth, kitten? Something about that accident stinks. It had a staged look, a phony feel.”

She turned her head and looked at me sideways. “You mean faked?”

“I don’t know what I mean, frankly. He got hit all right, and his two Wall Street cronies hauled him off to the hospital. Maybe staged in the sense that it was no hit-and-run accident, but a murder attempt. I told you Casey Shannon mentioned two suspicious deaths Colby was at least on the fringes of.”

“And you think Shannon may’ve been investigating him, related to one or more of those deaths? Fine. So talk to Shannon.”

I shook my head. “If he’s working under deep cover for somebody over Pat’s head, Casey won’t give me a glimmer. Or if it’s personal, he’ll keep that close to his vest. No, I think the one to talk to is Vincent Colby.”

That widened her eyes. “If he’s up to having visitors.”

“If he isn’t,” I said, getting to my feet, “I’ll talk to his doctors. If he’s suffered some injuries, then maybe I’m all wet about that thing being staged. And he may need help at that.”

I was in my hat and coat at the door when she called out to me, still at her desk.

“Thanks for dropping by,” she said.

I had been to Bellevue Hospital many times, but never — as some might imagine — so I could be admitted to the mental ward. Still, you could go mad in certain quarters of the place. You could get spit on by prisoners in cuffs and orange jammies as you passed by, and you could pause to watch a dope addict slug a doc and make a break for it while nurses and guards hustled after him to save their jobs. You could glance through doors into featureless rooms where the homeless had finally found a place to die, or others where addicts were shrieking and writhing. Down the hall, an undocumented Haitian might be dying of AIDS, looking like something out of a zombie flick. Yes, you could drive yourself stark staring nuts without trying at all in the lower reaches of the city’s flagship hospital.

But I was not in a circle of hospital hell on this visit. I was headed to an upper floor in a wing funded by the likes of Vincent Colby’s family. I’d stopped in the First Avenue lobby at the information desk to pick up a visitor’s pass. I described myself as a friend and that’s all it took. Visiting hours were eight to eight, and it was just after nine a.m. now.

With my hat on and my coat over my sleeve, I stepped onto an elevator, and when I stepped off, I just about ran headlong into Sheila, the curvy redheaded hostess from Pete’s Chophouse.

You might figure she wouldn’t look as good this time of morning, making a hospital visit, and it’s true the fluorescent lighting wasn’t as flattering as the low-key illumination at the supper club. But the green-eyed beauty — in a denim jacket, pink sweater and jeans today — had the same lovely face with the Bardot mouth, now with blush on her cheeks and watermelon eye shadow to make her seem younger and more in tune with her generation’s style than last night’s green evening dress when she was playing hostess to dinosaurs like me.

One touch remained the same: she still had flesh-colored makeup applied to hide that shiner some son of a bitch gave her.

“Mike!” she said.

“Sheila. Am I that frightening?”

She smiled, laughed a little. “No, it’s just... always funny to run into somebody in another context, y’know? I never saw you anywhere but Pete’s. Or in the paper or on the TV news.”

I gave her half a smile. “I know what you mean. For example, I’ve known you for several years, but I never caught your last name.”

“It’s Ryan.” She gestured down the hall. “Are you here to...?”

Nodding, I said, “Stop by to see how Mr. Colby’s doing. I saw that hit-and-run go down, y’know. I take it that’s why you’re here?”

“It is.”

I gestured to a nearby nook where a patient’s relatives and friends could sit and wait and read ancient magazines. “Got a minute?”

“Sure.”

We shared a two-seater couch.

I asked, “How’s the patient doing?”

She shrugged. “A little groggy from the meds, but I think he’s doing all right. A doctor’s in with him now. You’re a friend of Vincent’s?”

“Not really. Just met him last night. He stopped by our booth to say hello to Casey Shannon, who we were throwing a little retirement party for, as you probably picked up on.”

“Oh yes, the ‘Wall Street Cop.’” Her eyes narrowed. “Is he some kind of financial expert or something?”

“Hell no, just a copper who worked that part of town and, in so doing, got to know some of the Stock Market crowd.” I gave her the whole smile now, but didn’t push it. “I’m going to ask you a nosy, none-of-my-business question.”

Her head bobbed back and her smile got just a little wary. “You are, huh?”

I shrugged. “I’m a professional snooper by trade. You know that. And I witnessed a crime last night. So I can’t help myself. I get interested.”

Sheila returned the shrug. “I guess that makes sense.”

“Are you two an item, Ms. Ryan?”

She shook her head. “No, we’re just... friendly acquaintances?”

“Are you asking me?”

“No, of course not. I just meant... I know him from the restaurant. He’s a patron, a frequent one.” Her shrug only involved one shoulder. “He’s good-looking, very smooth, charming, and he likes to joke around with me. Just a fun flirt. Nothing more.”

“Maybe. But I couldn’t help noticing he seemed more than just casually interested in you.”

Her mouth smiled but her forehead frowned. “You are a snoop, aren’t you?”

“Definitely. Has Colby ever asked you out?”

“No! We’re just friends. Friendly.”

“Yet you’re here visiting him at the hospital, first thing in the morning.”

She leaned toward me, as if speaking to a backward child. “Mr. Hammer, I know him from the restaurant. He got hit by a car outside that restaurant! I was just being... polite. Nice.”

“Did your boss ask you to stop by on the restaurant’s behalf?”

“No. I just thought it was... you know, the right thing to do.” She stood. “Mr. Hammer, I have a hair stylist appointment to get to, if you don’t mind.”

I stopped her, gently, with a hand at her elbow. “Ms. Ryan... Sheila. Was Colby responsible for that black eye you’re trying, not very well, to hide?”

The green eyes flashed down at me. “No! Really, Mr. Hammer. You’re out of line now. I told you, we are not... how did you so quaintly put it? An ‘item.’ Anyway, I’m... never mind.”

“You’re what?”

“I’m already in a relationship.”

I got to my feet and now I was looking down at her and her puffy eye. “With somebody else who gave you that mouse, you mean? What, that bartender? You promised me last night you were breaking it off with your abusive boy friend, I just figured it might be Colby.”

Her teeth were clenched; they were small and white and pretty. “You were right the first time.”

“I was?”

“This is none of your fucking business!”

She marched off quickly to the elevator and stood there, steaming a little, while she waited for the car.

I sat back down and frowned and tried to figure out why the back of my neck was tingling. This really was none of my business, fucking or otherwise. I had no dog in this fight. No client, no money riding.

When had that ever stopped me?

The girl was gone, but a doctor was exiting a room just down the hall, pausing to make some clipboard notes. I got up and made it down there in time to confirm that he’d emerged from the room whose number identified it as Colby’s, the door to which was closed.

“Excuse me, doctor,” I said, when he’d finished his notations and was about to resume his duties, and noticed my presence for the first time. His name badge said DR. MARTIN CORNELL. He was about forty with short dark hair, a trim matching beard and alert but distant brown eyes behind wireframe glasses.

“Yes?” he said, with as much patience as could be expected from a man as busy as he no doubt was.

“I’m a friend of Mr. Colby’s,” I asked. “Would I be out of line asking how he’s doing?”

He thought about that for a moment, then apparently decided sharing his patient’s condition would do no harm. “He suffered some bruises. Considering the circumstances, he’s a lucky man indeed.”

“Great to hear. I was at the scene.”

“Were you?”

“Yes, and he was complaining about a head injury, right after the incident. That’s what was worrying me. Vince and I go way back, you see.”

That seemed to mildly amuse the doctor. “Well, you must go back a ways, if you call him ‘Vince.’”

“Oh?”

“He made it clear to me, in no uncertain terms, that he prefers to be called Vincent.”

I grinned. “Yeah, I don’t let him get away with that crap. When I knew him, we called him a lot worse than ‘Vince.’ So is it a concussion, or...?”

“Mr. Colby has all the common symptoms of a concussion, yes — headache, dizziness, coordination problems, he’s had some nausea and vomiting, blurred vision, sensitivity to light, sensitivity to noise, and so on.”

“How serious is it?”

He flipped a hand. “Oh, we’ll be releasing him later today. The effects of concussion are usually temporary, recovery complete. I’m only concerned about... well, nothing.”

“Doctor. Please. Maybe I can help.”

He thought about that, then surprised me by putting a supportive hand on my shoulder. “I don’t know Mr. Colby. He was not my patient before today. But you should be aware — so that you’re not alarmed or react in a way that would disturb him — that your friend may be suffering from one of the less frequent effects of concussion.”

“What’s that?”

“Behavior or personality changes.”

“Really.”

“Can you tell me... what is your name?”

“Hammer.”

“Can you tell me, Mr. Hammer — is Mr. Colby usually known to... fly easily off the handle, let’s say?”

“No. He’s known to be quite self-composed.” At least that was my understanding.

One eyebrow rose above the wireframes. “Well, right now he’s showing some definite ill temper. Not that ‘ill temper’ is a common diagnosis of mine. But it’s evidenced here. His father came by earlier — his mother is deceased, I understand — and I informed the older Mr. Colby of this. But he’d already witnessed as much, and obviously seemed disturbed by it...” He sighed, lifted both eyebrows this time, then said, “You can see him now.”

“Thank you, Dr. Cornell.”

He went off and I went in.

The room was private, not surprisingly, and spacious. Some flowers, quite a few really, had already made their way here, lining a windowsill and finding room on a nightstand. Vincent Colby wasn’t hooked up to any hanging bottles with tubes stuck in him or anything, and he was propped up, casually watching CNN on the high-mounted TV.

“Yes?” he said, squinting at me as I stood at the half-open door.

“Mike Hammer, Mr. Colby. We met last night at Pete’s. I was just checking to see how you’re doing. I saw that red hot rod try to make a speed bump out of you.”

He smiled, gave me a curled-fingered gesture. “Sorry, I didn’t recognize you — vision’s a little fouled up... it’s like I’m looking through dirty glasses. Come in, Mike. And Mr. Colby is my father — I’m Vincent.”

I walked to his bedside. He looked much the same, tan and fit, though the curly hair was a dry dark tangle now. He had a reddish-blue hematoma on his forehead, over his left eye.

“My secretary,” I said, “is accusing me of ambulance chasing, coming around here. But really it’s just my damn curiosity getting the best of me. As usual.”

He was squinting at me again, or maybe that was a wince. “What got you curious? It was an accident, wasn’t it? Not that I wouldn’t like to get a hold of that son of a bitch!”

He demonstrated with clawed hands. And the eyes weren’t squinting now.

“Yeah,” I said with a grin, “I been there. You may have heard that I’m kind of known for settling grudges in my own way.”

He smiled. “Are they exaggerating?”

“Understating. Look, I’m told I have a nose for certain things — murder, for example.”

“I don’t seem to be dead, Mike.”

“Well, this snout of mine can also sniff out attempted murder. Do you have anybody in your life who might like to see you turned into a stain on the pavement?”

He risked a small shrug. “I suppose I have enemies. Work and private life alike. But not that kind of enemy. No. Not at all.”

“Well. You think about it. Just don’t think yourself into an even worse headache. But if there’s something I can do for you, say the word. I can leave a card if you like.”

He grinned; even in this lighting, it was dazzling. “Are you sure you aren’t ambulance chasing?”

I grinned back. “Pretty sure. You mind if I ask you something?”

“Won’t know till you do.”

“Out in the hall, I ran into the hostess from Pete’s — Sheila Ryan. Are you two... anything?”

He started to shake his head and then the pain of that stopped him. “No. We’re just pals. I’m a regular and she’s a cute kid. Joke around. Flirt. You know how it is.”

I worked up a lascivious grin. “I just figured, guy like you, good-looking, with all that bread, and here she’s just working at a mid-range restaurant...”

He frowned. “Figured what?”

“I don’t know. That she might be on the make. I know I wouldn’t be immune to that.”

“To what?”

“That ripe a piece of tail.”

Colby jerked upright and both of his hands made fists out of themselves. “Watch what you say, Hammer! Or I’ll feed you that tough-guy reputation one tooth at a time!” He grabbed my card off the nightstand and flipped it at me. “Stick that up your ass, you fucking prick!”

I raised both hands. “No offense meant.”

I slipped out into the hall, shutting the door behind me, grinning to myself.

“Thought so,” I said.