Dead Man's Thoughts (21 page)

I had to agree. I was beginning to get used to being backed into a corner by this sharp-thinking, blue-eyed charmer. “Okay. Fine. So why now? Why after eight years of keeping all this to yourself are you finally talking to someone? And why to me?”

“As to the first question, I find myself revolted by Parma's little farce of last night. I don't much like being accused of murder, Ms. Jameson. I may not take many other things very seriously, but that annoyed me. Plus I like the thought of that oily bastard's face when he finds out the fix came from within his own office instead of from me. As to the second question, why you—why not you? I like you. I liked Nathan. Yes, I knew him when. And I'm beginning to agree with you that there's a link between his death and Blackwell's. I want to help you look for that link. Which is why I think you should see Jesse Winthrop.”

“Jesse Winthrop? The guy who writes for the
Village Voice
?
”

“Yes. He's written several pieces on the Special Prosecutor's office over the years. I happen to know he's planning a new series to coincide with Parma's new job hunt—the congressional hearings will begin soon and Winthrop wants to give them something to think about. Would you like to see Winthrop—say, tomorrow?”

“Would I? Say when.” I was conscious that all this somehow fitted into a larger plan of Riordan's, but for the moment, I didn't care. Aside from the honor of meeting Jesse Winthrop, whom I'd admired for a long time, there was the chance of learning a good deal of inside stuff about the Stone case. And maybe about Riordan, too.

Riordan got up, made a phone call, and came back to tell me I was having brunch the next day with Winthrop. At McGillicuddy's, a pub near the
Voice
office in the East Village.

Now came the charming small talk I'd been expecting earlier. As we finished our drinks, Riordan began to talk about the Village as he'd known it as an undergraduate. Funny, I usually loathe people telling me how great the Village was in the good old days, but I found myself genuinely entertained by Riordan's stories. So much so that I started talking about myself, my ambitions as a photographer, my growing hatred of criminal law.

He quoted Rumpole, “When you're tired of crime, you're tired of life.”

I sighed, then smiled. “In that case, I guess I'm tired of life.”

I got back to my apartment in the nick of time. Just as I opened the door, still puffing from the three-flight climb, the bell rang. Dave was here. I buzzed him in, then waited for him to make the trek. It didn't take long.

“You must be in pretty good shape,” I told him. “Strong men have been known to faint after climbing up my steps.”

He smiled. “I work out a lot. Plus squash three times a week. I need some physical exercise after sitting at a desk all day. What about you?”

I took his coat, a tweedy, academic-looking jacket in a heather green, and hung it on the hatrack that serves as my front closet.

“Not me. By the time I get home from work, plopping down in front of the TV is all the exercise I want. I do hike a little, though, when the weather is good.” I thought of the day Nathan and I spent on the Palisades, rock climbing, picture taking, kissing on a bluff. A beautiful fall day I'd translated into some stunning photographs—the ones on Nathan's bedroom wall. I still carried the Swiss Army knife he'd given me as a memento, though I used it for nothing more strenuous than opening wine bottles at office parties.

I shook myself out of the memory and offered Dave a drink. I'd bought bourbon specially for him, so I was pleased when he asked for it. I poured myself a club soda. After two Scotches with Riordan, I was already as high as an elephant's eye. Besides, my own brand would insult my newly acquired palate.

Dave sat on the canvas-covered couch and looked around at my apartment, commenting on the Erté print on the opposite wall. It was the only thing I'd bought in the last five years. Nathan's idea, of course. He'd taken me to a gallery owned by a friend of his, and I'd fallen in love with the print's sophisticated lines. Ordinarily, I'd have stuck with admiration from a distance, but Nathan, who owned two Ertés—one number, one letter—talked me into buying the one I liked best. I still loved it, but I had to admit, seeing my apartment momentarily through the eyes of a visitor, that it didn't go with anything else I owned. The colors were too muted for my bold primaries, and the effect was too voluptuous for my collection of political posters. Like Mae West in a roomful of Gloria Steinems.

“I saw your boss's press conference last night,” I began. “He really took the bull by the horns.”

“He had to, once the commission came out the way it did,” Dave answered, sipping his bourbon.

“Yeah, I wondered about that. I got the impression, when I was there, that they were leaning pretty heavily toward the suicide theory.”

“That was before they found out we set Blackwell up. God, was Parma frosted when he heard. He did everything but swear us to secrecy in blood.”

“But somebody spilled the beans? Sounds like there's somebody in your office who doesn't like Parma too much.”

“Well, face it, the man's out for number one. Always has been. But hell, who isn't?” Dave smiled tolerantly.

“Do you have any idea who tipped them off? Does Parma have any suspicions?”

“If he does, he's not telling me about it. Besides, it probably wasn't that blatant. Somebody started telling just a little too much, and the commission put two and two together.”

“Dave, from what I saw of that bunch, they'd have trouble putting two and two together with an IBM computer. If they got sidetracked off the suicide theory, it's because somebody drew them a picture. I'd be interested to know who.”

“Jesus, Cass. There you go again looking the gift horse in the mouth.” His broad smile took any sting out of the words. “Let's just say somebody did you a big favor and leave it at that.”

I got the hint and switched topics. In a way, I admired Dave's loyalty. It was clear he had a good idea about who had said more than he or she should have, but he wasn't going to talk about it to an outsider.

“Anyway, Parma lost no time in trying to implicate Riordan.” Dave's smile was knowing. “He didn't name any names. He didn't have to. At least not to anyone who knows what's going on.”

“Like you.”

“Like me. And Riordan.” I dragged out the name provocatively. It worked. Dave was all boyish eagerness. “What do you mean? Did he take the bait? I haven't seen the paper today.”

“I haven't either. I don't know what he told them. If anything. He called me this morning.”

“You? Why would he call you?”

“I'll overlook the less-than-flattering implications of that question, Mr. Chessler.”

He smiled, but his voice was serious. He really wanted an answer.

“He called me because he knows I'm interested in what happened. I tried to ask him questions.”

“I thought he brushed you off before,” Dave objected. “So why all of a sudden does he want to see you now? Don't you find that just a little suspicious?”

“Well, if you put it that way, yes, I do. But he's really very nice. Not at all what I expected.”

“You met him already?” The words were an accusation. “I was hoping I could talk you out of it. Before the famous Riordan charm had a chance to work on you,” he added bitterly.

I was surprised. “Jealous?” I asked incredulously. “I just met the man for a drink and we talked about the case. That's all.”

“What did he tell you that you didn't know before?”

“That he didn't fix the Stone case.”

Dave snorted. “I suppose he told you the Son of Sam was framed. Jesus, what else would the man say? Did you expect a full confession?”

“I'm not as naïve as you think I am.” To my disgust, my voice rose in a defensive whine. “It's just that if he's telling the truth, the whole thing has to be looked at in a different way.”

“Any way that points to anybody but Riordan. Can't you see the man is using you?”

“Yeah, and I'm using him. What's wrong with that?”

Dave seemed to sense that I was serious. He smiled and said in a gentler tone, “Cass, forgive me. I just don't want to see you hurt, that's all. I know you're competent and strong and all that, but Riordan is ruthless. He'd tell anybody anything. What else did he say?”

“Not much.” I wasn't completely mollified, but I liked Dave saying he thought I could handle things. “He set up a meeting between me and Jesse Winthrop.”

Dave's jaw dropped. “Winthrop? That asshole? Are you going to see him?”

“He's not an asshole, he's one of the best investigative reporters around. And yes, I'm going to see him. I'd want to meet him even if he never wrote a word about the Stone case, because I admire him. I'm sorry if you think he's an asshole, but—”

“Cass.” Dave held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I'm sorry I said that. I agree he's done some good things, it's just that he's got a real bug up his ass about my office, and I get a little tired of reading about how terrible I am. I just think you have to take what he says with a grain of salt.”

“At this point, I take what everybody says with a grain of salt,” I said pointedly. We left the discussion there while we walked to the restaurant, but I had the uneasy feeling it was unfinished business between us.

The restaurant was called the Cafe Montmartre, and it had a Village-eclectic menu. A little French, a little Italian, a smidgeon of Indian-style curry dishes and a touch of Middle Eastern. The decor was also typical Village—glass-topped tables, exotic blooms, slim, gay waiters. We decided to share two dishes, green fettucine with mushrooms and veal picatta. Dave ordered us a fried zucchini appetizer and a bottle of ice-cold Chablis.

We talked movies. Old movies. I said I didn't think Hollywood had ever really been able to translate mysteries, my favorite reading, into satisfactory movies. He said what about the
films noirs
, those late forties masterpieces about the dark side of American life?

“Oh, I grant you the atmosphere, but where's the detection?” I asked. “It's all camera angles and heavy music and mysterious blondes. Above all, mysterious blondes. I think that's what I've got against those movies. It's so sexist, the Woman as Other. Simone de Beauvoir says—”

“Yes, but the
mise-en-scène
—” Dave interrupted. “The steamy sex. It may be sexist in that the woman isn't portrayed as a person but as a Force, but it's always the man who gets duped by her. He's the sucker. Look at Fred MacMurray and Barbara Stanwyck in
Double Indemnity
—she's leading the poor guy around by the nose.”

“Oh, give me a break! He's as bad as she is. Not to mention John Garfield in
The Postman Always Rings Twice
. You can't tell me he isn't looking for trouble.”

“But if he'd never met Lana Turner—” Dave began.

“Yes, but is that realistic? The guy's going along minding his own business, totally law-abiding. He meets one mysterious blonde and suddenly he's committing murder. Does that sound reasonable to you, Mr. Prosecutor?”

“Well, I have to admit,” Dave said with a grin, “it would take more than a night in the sack with Lana Turner to make me kill somebody.

“But seriously,” he continued, “you don't expect realism from a Hollywood movie. The thing is that these movies gave a feeling of gritty truth, not candy-coated sentiment. Did you see
Nightmare Alley?”

“God, yes. One rainy Sunday afternoon. It gave me the shivers, even with that stupid Hollywood ending. The geek, for Christ's sake.”

“Let's talk about something more pleasant. Would you like dessert?”

“Would I? They make a mocha mousse here that I'd kill for.”

We ordered mousse and coffee. I finished the last drop of wine before it came. I'd need that coffee.

The first bite of the rich mousse was a gastronomic orgasm. I alternated spoonfuls of mousse and sips of coffee for the maximum flavor.

“To get back to what we were talking about—” Dave began.

“Not the geek, please!” I begged. “I'm eating.”

“No, I meant Riordan and Winthrop. Do you really think you should meet Winthrop? I mean, it's clear that all Riordan wants you to do is carry his message about someone else fixing the Stone case. Then Winthrop can use it to beat Parma over the head in print.”

“Sorry, Dave, but that prospect doesn't upset me much. I know you're being loyal to Parma, and I respect you for it, but I don't have to be. As far as I'm concerned, the more dirt that gets thrown around, the better. Maybe then somebody besides me will see a link between Blackwell and Nathan.”

“But doesn't it bother you to be doing Riordan's dirty work for him?”

“Not as long as I get something out of it.”

“But—”

“But me no buts. My mind's made up. I've always wanted to meet Jesse Winthrop, and I'm going to.”

He didn't say any more, but there was a spoiled-brat pout on his face for about ten minutes. We didn't even talk about movies anymore.

After dinner, we walked a little, then stopped into a little jazz club for a drink and some music. Dave ordered bourbon, and I had a brandy. I needed something I could sip slowly. We sat close together in the club, barely touching and losing ourselves in the undulating, lush harmonics of the group. Then I put my arm through Dave's tweedy one, and he clasped my hand in his. I was relieved. This was a way to communicate without misunderstandings about Riordan or anything else.

We stayed till the group finished their set, then walked outside. The cold air felt good after the smoky heat of the club. I was about to suggest we go to my place for a nightcap. Very forties and
film noir
, the word nightcap. It makes me think of John J. Malone and Jake and Helene Justus. But before I could offer, Dave asked me to his apartment and steered me toward his car.