Murder, My Love

Chapter Three

Until he made the move into his new digs elsewhere on Park Avenue, Senator Jamie Winters would be maintaining his office on the nineteenth floor of the Flatiron Building.

And the Flatiron is where I headed, mid-afternoon, catching a cab outside the Hackard Building. When traffic got tight, I paid the hackie, climbed out and walked the last few blocks. No trenchcoat today, just a gray Perry Ellis suit Velda steered me toward, with a gray-and-black striped tie I selected myself; but for all those efforts, the porkpie fedora still branded me a relic.

The day was cool and crisp but sunny, and up ahead I could see Madison Square Park, moms and kids here for the playground and people walking their dogs amid the mix of evergreens and fiery fall browns, reds, yellows and oranges. Nobody looked like they had blackmail in their life, or a private detective on retainer, either.

In Thadeous Vankemp’s heyday, the Flatiron Building — that triangular structure on its triangular lot bordered by Broadway, Fifth Avenue and East 22nd Street — had been one of the tallest buildings in Manhattan. Now it was officially an historic landmark, twenty-two stories dwarfed by towering neighbors, its distinctive Beaux-Arts design, in a shape reminiscent of an old-fashioned cast-iron clothes iron, still setting it apart.

The Flatiron lobby was, not surprisingly, narrow — a beige, artdeco, marble-floored space with framed pictures detailing the building’s history. Tourists couldn’t get past the guard at his desk, but I was expected. I took the elevator to the nineteenth floor, to the office where the senator met with everybody from lowly constituents to NYC power brokers.

I already knew Jamie Winters wasn’t in — but I wasn’t calling on him.

In the senator’s outer office, blandly modern walls at left and right slanted inward as if presenting the young woman behind the reception desk — tah dah! You’d think she was something special.

You’d be right.

Lisa Long was the only one of Jamie’s paramours whose picture and background I had not been given. Yet I had no doubt I was standing before the most recent object of the senator’s affections.

She wore a white no-nonsense blouse under a black suit with shoulder pads and a white pocket hanky, plus minimal but well-chosen jewelry by way of hoop earrings and oversized bracelets. Her big brunette mane, not unlike the red one her lover’s wife sported, was offset by heavy dark-framed oversize eyeglasses that tried to overwhelm the lovely face, but couldn’t. From behind them, big brown eyes with dark thick eyebrows courtesy of Brooke Shields looked at me coolly, her high cheekbones rouged, her sensuous mouth home to coral gloss lipstick and a slight, business-like smile.

Still, I asked, from the doorway: “Miss Long? Mike Hammer. I believe you’re expecting me.”

Her smile warmed up a little. “Yes, Mr. Hammer,” she said in a nice second soprano, waving me in gently. “Mrs. Winters called and said you’d be stopping by with a few questions.”

As I approached, she gestured to the black metal chair in front of her L-shaped desk; to her right loomed a workstation with massive computer set-up — terminal, monitor, keyboard and printer. I took off my hat, which I set on the uncluttered half of the desk, where a phone with combination intercom and answer machine, a pen and pencil holder, a notepad and a stapler were about it.

“I understand you’re a private investigator,” she said.

In her mid-twenties, she was unlikely to have encountered the wilder exploits of my younger days, even if her folks read the tabloids.

“Yes, I am,” I admitted. “Working for both Mrs. Winters and the senator.”

The secretary tented her fingers; her nails were coral too, well manicured and not long — with that computer keyboard, long nails wouldn’t have been practical.

She said, “I was told to give you full cooperation, and access to the senator’s office, including his files if necessary. But nothing of what this is about.”

“The subject is a delicate one,” I said, “but the senator himself assured me of your discretion.”

She nodded, the eyes behind the big lenses half-closing, as she tried to process that. “Of course. How can I be of help?”

I grinned, not too big, crossed my legs, gestured around us. “Doesn’t exactly seem to be hopping around here.”

She smiled, not big at all. “There are days. Right now, there’s nothing major on the senator’s political agenda.”

“If something big is pending, voters drop by in person?”

She nodded, still smiling a little.

“And lobbyists and so on.”

She shrugged, the shoulder pads making it seem bigger than it was. “Most of that happens in D.C. We do hear from all sorts of constituents, from locals with their special problems to... well, giants of business and industry, who want the senator’s ear, personally.”

“You must meet some very important people.”

The smile grew a bit. “Yes. In passing.”

I folded my arms and leaned back in a chair not designed to encourage long visits. “The senator is lucky to have such a pleasant presence guarding the gate. What’s your story, Miss Long?”

That question surprised her and she batted long lashes that seemed to be real, if heavy with mascara. “Excuse me?”

“Part of what I’m doing is gathering background material. Where you’re from, where you went to school, and so on.”

She thought that over, and then gave me a just-the-facts recital. She was from Bayonne, New Jersey. Her father was a fireman there, her mother a housewife; she had a younger sister and older brother. She had gone to Middlesex County College in Edison, where she studied to be an administrative assistant and took “secretarial science.”

I asked, “That’s a two-year degree?”

“Yes.”

“Working-class girl, then.”

She bristled just a little. “That’s right.”

I held up a palm. “Hey, I’m a junior college grad myself. Took a while. Nights. Police science. We’re a couple of scientists, looks like.”

She unbristled and decided to smile again. “What did your father do, Mr. Hammer?”

“Bartender. So do you travel to D.C. with the senator? Run his office there?”

She shook her head, the bounce of that stylish thatch of hers reminding me of Nicole again. Why did men so often have affairs with women who looked like their wives? If you’re tired of Coke, why have a Pepsi?

“I hold down the New York office,” she said, cocking her head. “He has a considerable staff in Washington... You’re not writing anything down.”

“I’m getting what I need, Ms. Long. When did your involvement with the senator begin?”

She blinked, then the big brown eyes stayed open wide. “Excuse me?”

“The senator wasn’t specific. How long, as they say, has this been going on? Couldn’t be too long, because I don’t make you for over twenty-five or — six.”

She swallowed. “I don’t think there’s any reason for...”

For what she didn’t seem able to say.

“Mrs. Winters told you to give me full cooperation,” I reminded her. “She’s aware of the affair, and the senator is aware that she’s aware.”

This cool, professional young woman seemed clearly flustered now. “You’ve been misinformed, Mr., what was it?”

“Hammer.”

“Mr. Hammer.” She smoothed the front of her. Did I mention she had a nice figure? She had a nice figure.

She went on: “There is no affair. My relationship with the senator is strictly employer/employee.”

I’d run into a lot of those in my time.

I sat there smirking, a conscious prick move, and let her spin her wheels: “Mr. Hammer, I think Mrs. Winters may have some unfounded suspicions, and has sold you a bill of goods. I have no... intimate relationship with Senator Winters. I can’t imagine him confirming this outrageous assertion. Surely you haven’t talked to him directly.”

I shook my head slowly. “I’m afraid I have, Ms. Long. I met with both the senator and his wife, at the same time. And your relationship with him... your ‘intimate relationship’... is not his first affair.”

I almost said “dalliance,” but figured that might insult her, not wanting to push the prick thing too far.

Her chin came up and the lids on the eyes came back down, to half-mast. “I suppose that’s possible,” she said, some ice hanging on the words. “The senator’s marriage is a most unhappy one.” The chin came up even further. “His wife has been cheating on him for years.”

Imagine that.

“If this...” Her voice tried to be strong — it was certainly louder now — but a quaver gave her away. “...if this is... something that woman has initiated... if that’s the kind of investigator you are...”

I held up a hand. “I don’t do divorce work. This is more serious than that.”

She laughed humorlessly, then huffed, “More serious than divorce?”

“The senator is being blackmailed.”

Now she had no expression at all. Just wide-open eyes. Then she said, “Oh dear.”

I was careful not to say that she was part of that. But I was bum enough to at least vaguely suggest she might be.

Holding up a hand again, I said, “As I say, the senator’s had a lot of relationships over the years. It’s somewhat surprising he’s not had the press dogging his heels on that account during previous campaigns. Or that he hasn’t encountered blackmail before, although perhaps he has. I wouldn’t necessarily know. This is my first job for Mr. and Mrs. Winters.”

That was kind of cruel — saying “Mr. and Mrs. Winters.” She seemed to shrink in her chair.

Then, in a very small voice, reminding me how recently she’d been a little girl, the young woman asked, “What can I do? To help. Help make this go away. Is Jamie... is Jamie going to pay whoever this is?”

Calling him Jamie dropped any last hint of denial from the senator’s latest mistress.

I said, “I really don’t know. I hope to find the person responsible and stop them.”

“And take them to the police?”

“No. Hell no.”

She sat forward. “What can you do, Mr. Hammer?”

“You say your father is a fireman in New Jersey? He’s still alive?”

“Very much so. He’s still on the job.”

I got a little melodramatic then. I unbuttoned the Perry Ellis jacket and let her glimpse the massive-looking butt of the .45 Colt Automatic, U.S. Army model, vintage 1914, in the shoulder sling, which had required some tailoring.

I said to the young woman, who was vintage 1966 or so, “Ask your old man who Mike Hammer is.”

She took that in, swallowed, nodded.

I asked, “Who knows about the affair?”

She frowned, not angry, more surprised. “Well, no one, of course!”

“A roommate?”

“No. No, no.”

“Do you have a roommate?”

“No, not since...”

“Since the senator got you your own place?”

“How did you know that?”

“I’m a detective. No girlfriends who know?”

“No girlfriends who know, no.”

“Now, Ms. Long... Lisa... if you have a boyfriend on the side...” That sounded funny — a mistress with a boyfriend on the side — but it was all too typical. “...you need to tell me.”

“No!”

“No, you won’t tell me?”

“No, I don’t have a boyfriend! On the side or anywhere.”

“Other than the senator, you mean.”

“...Other than the senator.”

“Because if you do,” I said, and buttoned the coat back up, “I’ll find out. Again, ask your old man.”

She swallowed. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Well, if you do, young lady,” I said, putting some condescension in, “and you two are in on this together? You should tell me now. And I’ll put an end to this with nobody getting hurt or going to jail. I promise you that.”

Halfway through that little speech, she began shaking her head — no, no, no! — and got all that brown stuff tousled. She started to cry and her make-up ran. She got a box of tissues out of a drawer and tried to clean herself up. It wasn’t enough.

She rose unsteadily. “Mr. Hammer... I need to use the rest room...”

I stood. “I’m going to have a look at the senator’s inner office while you do that. Okay? It’s unlocked?”

She nodded, swallowed, obviously appreciating the opportunity to freshen up, and hurried out.

At least she was on one of the odd-numbered floors. When this place was built, there were only men’s rooms. Now it was MEN on the even and WOMEN on the odd. Finally some equality.

As had been the case with the unfinished office in the high-rise-in-progress, a mahogany door announced SENATOR JAMIE B. WINTERS with a nameplate. As promised, the door wasn’t locked, but the other side of that door revealed it could be locked from within, turning the workplace into a trysting spot.

I was in the front prow of the building now, a space filled with light even mid-afternoon. The walls narrowed to six feet across, where a curved balcony faced north onto the park, and from here you could get a good look at two large Corinthian columns and the top of a terra-cotta medallion.

The walls were eggshell white, the one at my left arrayed with framed photos of the senator with other famous people — photos signed by the various celebs to him. Michael Jackson, Whitney Houston, Bill Cosby and other movie and music luminaries, were joined by President Carter, Walter Mondale, and Teddy Kennedy, plus sports figures including George Steinbrenner, Joe Namath, and O.J. Simpson. These hung above several old-fashioned radiators, which were putting out just enough heat to deal with the fall cold snap.

On the right was a very comfortable-looking brown leather couch. I gave it a raised-eyebrow look, just in case it was in the mood to make a confession. It wasn’t talking, but it did whisper. Two file cabinets faced each other just beyond the couch, their sides to the wall, to deal with the narrowing space.

The senator’s desk was at right, too, the back of it to the wall with a visitor’s chair along the right-hand side. Winters would have to swivel a little to give a guest proper attention. Claustrophobic as it was in here, this remained an impressive office, truly one of a kind — or one of a handful, since there were potentially another twenty or so spaces like this elsewhere in the building.

I didn’t bother with the file cabinets. I doubted the senator kept folders on his conquests, and anyway I had the ones his wife had worked up, right? But the drawers to his mahogany desk were worth a look. I expected they might be locked, one or two of them anyway, but that wasn’t the case. And the drawer on the bottom right was a pip.

It was home to a “value” box of Trojan rubbers, a few sex toys and several bottles of booze — whiskey and vodka. I’d already spied a little fridge on the other side of the desk. Did I really have to check it for ice and mixer?

By the time I was through in the inner office, the senator’s secretary was back at her desk, looking like a million bucks again. I thought, Some guys have all the luck, then remembered who my secretary had been for a lot of years now. And this little doll probably couldn’t even handle a gun.

“You all right?” I asked her, standing by her desk.

“Yes, thank you.”

“You look fine.”

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you, but I’m that guy you hear about who goes around doing all those dirty jobs that somebody has to do.”

That made her smile a little. “How can I help?”

“You’ve helped plenty already.” I noticed the intercom/answer machine on the desk. “Let me try something.”

“Pardon?”

I handed her the receiver and hit record on the machine, then said, “I’m going back in the senator’s office. Call me on the intercom.”

She frowned in confusion. “Okay...”

I went in there and then her voice came over the little tinny mate to the intercom on her desk. “Can you hear me, Mr. Hammer?”

“Yeah. I can hear you fine, Ms. Long. Leave the connection open till I say otherwise.”

“Yes, sir.”

That was the problem, being my age. Women who looked like her always called men who looked like me “sir.”

I went over to the couch and sat, then spoke in a normal tone. “This is a test. Testing, one two three.”

Then I got up and went all the way down to where the prow-shaped office was only six feet wide. In a normal voice, I said, “This is Mike Hammer. You’re a very lovely young woman, in case I forgot to mention it.”

Then I went over by the desk and said to the intercom, “Okay, Ms. Long. Shut ’er off.”

I walked back into the outer office where a red light was flashing on the answer machine. I hit play. It rewound automatically, and then I heard everything I’d said in the inner office, including how lovely Ms. Long was.

She looked up at me like I’d just invented the light bulb. I smiled down at her and she smiled back at me till her smile soured. She’d just figured it out.

Any hanky-panky going on in that inner office could be recorded by somebody out here.

She covered her mouth with those coral-tipped fingers, and her eyes were so huge the big lenses barely contained them.

“Someone...” she began. “Someone has a tape of... of the senator and I...?”

“Yeah. May I assume you reserved your socializing till after office hours?”

She nodded, nodded, nodded.

“Who could have been in the building when you two were occupied?”

“We always went out for dinner first. Sometimes to a show, movie, play, you know. Then back here or to my apartment.”

“I’m interested in when you were here, together. Who else would be in the building then?”

That took no thought. “It was usually pretty late. A security guard, doing rounds. A cleaning woman.”

“You know them? Know their names?”

“I know their first names. He’s Myron and she’s Erin. She lives in Brooklyn, I think, no older than me. You can probably get their names from the building superintendent.”

I put a hand on her shoulder. “Okay. You just go on about your business as usual. I don’t want you to worry.”

“It’ll be hard not to.”

“You ask your father, the fireman.”

“Ask him what?”

“Ask him if Mike Hammer will look out for you.”

That seemed to reassure her for a moment, but as I went out, I glanced at her and she was hugging her arms to herself, shivering.

And it wasn’t cold in there at all.