Snow White and Rose Red

11

On the day I was to accompany Sarah to Southern Medical, it occurred to Bloom that he had overlooked something obvious.

Both he and Rawles had been working on the assumption that someone who owned a chauffeur-driven Cadillac had sent his or her car and driver to pick up Tracy Kilbourne on the day she’d moved out of her shack on stilts.

But, instead, why couldn’t Tracy have done a very simple thing?

Pick up the phone — she still had a phone when she was living next door to Harvey Wallbanger and his charming lady Lizzie — dial one of the limousine-rental services in Calusa, and ask for a chauffeur-driven car to pick her up.

“Smart, smart, dumb,” Bloom said out loud, and once again both detectives hit the telephone book.

There are only three limousine-rental businesses in all of Calusa. Maybe there aren’t very many funerals down here, an unlikely conjecture when one considers the age of many of the citizens. But surely there are weddings galore, although my partner Frank maintains that rednecks never marry, they merely mate. Nonetheless, there are only three limo services, and one of these is called Luxury Limousine, and the man Bloom spoke to there was named Arthur Hawkins. Hawkins’s telephone voice sounded either British or affected, Bloom couldn’t tell which. When advised that Bloom was working a homicide, Hawkins said, “Oh dear.”

Bloom filled him in.

He was trying to locate a black Cadillac limousine that had picked up a girl named Tracy Kilbourne at 207 Heron Lagoon at 10:00 a.m. on the morning of July 5 last year.

“Oh dear,” Hawkins said. “That was quite some time ago, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Bloom said, “but I was hoping—”

“Oh, we have records, indeed we do,” Hawkins said. “Hillary!” he shouted. “Might I have the file for last July, please? Could you hold on a moment?” he said into the phone and again shouted, “Hillary!”

Bloom waited.

When Hawkins came back on the line, he said, “Yes, indeed.”

There was a long silence on the line. Bloom continued waiting. Had Hawkins’s “Yes, indeed” meant that he had found what Bloom was looking for, or merely that he was now in possession of last July’s file?

“A Miss Tracy Kilbourne,” Hawkins said at last. “Two-oh-seven Heron Lagoon. Ten a.m. last July fifth. She requested a stretch limo, said she had a lot of luggage. That the one?”

Bloom took a deep breath.

“Where did you take her?” he asked.

In the state of Florida there are undoubtedly eight thousand condominium developments called Seascape. The one on Whisper Key in Calusa was relatively new. It had been completed for occupancy only last April — three months before a car from Luxury Limousine had deposited Tracy Kilbourne and her luggage on its doorstep. Situated on a full two hundred feet of choice Calusa shoreline, it offered a white-sand beach that ran the length of the property, an almost Olympic-size swimming pool, six tennis courts, a shopping arcade, an on-premises gourmet French restaurant, and a price tag of $625,000 for a two-bedroom apartment like Tracy’s, which was located on one of the choice floors. The quarterly maintenance fee on this apartment was $1,813.12. The smallest apartment here — a one-bedroom broom closet — went for $300,000. All of this Bloom learned from the managing director, a startlingly beautiful black woman named Tabitha Hayes, with whom Cooper Rawles fell immediately in love.

It is easy to fall in love on the first day of May in the state of Florida.

Tabitha Hayes kept licking her lips as she talked to the two cops; Rawles later referred to her as Candy Lips. Rawles wasn’t married, so Bloom guessed it was okay, his falling in love so fast and so hard. Tabitha told them she knew Tracy Kilbourne personally, but she hadn’t seen her around for some time now. It was her guess that someone as wealthy and beautiful as the resident in 106 undoubtedly had condos or villas or yachts or whatever all over the world, and rarely spent much time in any one place.

“What makes you think she was wealthy?” Bloom asked.

“She arrived in a big stretch limo,” Tabitha said, “even though she owns a nice little Mercedes-Benz convertible.”

“She owned a car?” Rawles said, surprised. Their check with Motor Vehicles had indicated no automobile registered in Tracy Kilbourne’s name.

“Still here, if you’d care to see it,” Tabitha said. “Any resident at Seascape has his own two-car garage. Miss Kilbourne’s has been in the garage for months now.”

“How many months?” Bloom asked.

“Six, seven? As I said, I haven’t seen her in a long while.”

Tabitha’s eyes reminded Rawles of coal. Rich, loamy, bituminous coal. She rolled those eyes at him now and asked, “What’s the problem, anyway? Why are you looking for her?”

“She’s dead,” Bloom said.

“Oh,” Tabitha said.

Rawles liked the way she said that single word. Just the proper amount of shock and respect in that single word.

“Would you know which bank carries the mortgage on her unit?” Bloom asked.

“There is no mortgage. The apartment was bought outright.”

Bloom’s eyes opened wide.

“A two-bedroom apartment?” he said.

“Yes, two bedrooms.”

“Costing six hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars?”

“Yes.”

“And she bought it outright?”

“No, Mr. Bloom, the apartment was not purchased by Miss Kilbourne.”

Bloom leaned in close.

“Who did purchase it?” he asked.

“A firm in Stamford, Connecticut.”

“Named?”

“Arch Realty.”

“Who was paying the quarterly maintenance fees?” Rawles asked.

“Pardon?” Tabitha said, and licked her lips.

Rawles wanted to carry her off to China.

“The maintenance fees. You said—”

“Oh yes.”

“Who paid them?”

“We receive a quarterly check from Arch Realty,” Tabitha said.

“In Stamford?”

“Yes. In Stamford.”

“Every quarter?”

“Every quarter,” Tabitha said.

“When did you get the last one?”

“A few weeks ago. They’re due on the fifteenth.”

“And you’ve been getting them every quarter—”

“Like clockwork.”

“Even though Miss Kilbourne hasn’t been here since... When did you say you saw her last?”

“I can’t be certain. In the fall sometime.”

“The checks keep coming, Morrie,” Rawles said. “Girl was in the river for God knows how long, they still keep paying the maintenance fees here.”

“Yeah,” Bloom said.

“Who signs these checks from Connecticut?” Rawles asked.

“I’ve never really studied the signature, Mr. Rawles,” Tabitha said.

“Could you look at it now?” Rawles said. “You said you received this quarter’s—”

“Yes, two weeks ago. The check’s already been deposited, Mr. Rawles.”

“Which bank?” Bloom asked.

“Our management account is with Calusa National.”

“Ever any trouble with the checks?” Rawles asked. “Any of them ever bounce?”

“Never.”

“Not even in the past six, seven months?”

“No, never.”

“Somebody doesn’t know she’s dead,” Rawles said to Bloom. “Checks just keep on coming.”

“Must be on a computer,” Bloom said.

“Can we see this apartment she was living in?” Rawles asked.

“Why, certainly, Mr. Rawles,” Tabitha said, and rolled her eyes at him.

They followed her out of the office and onto a wide white walkway that meandered past the condominium’s ground-level shops — a boutique, a pharmacy, a flower shop, an art gallery, a jewelry store — and then past the tennis courts. The swimming pool glistened a sapphire blue in the distance, against the emerald-green waters of the Gulf. The air was redolent of lush, blooming plants. Bloom sucked in a deep breath.

“Here are the garages,” Tabitha said. “Did you want to see Miss Kilbourne’s car?”

“Yes, please,” Bloom said.

Tabitha unlocked the door to the two-car garage. A brand-new sleek brown Mercedes-Benz 380SL sat in the exact center of the space. There was a Connecticut license plate on the car. Rawles tried the door on the passenger side. It was unlocked. He opened the door and then thumbed open the glove compartment.

“Here’s the registration,” he said.

“What does it say?” Bloom asked.

“Registered in the state of Connecticut. To Arch Realty Corporation.”

“The address?”

“Four-eighty-two Summer Street, Stamford, Connecticut.”

“Who signed the registration?”

“Andrew... Norman, is it? I can’t make it out, guy writes like a Chink. Andrew Norton Hemingway? Treasurer of Arch.” He turned to Tabitha. “He the one who signs those maintenance checks?”

“I really don’t know,” Tabitha said.

“Would you mind if we take the registration with us?” Bloom asked Tabitha. “We’ll give you a receipt, if you like.”

“It’s not my car,” Tabitha said, and shrugged.

They went out into the sunshine again, and she locked the garage door behind them.

“This way,” she said.

Tracy Kilbourne’s apartment was called “ground level,” which, under Calusa’s new building codes, meant thirteen feet above mean high-tide line. Tabitha unlocked the door for them and led them into a spacious living room that overlooked the Gulf. The apartment smelled of insecticide. Tabitha explained that the exterminator had been there only yesterday. The apartment was extravagantly and expensively furnished in a style too modern for Bloom’s taste; he later confided to Rawles that he felt as if he were stepping into Star Trek’s Enterprise. Rawles, on the other hand, thought this was just what an apartment in Florida should look like — all white Formica and glass, and fabrics in blues and greens and yellows to give an open feeling of sun, sky, and water — and he secretly wished he could afford something like this. He suspected the modern paintings on the walls had cost someone a fortune. He knew that Tracy had not furnished the place herself; there had been no checks written for furniture or art among the ones they had studied back at the police station. From somewhere on the beach below, Rawles heard a young girl laughing, and for some reason the sound almost moved him to tears.

“Bedrooms are back this way,” Tabitha said.

The master bedroom enjoyed the same beachfront exposure as the living room. White Levolor blinds were drawn against the sun, giving the spacious room — with its white furniture and white fabrics — the cool, clean look of an arctic tundra.

Framed photographs of a beautiful blonde woman with light eyes and a slender figure were on the dresser top.

“That’s Tracy,” Tabitha said.

“We’ll want to take those with us,” Bloom said.

Both he and Rawles had been occupied with Tracy Kilbourne’s case since the fifteenth of April, but only now — on the first of May — did they know what she had looked like when she was alive.

Bloom began taking the photographs out of their frames.

A king-size bed dominated the room. A pair of white Formica nightstands flanked the bed. A white slim-line telephone rested on the one nearest the window wall. Rawles picked up the receiver.

“Getting a dial tone,” he said.

Bloom looked surprised.

Rawles studied the receiver. “Number on it,” he said. “Want to jot it down?”

Bloom took out his pad, and Rawles read off the number.

“So how come the phone company doesn’t have a listing for her?” Rawles asked.

“Pardon?” Tabitha said.

Rawles wondered if she was a little hard of hearing. The possibility that she might be somewhat deaf made her seem even more exciting to him. He was considering a marriage proposal when Bloom said, “Let’s check the drawers and closets. That okay with you, Miss Hayes?”

“Yes, certainly,” she said.

The detectives went through the dresser drawers first.

A leather jewelry box in one of the top drawers contained, among other choice baubles, a gold ring with a diamond as large as the state of Rhode Island.

The drawer alongside that one contained lace-edged silk panties in what appeared to be every color of the rainbow.

There was more lingerie in the other dresser drawers. And sweaters. And blouses. In the closets they found yet more blouses on hangers, and tailored slacks and designer dresses and suits and high-heeled shoes lined up like a cadre of well-disciplined cavalry officers.

Tracy Kilbourne had owned more clothes than all of Bloom’s three sisters put together.

A mink coat hung on a padded hanger.

A piece of Louis Vuitton luggage still carried a baggage tag for Delta’s Flight 91 from Tampa to LAX.

“There’s that American Express item,” Rawles said.

“Yeah,” Bloom said.

“Pardon?” Tabitha said.

A silk peignoir was hanging on a hook behind the bathroom door.

Bottles with colored liquids in them lined the tiled wall behind the sunken bathtub. Bloom had seen such an Arabian Nights lineup of perfumes and oils only once — when he was looking for a bookie in a massage parlor in Hempstead, Long Island.

“She lived well,” Tabitha said dryly.

“Who do you suppose paid for all this stuff?” Bloom asked.

“I assumed she herself...”

“Ever see a boyfriend coming around?” Rawles asked.

“It’s not our policy at Seascape to monitor the comings and goings of our residents,” Tabitha said, and looked him squarely in the eye.

“You want to have dinner with me tonight?” Rawles asked.

“Pardon?” Tabitha said.

“You want to have—”

“No,” she said.

The first thing they did when they got back to the office was call the telephone company.

Bloom spoke to a supervisor named Marcia Gristede. He told her what he was after. He gave her the address of Tracy Kilbourne’s condo at Seascape, and read off the number they’d taken from the phone in her bedroom. Marcia Gristede checked her records.

“Yes, sir, I have that listing,” she said.

“To whom is the phone listed?” Bloom asked.

“To Arch Realty Corporation in Stamford, Connecticut,” Marcia Gristede said.

“They get the bills each month?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When’s the last bill they paid?”

“We bill this number on the seventeenth, sir. The last bill was paid six days ago.”

Bloom looked at his desk calendar. “That would’ve been April twenty-fifth,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Always pay promptly, do they?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Arch Realty Corporation in Stamford, Connecticut, right?”

“Yes, sir. That’s where we send the bills, sir.”

“And the telephone is listed under that name?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you have an address for them?” Bloom asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“May I have it, please?”

“Certainly, sir,” she said, and read off the address to him. The address was the same as the one on the registration for the Benz. As Bloom wrote it down, he wondered if Marcia Gristede knew that a chain of grocery stores in New York had been named after her.

“Miss Gristede,” he said, “do you know who signs these checks from Arch Realty?”

“I have no idea in the world,” she said.

While Bloom was on the phone with Marcia Gristede, I was on the phone with Sarah Whittaker. She had called me in what appeared to be a state of great agitation, telling me at once that Dr. Pearson was attempting to sabotage her one chance at “freedom” — as she called it — by insisting that Brunhilde accompany us to Southern Medical.

“What’s wrong with Brunhilde?” I asked.

“What’s wrong with her?” Sarah said, her voice rising. “I thought I made it clear that I detest her.”

“It’s only an hour or so to Southern Medical,” I said. “The moment we—”

“An eternity,” Sarah said. “Matthew, I’m going to be examined and observed by a team of doctors who’ve never met me before, and I don’t want to arrive there all upset because the Bitch of Belsen was in the car with me.”

“This is just a matter of form,” I said. “Knott’s can’t allow you to leave the hospital unattend—”

“That’s not what I’m complaining about,” Sarah said. “I know they need somebody with a straitjacket handy. I’m not objecting to an attendant. I’m objecting to Brunhilde being that attendant.”

“Well... whom would you prefer?” I asked.

“Jake,” she said.

“I never got the impression you were overly fond of Jake.”

“Jake doesn’t watch me while I sit on the toilet,” Sarah said.

“Well, if you’d prefer Jake, I’m sure Dr. Pearson—”

“He’s already said no.”

“Why?”

“Because today is Jake’s day off.”

“Well... is there anyone else you’d feel comfortable—”

“I just don’t want any of these damn women sitting in that car with me, looking down their noses and affecting an oh-so-superior air. This is very important to me, Matthew, I thought you understood how important this—”

“I do indeed. But I can’t see—”

“Will you talk to Cyclops, please? If I can’t get Jake, any of the other male attendants will do. I want to look pretty and fresh and rested when I get to Southern Medical, and I—”

“I’m sure you’ll look beautiful,” I said.

“Thank you, but not if Brunhilde or Ilse or any of the other bitches are watching me like vultures all the way there.”

“I’ll talk to Pearson,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“I love you, Matthew,” she said, and hung up.

The person Bloom spoke to at Calusa National was a woman named Adele Halliday. He told her he was investigating a homicide and had learned that the Seascape Corporation banked with them. What he was—

“Yes?” Miss Halliday said cautiously, and Bloom hoped he was not in for another session like the one he’d had with Mrs. O’Hare at First Calusa City.

“What I’m looking for,” he said, “I understand a check was deposited to the account there a few weeks ago... a check from Arch Realty in Stamford, Connecticut...”

“Yes?”

Again the cautious tone. Homicide investigations made people very cautious.

“It would have been made out to the Seascape Corporation... for quarterly maintenance fees in the amount—”

“What is it you wish, exactly?” Miss Halliday asked.

“I want to know who signed that check,” Bloom said.

“Well...”

“This is of enormous importance to me, Miss Halliday,” Bloom said. “A young girl has been murdered. I can apply for a court order to gain access to—”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Miss Halliday said. “Can you hold a moment, please?”

Bloom waited.

When she came back on the line, she said, “Arch Realty?”

“Yes, ma’am. In Stamford, Connecticut.”

“I have a check dated April thirteenth, drawn to Seascape Corporation in the amount of one thousand eight hundred thirteen dollars and twelve cents.”

“That would be it,” Bloom said. “Can you tell me who signed it?”

“It’s signed by... the signature is a little difficult to read... but I believe it’s Andrew Nelson Hennings... or Hennessy... I’m sorry, it’s really a scrawl.”

“Thank you very much,” Bloom said.

Dr. Silas Pearson was not happy to hear from me.

He said he was having a great deal of difficulty with Sarah.

He said her objection to Christine Seifert as a suitable and appropriate escort to Southern Medical was only another manifestation of Sarah’s delusion that everyone was involved in a huge conspiracy to deprive her of her liberty.

“Well, surely,” I said, “if it’s of such importance to her—”

“I have a medical facility to run here, Mr. Hope. I have close to three hundred patients here and a staff only half that size. I’m particularly shorthanded today as concerns male attendants. Mr. Murphy is off on Wednesdays—”

“Mr. Murphy?”

“Yes, Jake Murphy... and two of my other male attendants are on vacation. One learns to expect virtually anything from the patients here, but Sarah’s sudden affection for Jake comes as a total surprise. Until now she’s expressed nothing but contempt for him. Now, all at once, it would seem a dire necessity that Jake accompany her this afternoon. Jake or one of the other men. And I’m afraid that’s impossible. I’ve done everything within my power—”

“Yes, I realize that.”

“—to respect the court order, which requires us to effect a safe and expeditious transfer to Southern Medical. But I cannot jeopardize the well-being of the other patients here in order to satisfy what, I must be frank with you, is the whim of a desperately ill woman — something I feel certain you will learn within the next few days from your team of unbiased doctors at Southern Medical.”

His tone was sharp and impatient. There was a long silence on the line.

“Dr. Pearson,” I said, “surely if Sarah—”

“Sarah seems to believe she’s going to the Governor’s Mansion this afternoon, rather than to a receiving facility for observation and examination. Quite understandable, of course; she’s a sick woman. But she’s been driving us crazy over what she should wear — should it be the red dress or the yellow, no, the red is too garish, should she wear flats or heels, should she wear jewelry? She has finally decided on a yellow dress, exceedingly high-heeled sandals that might be more appropriate on a burlesque runway, and a simple strand of pearls. Fine. For my part, Mr. Hope, she can go in a burlap sack. The results will be the same no matter what she wears. But I cannot allow her to dictate which of the staff will accompany her. We have schedules here, we have responsibilities here, and it will be Christine Seifert who gets into that car with her at five o’clock. I do not wish to discuss this further, Mr. Hope.”

“Thank you for your courtesy,” I said, and hung up.

Bloom’s long-distance call to Arch Realty, on Summer Street in Stamford, Connecticut, was answered by a woman who seemed enormously puzzled by his uncertainty.

“Well,” she said, “is it Andrew Nelson Hennessy or Andrew Nelson Hennings?”

“Whichever one you’ve got there,” Bloom said.

“Well, we have an Andrew Nelson Hennessy, if that’s who you want,” the woman said.

“Yes, please,” Bloom said.

“Well, just a minute,” the woman said, sounding offended.

Bloom waited.

“Hennessy,” a man’s voice said.

“This is Detective Bloom of the Calusa Police Department,” Bloom said. “Am I speaking to—”

“Of the what?” Hennessy said.

“The Calusa Police Department,” Bloom said. “Is this Mr. Andrew Nelson Hennessy?”

“It is.”

“Sir, we’re investigating a homicide here, and I—”

“A what?” Hennessy said.

“A homicide, sir, and I wonder if you could answer a few questions for me.”

“Well... I guess so. Certainly.”

“Mr. Hennessy, it would appear that Arch Realty owns apartment one-oh-six at three-seven-four-two Westerly Drive on Whisper Key in this city. It would further appear—”

“Who did you say this was?” Hennessy asked.

“Detective Morris Bloom of the Calusa PD. It would further appear, sir, that the telephone in that apartment is listed to Arch Realty, and that Arch Realty owns the car in the garage for that apartment — a Mercedes-Benz 380SL with the Connecticut plate WU-3200 — and that it has been paying both maintenance fees and telephone bills for the apartment since July of last year. Your signature is on the automobile registration and checks received for maintenance fees, and I’m assuming it’s also on the checks sent to General Telephone.”

“Yes?” Hennessy said.

“Is that correct, sir?”

“Why do you want to know this?” Hennessy asked.

“As I told you, we’re investigating a—”

“What does Arch Realty have to do with a homicide?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out, sir. A woman named Tracy Kilbourne was occupying that apartment until her death—”

“I don’t know anyone named Tracy Kilbourne,” Hennessy said.

“But you were paying the maintenance fees and telephone bills for the apartment she lived in, isn’t that so?”

“I don’t know who was living in that apartment,” Hennessy said.

“Arch Realty does own the apartment, doesn’t it?”

“It does.”

“And you don’t know who was living in it?”

“I do not.”

“How can that be, Mr. Hennessy?”

“The apartment was purchased for the convenience of the officers of Arch Realty. For whenever business takes them to Calusa, Florida.”

“Was the car also purchased for the convenience of Arch Realty officers?”

“It was.”

“I see. And was Tracy Kilbourne an officer of Arch Realty?”

“I told you I don’t know anyone named Tracy Kilbourne.”

“Then she was not an officer of Arch Realty, is that right?”

“I am not aware that she was an officer of this corporation.”

“You’re the treasurer of the corporation, aren’t you?”

“I’m the treasurer, yes.”

“Have you ever used that apartment on Whisper Key?”

“I have not.”

“Which officers have?”

“I have no idea.”

“I wonder if you’d mind giving me the names of the other principal officers of the corporation, Mr. Hennessy.”

“Yes, I would mind.”

“Why’s that?”

“I feel under no obligation to do so.”

“You realize I can easily find out who—”

“Yes, you do that,” Hennessy said, and hung up.

At three o’clock that afternoon, I called Hertz to rent the car that would transport Sarah, Christine Seifert, and me to Southern Medical. Considering Sarah’s feelings about Brunhilde, I asked for the roomiest car they had. The girl on the telephone told me I could have a premium-size car similar to an Oldsmobile 88 or a Mercury Grand Marquis for $58.99 a day. But if I wanted her advice, they were running a special this month on luxury sedans — four-door, six-passenger cars like a Lincoln Town Car or a Cadillac Sedan DeVille — and I could get one of those for only $49.90.

I told her I wanted the luxury car.

What the hell.

Take Sarah away in style.

A man named Salvatore Palumbo answered the phone in the Corporation Division of the office of the secretary of the state of Connecticut in Hartford. He was surprised to be hearing from someone in Florida, and he immediately asked Bloom how the weather was down there. Bloom told him it was beautiful (which happened to be true, although Floridians often lied about such things as the weather) and then told him what he was looking for. It was Bloom’s impression that in most states corporations as well as limited partnerships were required to file annual reports—

“Yes, sir,” Palumbo said. “In Connecticut, it’s on the anniversary of the original incorporation.”

— and that these reports had to list the names and addresses of all the officers and directors.

“Yes, sir, that’s the case here in Connecticut,” Palumbo said.

“I wonder if a corporation named Arch Realty in Stamford has filed such an annual report,” Bloom said.

“Let me check for you, sir,” Palumbo said. “Be back in a minute.”

He was not back in a minute. Nor was he back in five minutes. In fact, Bloom thought he might have hung up. But he came on the line again seven minutes later, and said, “Arch Realty in Stamford, I have the folder here, sir.”

“And was an annual report filed?” Bloom asked.

“Yes, sir, on the anniversary of incorporation, in this case the twelfth of August last year. The new report isn’t due until this August.”

“Does it list the officers and directors?”

“It does.”

“Can I trouble you for their names and addresses?”

“No trouble at all, sir,” Palumbo said. “Have you got a pencil?”

“Go ahead,” Bloom said.

“I’ll start with the president,” Palumbo said. “His name is... oh, just a moment, sir.”

There was another long silence on the line.

“Yes,” Palumbo said.

“Yes, what?” Bloom asked.

“In this state, it’s mandatory for a corporation to inform us should any officer or director cease to hold office. I see here that—”

“Yes?” Bloom said.

“Such a form was filed last October.”

“Who was it that ceased to hold office?” Bloom asked.

“The president of the corporation. He died on September third last year.”

“And his name?” Bloom asked.

“Horace Whittaker.”