Masquerade for Murder

Chapter Five

The next morning, behind the door with CAPTAIN PAT CHAMBERS, HOMICIDE DIVISION lettered in gold-outlined black, I was sitting across from my old friend in his painfully modern, glassed-in office at One Police Plaza. I was sipping coffee laced with my usual milk and sugar, my coat and hat hung up with his on a metal tree. We were waiting for a call from a guy he knew on the Accident Investigation Squad.

With his own cup of coffee going, black, Pat was in shirt sleeves and loose tie, and he was scratching at his blond head of hair as he studied me. Cops were wearing their hair way too damn long for my taste these days.

“Mike,” Pat said, leaning back in the old anomaly of a brown-leather swivel chair he’d brought over with him from the ancient Centre Street HQ, “you stay up on things. Always seem to know what’s going on in your field. Right on top of whatever new tricks the bad guys are up to.”

“I try, buddy. Thanks for noticing.”

Then came the zinger: “So how is it you’re so backward when it comes to making use of modern technology?”

My laugh was short but not sweet. “What are you talking about, Pat? I have a top private forensics lab where I can get things checked out when need be. I have connections with the FBI and CIA and alphabet soup guys you don’t even know exist, and all their resources. I consult with top security company experts. And I have an in with a high-ranking cop who gets me access to what I need from his lab and other sources. Maybe you saw him in the mirror this morning.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“What do you mean, pal?”

He gestured vaguely toward me with his free hand. “You and that old service model .45 you carry. M1911, referencing the year that antique dates to. The so-called ‘Colt Government.’ It’s big, it’s heavy, and you haul it under your shoulder like something out of an old black-and-white movie. Hell, man, why don’t you go over to Frielich’s and get yourself something state-of-the-art? You can afford it.”

For a couple of seconds I just looked at him, then let out a grunt, uncrossed my legs, set the coffee cup on his desk, and sat up.

Then I slipped my hand inside my jacket, under my left arm, and slid the piece free of the holster. I regarded the weapon. The bluing was thinning out, the butts were well-worn, and the edges of the thumb rest were nicked. But it had that satisfying machine-clean oily smell and felt alive in my hand.

“It’s like me, man,” I said. “An oldie but goodie.”

Still leaning back, Pat was grinning as he flipped his jacket back to pat the S & W .38 in the speed rig on his hip.

“Modern technology,” he said. “You should give it a try.”

“Why?” I tossed him a nasty grin. “Think you could out-draw me, Pat?”

Smirking, he said, “What, you figure this is the Wild West or something?”

“You bet your ass I do. You’ve been out on these streets. You know how the stats read.”

His eyebrows flicked up and he shrugged. “No argument, buddy.”

“Anyway, you’re forgetting something.”

“I am?”

“Sure. The old western gunfighter rule.”

His grin reversed itself. “Which is?”

“Don’t ever try to out-draw a guy who already has a gun in his hand.”

I let him have a look down the big hole at the end of the barrel, watched him as he sucked in a breath, then I chuckled and snugged the gun back in its leather womb.

Pat waited a second before he breathed out and said, “Damn, Mike, the old gunfighters also said never draw a gun unless you intend to use it! Man, you’re a real pisser — you scare the hell out of me sometimes.”

“Just sometimes?”

The phone rang and Pat grabbed the receiver.

The call didn’t last long, but most of the talking was on the other end, while Pat leaned forward jotting on a notepad and saying “Uhhuh” now and then, till he thanked his guy and hung up.

He rocked back. “Guess how many red Ferraris there are in the greater New York City metro area.”

“I don’t know. Twenty?”

“You’re close — three-hundred-and-twenty. Four-hundred-and-seventeen, state-wide.”

I grunted something that was almost a laugh. “More people have dough than I thought. And decent taste.”

“Do I have to tell you what that means?”

“Red’s a popular color?”

But we both knew what it really meant was that although the case was still in the Active pile, the hit-and-run outside Pete’s Chophouse a little over two weeks ago was already a dead issue.

I asked, “Didn’t those dicks come up with anything?”

He smirked again. “I’m gonna give you the benefit of the doubt that by ‘dicks’ you mean detectives. They did, actually. Several eyeball witnesses saw that red sports car hauling ass from the scene. Mud-smeared plates, fore and aft. A bearded guy with a pony tail, which is what you saw, right?”

“Right.”

“Not enough to identify him.”

“Not enough to identify him. Anything else?”

Pat sipped more coffee, nodded; beyond the windowed walls the bullpen murmured with slow-moving but constant activity.

“Yeah, there is,” Pat said. “We know the guy turned left on Lex and sideswiped that newsstand on the corner. Paint samples were gathered, so if the right red Ferrari gets itself found, out of those 320 or 417, we’ll have our man.”

You had to know Pat as well as I did to pick up on the sarcasm in his tone. I felt sure the NYPD would dig into this hit-and-run with a victim out of the hospital the next day — just as soon as they got through tracking down the Star of India that was stolen in 1964.

I wasn’t saying anything, because I knew something Pat didn’t, or anyway had forgotten. But my silence and my expression were enough to jog his memory.

Eyes narrowing, he said, “That’s the newsstand on the corner of Lexington and 44th.”

“Is it?”

“That little midget they call Billy Batson, who runs the stand, he witnessed another hit-and-run, what? Twenty years ago?”

“Did he?”

“Kind of a pal of yours, isn’t he?”

My shrug maybe tried a little too hard. “I pick up my magazines there. By the way, all midgets are little.”

“Thanks a bunch for the intel.”

“No trouble.”

Pat sighed. “Y’know, Mike — most detectives hate coincidences. I hate coincidences. But you seem to thrive on them. Hell, you seem to attract them.”

“You mind if we change the subject to something besides what a disappointment I am to you?”

“Do I have a choice?”

I leaned forward, set my empty coffee cup on his desk. “Is there a number where Casey Shannon can be reached? You told Velda that he’s shacked up with some old honey of his somewhere in the Florida Keys.”

Nodding, Pat said, “That’s what his last partner, Chris Peters, told me... but Chris also said Casey left specific instructions he didn’t want to be bothered.”

“Meaning he didn’t leave a number. How about an address?”

“Not that I know of.” The gray-blue eyes narrowed. “Why?”

I sat back in my chair. “Shannon said he ran into Vincent Colby during the course of two separate suspicious-death inquiries.”

“I remember that conversation,” Pat said, nodding again. “But he didn’t indicate Colby was a person of interest, much less a suspect. I thought you said you were working for his old man — Vance Colby, the Wall Street big shot.”

“I am.”

“So whose side are you on in this thing?”

“What thing?”

Pat closed his eyes. Then he opened them and said, “Sorry. I should have remembered that you’re only interested in truth and justice.”

“Don’t forget the American way.”

“Do I need to remind you what your rich client hired you to do?”

“No.”

But he did anyway: “You’re looking to find out who was driving that red speed buggy, and bring him in.”

“That’s the job.”

Pat leaned forward. “In other words, Vance Colby has hired you to do what the entire New York Police Department and its considerable resources aren’t capable of?”

“Why, how do you think they’re doing?”

He lifted a forefinger and waggled it at me. “I’m guessing you think that accident was no accident. That it wasn’t a hit-and-run, but a hit period... one that didn’t take.”

“I’m looking at that, yeah.”

He raised two open hands, as if he were holding them out to catch somebody but didn’t care if it worked. “A hit for what reason? I know a lot of people who would like to kill their brokers, but I doubt very many go through with it.”

Now I leaned in. “I’m not looking into that side of it, Pat. The old man has specialists in high finance on that score. I’m strictly digging into young Colby’s personal life.”

Pat shrugged. “Well, I told you — Vincent Colby’s clean. I think there may have been some youthful indiscretions, but if so, they’ve been expunged. That happens under certain circumstances even if you aren’t wealthy.”

“Which the Colbys certainly are. So, Captain Chambers... should I talk to Chris Peters or do you want to do it?”

Half a smirk settled in a cheek. “To see what Chris knows about those two suspicious deaths somehow tied to our boy Vincent? I can handle that and get back to you. You don’t even have to remind me that I work for you, civic-minded tax-payer that you are.”

The sky looked as cold and gray as the towers of commerce crowding it, my breath smoking like I hadn’t given up Luckies all those years ago. Winter really seemed to be getting ahead of itself and if snow started in, before the leaves were off the trees in Central Park, I was going to be pissed. I had the trenchcoat lining in and a wool suit on, the porkpie squatting on my head keeping my head warm but not the sun out, because there wasn’t any. I couldn’t quite bring myself to putting on gloves, but you can bet my hands were in my topcoat pockets.

At his newsstand on the corner of Lexington and 44th, Billy Batson was bundled up, too, in his striped red-and-black stocking cap, green plaid woolen scarf, padded quilt jacket, gray flannel trousers, and high-top sneakers. But his cotton gloves had the fingertips cut off so he could handle with ease change and paper money, too.

Like Pat had said, Billy was a midget, but as little people went, this one was on the tall side, and the next time you see The Wizard of Oz, see if you can’t spot Billy looming above the rest of the Munchkins — no joke, he’s there. He’d been one of the famous Singer Midgets before plowing his showbiz dough into this newsstand half a lifetime ago.

Billy’s last name wasn’t actually Batson, of course — though I had no idea what it really was. Back in the fifties, he’d had the finest newsstand display of comic books on any Manhattan street corner, and still did, though Spider-Man and The X-Men had long-since banished Blue Beetle and Black Cat. So it was no surprise that Billy’s nickname was Captain Marvel’s secret identity, since that’s who newsboy Billy Batson in those funny books would turn into after crying out, “Shazam!”

But the Superman people had sued Captain Marvel out of existence in the early fifties, breaking the real-life Billy Batson’s heart. Then, not long ago, the company that killed the character revived him themselves, and boy, was Billy proud. He gave those new comic books prime display space and those who knew the significance (sometimes out-of-town comic book collectors who had heard of the real-life Billy Batson) would come by to have him autograph the latest issue of what was now called Shazam!

Billy was a wizened little guy these days, even more so than years before, his mug a swirl of wrinkles swallowing up his features; but his eyes were bright and his dentures white, and not much got past him.

“Got the new Guns & Ammo and Ring for ya, Mike,” he said, reaching under his counter for the “pull” mags. “Playboy, too. Little lefty for you these days, ain’t it?”

“Do I look like I buy it for the articles?”

Those dentures flashed. “Then should I maybe put Cavalier back on the list?”

“Naw, it’s got a little raunchy for my taste. Anyway, I got better at home.”

The bright eyes twinkled. “I’ll say ya do! How is Velda?”

The modest-sized man had a giant-sized crush on Velda.

“Big and beautiful and mine, Billy,” I told him, accepting the magazines and paying him for them. “Don’t you get any ideas.”

He got my change for me, the bills from his cash register, the coins from the changer at his waist. “You can’t stop a guy from havin’ ideas, Mike! Say, we got somethin’ in common.”

“Besides being in love with my secretary?”

“Yeah! I read in the News you was a witness to that hit-and-run a few weeks back! Some rich Wall Street guy, huh? Hurt bad, was he?”

I shook my head. “No, he’s fine. But that’s why I’m here. The cops from the Accident Investigation Squad talked to you?”

His eyes got big. “Yeah. I damn near got hit myself, y’know!”

“I didn’t know.”

He sold a Times to a customer, then resumed his tale, gesturing melodramatically. “I was packin’ up for the night when that buggy came screamin’ around the corner, up and over the curb, sending me divin’ for cover, and takin’ a piece of my stand with it. Mags knocked all over hell!”

“Show me.”

He walked me over. The left side of his stand, just below the display counter, had some rough grooves in it and a chunk of ancient wood was gone, revealing a lighter shade, a fresh wound in its aged hull.

I asked, “Did they hit the headlight, or more like scrape the side of the car?”

“Front right headlight, Mike. And I heard the glass shatter. I told the cops that, but neither one wrote it down. Maybe they got good memories.”

“What did they do?”

“Took some paint samples,” Billy said, then smirked and shook his head dismissively. “But they was half-ass all the way.”

“Yeah?”

He sold a Sports Illustrated to a guy, then held his hands out, palms up. “I tried to tell ’em! They wouldn’t listen. You know, I’m short, not stupid! That was a special Ferrari, Mike, I told ’em it was! But they just made me for some old kook.”

I put a hand on his shoulder. “That’s not my opinion, Billy. What was special about it? There’s no shortage of red Ferraris in this town, I’m told.”

He was shaking his head before I even finished. “That wasn’t just any Ferrari, Mike.” He waggled a forefinger at me. “I’m into sports cars, you know.”

That put some wild funny images in my brain, but I didn’t let my grin get out of hand. “Really.”

“Really.”

The little guy sold a New York magazine and some Certs to a pretty young woman.

“Yeah,” Billy said, rather grandly, “I read damn near all the periodicals. News, sports, People, Variety, you name it. I’m my own best customer! I just never buy anything. I never miss Car and Driver, Motor Trend, hell, even Hot Rod. I told those dumb cops I was a expert! They just laughed and said, ‘Sure you are, Pop.’”

Billy had me sold — both that those cops were dumb and that he wasn’t, not about cars anyway.

So I asked, “A specific Ferrari how, Billy?”

He wagged a forefinger at me. “That was a F40. Built to satisfy Enzo Ferrari’s dyin’ wish — ol’ Enzo said he wanted to create the best car on planet earth! He took his cue from the 288 GTO — know it? That F40’s one fast, powerful ride, my friend. Did you notice the spoiler on the back of that baby, when that guy got clipped?”

“I did,” I said, nodding. “Takes away from the sleek look of it. But I could learn to live with that, if somebody gave me one for Christmas.”

“Well, without that spoiler, Mike, in a ride with a top cruisin’ speed pushing 200 miles per hour like that? It wouldn’t be a bullet took Mike Hammer out, but metal and fire and asphalt. It’s simple aerodynamics, y’know. No spoiler and you could take off like a rocket — goin’ straight up! And what goes up, goes you-know-where.”

He sold another Times.

I put a hand on his shoulder again. “All the years I’ve known you, Billy, and I never picked up on you being a car buff. What do you drive, anyway?”

I figured it would be bad taste to ask him if he had to use blocks for his feet to reach the pedals.

Billy Batson batted the air, made a face, which with that mug was saying something.

“Oh, hell, Mike, I can’t drive! Never bothered to learn. What’s the point, in the city?”

I took Velda out for lunch at Charlie’s Deli. It was one of those gimmick places with lots of ’50s nostalgia by way of Elvis on the jukebox, vintage advertising signs on the walls, and gum-snapping waitresses in poodle skirts.

But the food was authentic, even if the atmosphere was ersatz. Velda had a salad with chicken and I chowed down on a pastrami, corned beef and Swiss on rye, coleslaw on the sandwich. Billy might be right that it wouldn’t be a bullet that took Mike Hammer out.

I filled her in on my conversation with Pat, and shared what I’d learned from Billy, including that the pride of Singer’s Midgets still had a tall yen for her.

“Opinion,” I said, between bites.

She shrugged. “I think I’ll stick with you, Mike. Billy has a nice business going there, but you may make the grade one of these days.”

I tried not to smile and failed. “No. I mean, do I share what Billy told me with Pat?”

“That the Ferrari in question is a special model? Possibly rare?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s what a good citizen would do.”

“So — no, then.”

She smiled, spearing a piece of broiled chicken from the salad. “I didn’t say that exactly. But you’re not wrong. If Pat goes to the Accident Squad clowns who caught the hit-and-run, they might track those leads down... maybe... but who knows what they’ll do with it, if they do?”

I sighed deep. “It’s been over two weeks. That ride’s had its bodywork done on the q.t. by now. Maybe the NYPD’s finest will prove it’s been worked on, but even so, we’re still looking at a hit-and-run with no real description of the driver, no license plate number, and a victim who spent a single night in the hospital.”

“Right. Or,” she said, and chewed chicken, then swallowed it, and continued, “I can call my contact at Motor Vehicles and ask her to run a check on how many... what’s that model called again?”

“An F40.”

She shrugged; her silk blouse was pink today and she did a bang-up job filling it. “I could call my friend and see how many red F40 Ferraris are in Manhattan, and the state of New York. I’ll also ask if either one has been reported stolen, and then perhaps turned up on the street somewhere, either with some slight damage or no damage at all... because it was repaired before being dumped somewhere to be easily found.”

The Platters started singing “Only You,” and they could have been talking about Velda.

“I oughta marry you, doll,” I said.

“You think?”

The answer was two.

Two red F40 Ferraris in Manhattan, and that constituted every one of them in the state of New York.