Masquerade for Murder

Chapter Six

That afternoon I found myself, more than a little unexpectedly, back on the thirty-seventh floor of the Financial District building that housed the offices of Colby, Daltree & Levine. Once again I moved largely unnoticed through the boiler room of cold-calling young brokers basking in that green aquarium luster of computer monitors. The murmur of hard sell pretending to be soft sell followed me as I made my way through.

I took the right toward the row of glassed-in offices of the Yuppies who had climbed up a few rungs; in that central, twice-the-size office for the CEO’s son, company president Vincent Colby, the massive desk was unattended. Off to my left was a receptionist, a blonde babe in a red blazer with shoulders wider than mine, her tresses up, her glasses round-framed and big-lensed, the better to see me with.

She was seated at a small dark-wood desk and looking formidable for a girl of maybe twenty-two.

“I’m Mr. Hammer,” I said.

A mouth worth looking at, its deep-red lipstick outlined in black, smiled in a businesslike fashion. “Mr. Owens is expecting you. May I take your coat and hat?”

“Sure.”

She did, stowing them in a nearby closet, then returned to her desk and used her phone to say Mr. Hammer was here. She listened, said, “Yes sir,” and hung up. Very sweetly she told me, “Just knock and you’ll be admitted.”

“Should I say Joe sent me?”

She frowned in confusion. “Why would you say that?”

“A joke. Little before your time.” Damn. I had to get newer material.

“Knocking will be sufficient,” she said, and gestured toward a specific office; her nails were the color of her mouth. Even with a doll like Velda at home, I couldn’t help wondering what being twenty years younger for an afternoon would be like.

Off to my right, down the hall of exec VP offices leading to the CEO’s, another receptionist was looking my way — the old man’s forty-something guardian at the gate, that no-nonsense brunette in the black-framed masculine specs. Snugly curvy in a brown striped power suit, the Ice Queen with the glass-cutter cheeks apparently remembered I’d been a welcome guest yesterday, because she granted me a slight nod and slighter smile.

I grinned and waved at her enthusiastically like a kid from a back seat. It actually made her smile broaden a little and maybe she even stifled a laugh. You still got it, Hammer, I thought — if they were over forty, anyway.

The inhabitant of the office labeled WILLIAM J. OWENS, MANAGING DIRECTOR saw me approaching — a blond Yuppie under thirty in the mandatory shirt sleeves and bright suspenders (dark orange). He was just hanging up his phone, and motioning me in.

I did so.

He was handsome in a Beach Boys Go to College way, hair tousled on purpose and frozen that way with product. His eyes were blue and heavy-lidded, making me think grass not coke was his likely recreational drug of choice; his nose was misshapen as a result of a break or two that indicated he had once been athletic. Maybe he still was. His mouth was small and clenched. If I were a cruder man, I’d say it reminded me of an anus.

“Mr. Hammer,” he said, half-rising, extending a hand for me to shake. I did. It was slippery. He gestured for me to sit in the client’s chair. I did.

“Appreciate you seeing me, Mr. Owens,” I said, “at such short notice.”

When he spoke, the little mouth sort of blew a kiss; combined with the other thing that orifice reminded me of, that was disturbing.

He said, “I was intrigued when I heard who it was. Who you are. My father used to get a kick out of reading about you in the papers, back when you stirred things up around town.”

I just smiled and nodded. Everybody’s father seemed impressed with me.

He sat forward, cocked his head and folded his hands; on the low-slung cabinet behind him, a trio of green monitor screens glowed, their cursors pulsing. “What’s this about my Ferrari?”

Yes, one of the two F40 Ferraris in Manhattan had turned out to belong to an employee of the Colby brokerage firm — this young exec, in fact.

I had called the other F40 owner, an attorney named Randall with Weiss & Lambrusa, a firm with a pricey Broadway office and a big reputation. The attorney had told me that his vehicle was housed at a private garage and that he’d used it just this past weekend. It hadn’t been stolen and he had not noticed signs of damage. I took down the information about where he stowed the wheels, to see if somebody there might have “borrowed” the Ferrari.

But that could wait.

An F40 owner who worked at Colby, Daltree & Levine seemed a more logical priority, and a higher one.

Despite what Captain Chambers had said about my thriving on coincidences, really I was just as wary about them as the next detective. I just didn’t view every coincidence as an impossibility or, for that matter, a conspiracy.

After all, this young exec had a high-paying enough job to be one of that elite group of Manhattanites who could afford to own a Ferrari F40.

I had made this appointment by phone through that Red Riding Hood out there. The receptionist had checked with Mr. Owens while I waited on the line; all she had available to pass along were my name and my desire to talk to Owens about his Ferrari. I hadn’t expected that paltry info would lead to him getting on to talk to me directly, and was surprised when I got the go-ahead to come around. Right around, if possible.

Which I had.

“Obviously you’re aware,” I said to my mysteriously cooperative host, “that your associate, Vincent Colby, had a narrow scrape with a hit-and-run recently.”

His shrug was a tossed-off thing. “Of course. And I’m relieved, all of us are, that Vincent wasn’t badly hurt, although... well, we’re all relieved.”

I put an ankle on a knee. “If you were about to say that you’re concerned about the aftereffects of his concussion, that’s no surprise to me. I’m working for Vincent’s father, looking into the ‘accident.’”

The tiny mouth tightened. “Yes... I know.”

I frowned. “Vance Colby told you?”

Owens widened his eyes but they didn’t lose their sleepy look. “Well... I work closely with Vincent. He’s more the big-picture guy around here. I’m essentially the office manager. We’re friends since college. Not a lot of secrets.”

“So you know about his fits of temper.”

His laugh was abrupt, cutting itself off. “Recent days, I’ve been on the wrong end of them, yes, a few times. And let me tell you, Mr. Hammer, this is something very new, and most disturbing. I’ve known some cool cats in my time, but few cats are as cool, and collected, as Vincent.”

“That’s the impression I got from his father. Losing that cool of his seems out of character for Vincent Colby.”

The blond broker squinted at me, as if trying to bring me into focus. “So what’s the connection here between Vincent’s hit-and-run and my Ferrari? You can’t be implying that it was my car that gave him that narrow escape. My F40 is in the shop and has been for a good month.”

That didn’t mean someone else couldn’t have used it.

But I kept that thought to myself and instead asked, “Did Vincent mention to you that a red Ferrari was the vehicle in question?”

Frowning, nodding, Owens said, “He did, actually. He... he even kidded me about it. ‘Where were you at the night of November whatever-it-was?’ But, Mr. Hammer, there must be a hundred red Ferraris in New York!”

“Actually, four hundred and seventeen.”

His head rocked back a little. “Wow. Well, I admit I’m surprised. I thought I was in rather select company.”

“You are. There are only two F40s in Manhattan.”

His eyebrows went up; they were so blond, they were barely there. “Oh. Well. I can see why you’re here, then.”

“Would Vincent be familiar with your car? Has he ridden in it?”

With a slow, thoughtful shake of his head, Owens said, “No. Not that I can think of... no, never.”

“You said a few moments ago you’re friends.”

Now he nodded, giving it a little more than was necessary. “We are. But we work together. Rarely socialize these days. And when we do, it’s in the city. The only time I drive that car in town is when I’m heading out into the country. And Vincent hates the country.”

“So he wouldn’t have recognized the F40, even if he’d seen it coming.”

His eyes tightened as he thought about that, or pretended to.

“I don’t know that he’s ever seen it,” Owens said, “but he’s heard me talk about it enough. The way a proud father talks about his kid, I suppose. I don’t have any... kids I mean. Mr. Hammer, that vehicle is being worked on. It’s a fantastic machine in many ways, but the brakes are frankly shitty.”

Some proud father.

He went on: “The rotors and calipers, too, aren’t what you’d expect from something so high-end. I’ve had to have a frustrating amount of maintenance done on it. But I have a top guy who does the work for me.”

“High-maintenance ride, huh?”

“Afraid so, but worth it.” He grinned puckishly. “Like some females — worth the misery.”

I gave that more of a smile than it had coming. “It’s in your mechanic’s possession now?”

“It is. His name is Roger Kraft.” He reached for a notepad and pen, started scribbling. “I’ll give you the address.”

He tore off the slip of paper and passed it to me across the desk.

“I appreciate this, Mr. Owens,” I said, pocketing it. “What does Kraft look like, by the way?”

“Look like? Well, he’s about forty. Your size, a little heavier.”

“Pony tail? Beard?”

“Heavens no. Neither! Not Roger. He’s an ex-Marine.” That pinched mouth managed a grin. “He would gladly pummel any man who wore a pony tail.”

“If that ever comes up,” I said, “I’ll know who to ask.”

I thanked him and stood.

He got to his feet as well and said, “I can’t imagine how or why my F40 could have been used in that despicable way. But on the very long shot that it was, Mr. Hammer, would you please let me know?”

“You’ll be the first,” I said.

I was barely out the door when the Ice Queen guarding Vance Colby’s gate called out, “Mr. Hammer! A moment please!”

I walked down to her desk. She’d pretty well melted by now, and seemed downright pleasant, saying, “If it’s at all convenient, Mr. Colby would like a few words.”

“Any particular ones?”

That got a real smile out of her. Every secretary and receptionist in town loved me now.

She said, “You can go right in.”

I did.

Vance Colby was seated on one of the facing couches near the fireplace again, flames going full-throttle. People his age get cold easy — really cold when they stop breathing.

“Please join me, Mr. Hammer.”

I went over and did that, sitting opposite him. He had a snifter of brandy waiting. We’d graduated from coffee. He poured me a glass and I accepted it. Tasted fine, although what does a beer guy know about brandy?

The plump little man with the trim mustache, wrapped up in another well-tailored pinstripe, poured himself some brandy but set the glass down.

“I am surprised to see you back at Colby so soon,” my client said. “Have you something to report?”

I hadn’t come to report at all, of course, but he did have ten grand’s worth of my time.

So I said, “Just an interesting wrinkle or two.”

I told him that I’d confirmed the NYPD was not exactly setting up roadblocks to nab the hit-and-runner; his assumption that they were blowing off the incident would seem to be right on. I also let him know that a specific, rare model of Ferrari had been the vehicle.

Then I informed him of the Ferrari F40 whose owner was parked down the hall.

“You’ll most likely find,” the old man said, unimpressed, “that’s merely a coincidence.”

Everybody today was telling me what to think about coincidences.

“William Owens is a good boy,” he said, as if I’d suggested otherwise. “He and Vincent were at Harvard together. Met on the rugby team. They think the world of each other. Those two are the future of this firm.”

“Well, it’s an odd turn of events,” I said, then sipped the sweet stuff he’d poured me. “I’ll have to look into it.”

The faded blue eyes popped. “By all means! I just... when I heard you were on the premises, I assumed you must have come to see me. To bring me up to speed.”

“If that Ferrari had been up to speed,” I said, “I doubt your son would be alive. Those babies do nearly 200 miles per hour.”

“Disturbing. Disturbing.”

I nodded toward the door. “Where is your son, by the way? I notice he isn’t in his office.”

“Psychiatrist. Every day, for now at least. He had a bad one last night. Blew up at me again.”

“What set him off?”

He flipped a hand. “I suggested he take a leave of absence. Just for a few weeks or at most months... until his psychiatrist and physician give him a clean bill of health.”

Clean bill of mental health.

I finished my brandy. Stood. “Thank you, Mr. Colby. I’m glad to have a chance to touch bases with you... but these are early days.”

He stood, frowning a little. “Will this take days?”

“Figure of speech. But it could take days, yes. My advice is put this out of your mind. Help your son as best you can, and meanwhile I’ll find that Ferrari and its driver for you.”

A smile blossomed under the skimpy mustache. “You do that, Mr. Hammer, and there will be a handsome bonus in it for you!”

“And I’ll accept it.”

We shook hands and I went out.

The brunette with the mannish glasses gave me a smile as I passed, nothing icy about her now, though she still had a certain regal air.

But I already had a good-looking brunette in my life for a secretary. And being greedy only got a guy in trouble.

Lower Manhattan was home to plenty of desolate, half-dead business districts like this, rife with crumbling, neglected buildings waiting for gentrification to catch up with them, the street-level storefronts housing dingy shops dealing in junk, out-of-date crap or surplus goods.

I’d been to this particular stretch of small business purgatory before, just a few months ago. The tire-recapping place continued to ooze its bouquet of Butyl rubber into the atmosphere, an open-back truck piled with used casings parked out front, unattended. The tool-and-die shop still wore a CLOSED sign that could mean for the moment but more likely forever, the plate-glass shop had somehow managed to stay above water, and that tune-up and auto repair garage that had just opened for business on my last visit remained a beacon of optimism among a graveyard of empty storefronts.

What the hell would a Ferrari F40 be doing down here?

The wind fluttered the bottom of my trenchcoat and my hat needed to be well-snugged or it would fly away on me. I’d parked half a block down from the address I was checking out — I didn’t care to leave my heap too far away, not being as trusting as the tire-recapping boys.

The building on the corner had once been a gas station, probably dating back to the days when the term “service station” was still in use and guys in crisp uniforms and caps came running out to clean your windshields and check your tires, water, battery, oil. That was in the days when the idea of filling your own tank seemed absurd. What were we, farmers? Now the structure was a ghost of that curved ’50s architecture that said the future was here — well, it was... a future with its windows painted out, black, giving no view onto the space where once you paid for your gas with cash more often than credit card, and bought candy bars and chewing gum before helping yourself to free road maps.

One of those blacked-out windows had white lettering saying KRAFT AUTOMOTIVE — APPT. ONLY with a phone number. I tried the door and found it unlocked. Just barely ajar. Cracked it further, hollered, “Hello!” and got no response. I pushed it open and stepped inside.

No counter remained in a gutted sales area that was now an office with a metal desk, several filing cabinets and old shelves used to stack automotive catalogues and instruction manuals where cans of oil and other supplies had once lined up like military. Closed doors at left and right still said MEN and WOMEN.

I moved into what had once been the service area, and still was to some degree, with two car lifts, workbenches along the walls, tools on pegboards and the smell of oil. But the garage was clean, almost surgically so, cement floor included. Behind the lifts, and in front of the back workbench, a black full-car cover shrouded a shape that, with the distinctive half-showing star-shaped hubcaps, told a story.

I pulled off the car cover and the red Ferrari said hello. My mouth dropped. I was looking at the fastest, most powerful, and for that matter most expensive car Ferrari ever made.

I checked the passenger side of the vehicle for signs of exterior damage, but there were none. I’d driven stock cars in my reckless youth, but sports cars were out of my league, and that midget with the newsstand knew a hell of a lot more about them than I did. Still, my eyes told me that maybe — maybe — some bodywork had been done around the front right headlight.

Back in the office, I did what any self-respecting private detective would do in a place of interest whose front door was left unlocked. I snooped, starting with the filing cabinets, which held old invoices in their upper drawers and nothing in the lower ones.

On to the desk.

There, the usual business junk shared space with a few surprises, like the .38 Police Special in the right-hand drawer, and a box of ammo in the drawer beneath. Well, a small businessman had the right to protect himself, didn’t he? Of more interest, and much more suggestive, were three items in the bottom left drawer — the only items in that drawer.

A false dark-brown beard. A small bottle of yellow liquid labeled “Spirit Gum.” A dark long-haired wig with a pony tail.

I shut the drawer, glanced around. Only two places left to check. The MEN was unoccupied. The same couldn’t be said for the WOMEN.

A male figure, slumped, hunched over with head hanging, was seated on the toilet, its lid down, his pants up. Even sitting, he was obviously a big man, easily as big as me, burly not fat. His head was shaved. Arms hung limp. Feet, in rubber-soled work boots, were askew. He wore the navy-blue coveralls of the mechanic he was. Or had been.

Carefully, using his ears, I used both hands to lift his head back. His eyes were open and rolled back and filmed-over, dull with death; his tongue-lolling mouth was open, as if seeking breath or sustenance or perhaps an ability to speak, all of which would be forever denied to him. His face was blue with need of a shave, which would be up to his mortician now.

None of that was what was the most disturbing thing. That distinction was left to his upper torso, which was caved in so deep that the top half of his jumpsuit was puckered. He might have taken a cannonball to his chest cavity.

I took a look at the floor leading into the WOMEN and could see the trail of dark rubber from his heels as he’d been dragged, already dead, into the cubicle. In this black-windowed room, next to this desk, someone had somehow shoved this man’s chest in.

A squad car preceded Pat Chambers only by a few minutes. I gave the pair of blues the basics, but waited for Pat to give out chapter and verse. He went around taking it all in, from the dead mechanic in the WOMEN’s room to the Ferrari, the black cover to which I had not replaced.

“Sorry about my prints,” I said.

We were standing outside now. The crime scene guys were in there shooting their pictures and collecting their evidence. We were just two guys who had both quit cigarettes a long time ago whose breath was smoking in the cold nonetheless.

He shrugged. “You had no way to know.”

His unmarked Chevy Caprice was parked on the cement apron of the place where three gas pumps had once sprouted. His radio on the dash squawked for his attention. He went over to it, climbed in, grabbed the mike and, sitting there with the car door open, listened and talked a while. I rocked on my heels and waited. Pat had called R & I to run Roger Kraft through and this appeared to be the callback.

He strolled over. Like me, he was in a trenchcoat and hat. Mine cost more. We taxpayers are stingy bastards, except where we’re concerned.

“Roger Kraft has a record,” Pat said. “Armed robbery down south. Series of smash-and-grabs at... you’ll love this... gas stations. Long time ago. After that he was in the service, motor pool guy.”

“Working for Ernie Bilko probably,” I said.

“He owned this shop,” Pat said, nodding behind us. “But I don’t think he went straight. Robbery Division suspects him of being the driver for a crew that’s been hitting small banks upstate.”

“And now he’s gone,” I said, “and mankind will just have to bear up.”

“You ever see anything like that?”

“The Ferrari F40? Just when it clipped Vincent Colby.”

“No. I mean the way that guy died. His fucking chest is sunk in like Popeye punched him.”

“A fist didn’t do that, even with spinach. Two fists didn’t do it, either. I got no idea what did, unless the killer had a battering ram in his pocket.”

I’d already filled Pat in about Owens at the Colby brokerage. He’d said nothing then but the back of his mind must’ve been working on it.

He said, “You think this Owens character hired Kraft to kill his friend?”

“I think Owens hired Kraft to fine-tune his car. And I think if somebody did hire this guy to kill the Colby kid, they took advantage of how little Owens used the vehicle to borrow it for the job. Unless Kraft was just out joy-riding.”

“Just a coincidence that the Owens vehicle was what he was working on.”

“I didn’t say that. Come on, Pat — you know how us detectives hate coincidence. There could be a connection. Somebody might have recommended Kraft to Owens. I mean, this isn’t a part of the city Yuppies generally hang out in. How would William J. Owens stumble onto this place?”

“The Yellow Pages maybe?”

“I doubt Kraft was even in the Yellow Pages. This looks like a sub rosa operation.”

“Not big enough to be a chop shop.”

I frowned. “No, but if Kraft had a reputation for doing good work on high-end rides like the F40, he might get access to machines that could really go, for use with that bank-heist crew you mentioned. You need to talk to your contacts in Robbery and see if the M.O. includes getaway cars with impressive pedigrees.”

Pat was nodding. “Sometimes you think like a detective.”

“You cops ought to try it.”

Pat’s radio squawked again. More talk, more listening. When he clicked off and returned the handset to its slot, he made a note in his pad and then came over, his expression grim.

He planted himself in front of me and said, “You’re not going to like this.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“Seems something didn’t smell good inside Casey Shannon’s apartment. The super called it in and our guys broke in and found Shannon there.”

“Not in Florida,” I said. “Not shacked up with an old honey.”

“No. Dead on the floor for a week, anyway. And here’s the part you really won’t like.”

“I already don’t like it.”

“I know. But get this — somebody caved his chest in.”