Deadly Rich (21 page)

Before he could turn, a force like none he had ever felt before yanked his head back, and a light flashed before his eyes.

He saw the taxi go by.

He called out to it.

Tried to call out to it.

All that came out of his mouth was a soundless pink spray, and it dawned on him that his throat had been slashed.

Tuesday, May 21

H
E LAY ON HIS
back on the sidewalk. A ribbon of red wound down his neck and petered out below the collar of his dress shirt. His hands were clutched over a series of deep horizontal wounds in his stomach. They were a chubby child’s hands, translucent and small and white, and they had not been able to keep his stomach from spilling onto his trousers.

“Any idea who he is?” Cardozo said.

The uniformed cop was standing stone-faced, silently appalled. He handed Cardozo a billfold of leather soft enough to have been unborn kid.

Cardozo opened it and smelled sandalwood. The charge cards and driver’s license said the dead man’s name was Avalon Gardner, of East Sixty-third Street.

He had died four blocks from home.

A flash went off. The photographer rose from his crouch and walked around the dead man and crouched again to get a shot of the opposite angle.

Around the body each separate crack and blister in the pavement stood out like a canyon in the police floodlight. Avalon Gardner’s face, with its still amazed eyes, glowed as though lit for a close-up. A man from the lab was using a tape to measure the distance from the dead man’s left hand to the trash basket on the curb. A woman in blue jeans was walking around the body in a half crouch, drawing a thick outline on the sidewalk in heavy white chalk.

Day-Glo orange tape had been stretched from the trash basket to the awning poles of the nearest building, from there to the wrought-iron bars of a ground-story window, marking off a perimeter around the corpse. Signs the size of little greeting cards dangled at two-foot intervals along the tape. The greeting on them read
CRIME SCENE
, and a steamy breeze nudged them into a dance.

An officer draped a slick yellow tarpaulin over Avalon Gardner’s body. A small crowd had gathered to watch. The medical examiner’s men were maneuvering a stretcher through.

Traffic along Park was picking up.

Cardozo’s eye scanned sightlines. On the corner diagonally across Park Avenue, three town houses stood dark. A white-pillared, Greek Revival Christian Science church took up the corner to the south. Except for a lantern-shaped light dimly glowing above the parish-house door, it too was dark.

“Did the doorman in this building see anything?” Cardozo asked.

“He didn’t see the killing,” the cop said. “But he thinks he may have seen the perpetrator.”

The lobby door was locked. Cardozo rang the buzzer. The doorman who let him in was a beefy, red-faced man.

“I understand you think you saw the perpetrator,” Cardozo said.

“I didn’t say
perpetrator.
I said
a guy.
There’s a difference.”

Cardozo’s eyes began to accustom themselves to the dimness. The lobby had an expensively simple look: gray walls, polished wood surfaces. Two rows of man-high corn plants stood in Chinese vases, floodlit from beneath so that the dark green veining of each leaf stood out.

“When did you see this guy?” Cardozo said.

“About two hours ago. He was hanging out in the doorway. We’ve had trouble lately. Kids come down here, graffiti the walls, piss in the doorway, mug the residents. An old lady on the eighteenth floor was getting out of a cab. A kid tried to snatch her purse—broke her hip, dragged her halfway down the block. I’m sure you’re aware what’s happening.”

Cardozo was aware. The police could no longer provide a secure environment, and Park Avenue money knew it. “Could you describe this guy?”

“About six feet, six one. Hundred seventy pounds. Cleanshaven. Dark hair. He was wearing Walkman earphones. He had on sweatpants and jogging shoes. They always wear jogging shoes, so you don’t hear them coming.”

“What color sweatpants?”

“Green. And he was wearing a T-shirt that said I love Alcatraz. There’s a heart where it would say
love.
I haven’t seen that one before, so it stuck in my mind.”

“Would you say this guy looked anything like either of these men?” Cardozo took the Identi-Kit and the photo of Jim Delancey from his pocket.

The doorman stared at them both a moment. “Maybe this one.” He picked the Identi-Kit. “But the guy I saw, his eyes were a lot crazier. Like he was doing major crack.”

Cardozo stepped outside again. Twenty feet away, across Sixty-seventh Street, police were setting up sawhorse barricades.

“What’s happening over there?” Cardozo said.

“A film crew from You and Me Productions is in town,” the cop said. “I think it’s a dog-food commercial.”

Cardozo watched men placing card tables in the archways of the building across the way. Lights were burning dimly behind the vaulted windows of the first story; the rest of the building was dark. Workmen were spreading tablecloths over the card tables and anchoring them with platters of bagels and oranges.

Cardozo crossed the street. The Sixty-seventh Street doors of the building had permanent brass plaques telling you this was the Dominion Club and the entrance was on Park Avenue. He went around the corner and pushed the buzzer.

A uniformed policeman with icicle eyes approached and told Cardozo he’d have to move on. “Filming is about to start. You’re in the shot.”

Cardozo took out his shield.

The officer blinked. He touched the brim of his cap, embarrassed, and stepped back.

In a moment, through the carved glass panels, Cardozo saw an inner door open. An ashen-faced old man shuffled down the steps, buttoning a green uniform jacket over a cotton undershirt. Cardozo held up his shield. The old man opened the front door. Cardozo saw that he was wearing slippers with his uniform trousers.

“Are you the night watchman?”

“This week.”

“A man was killed about an hour ago on the southwest corner of Park and Sixty-seventh. Did you happen to see anything?”

The old man pulled at an earlobe. “Only thing I saw was a kid, hour and a half ago. He was hanging around the front door. Had to chase him away.”

“Can you describe this kid?” Cardozo said.

“Dark hair, dark skin, six feet tall or so, heavy-set, could have been in his mid-twenties. He was stoned or drunk. Had headphones.”

“Did this kid seem to be any particular ethnic type? Irish? Italian? Black?”

The answer came fast. “Spanish. The music coming out of his earphones was ‘
ay, ay, ay, bamba, mira
’.”

Cardozo brought out the Identi-Kit drawing and the photo. “Would you say he looked like either of these men?”

The old man held the photo at arm’s length, then the drawing. He handed back the Identi-Kit and stared a moment longer at Delancey. He nodded. “He looked like this guy. You know—Hispanic.”

“
OKAY, CARL
,” Cardozo said, “where was he last night?”

Malloy sighed and pulled his notepad out of his pocket. “We’re not running a twenty-four-hour surveillance, just establishing his pattern. Right?”

Today two blackboards stood at the front of the room. On the right, Oona Aldrich’s, with a list of possible witnesses dribbling way down the right-hand side; on the left, Avalon Gardner’s, with a witness list that had gone no farther than two names: a doorman and a night watchman.

“Right,” Cardozo said. “So where was he?”

Malloy puckered his lips and flipped through the pad. “All his usual places at all his usual times. Left work at eight-fifteen, that’s maybe five minutes earlier than his regular check-out. Cut straight over to Third. Walked home, like he always does. Bought a Frozfruit from a deli right next to the Baronet movie theater. Reached Beekman Place at eight-fifty, went straight upstairs. I hung around till midnight.”

“Till midnight.” Cardozo saw what was coming. “Avalon Gardner was killed between twelve-thirty and one-thirty.”

“I didn’t see Delancey leave the building.” Malloy’s shoulders shaped a helpless shrug. “For thirteen days he’s been a creature of habit. I’m sorry, Vince. I was playing the odds. I put in my full eight hours, plus four hours overtime. I was dead tired. I went home at midnight.”

During the three seconds that no one in the utility room spoke, the sounds of a traffic jam in the street seemed to be coming from a bank of bullhorns on the other side of the wall.

“It was a judgment call.” Malloy snapped his notebook shut. “Okay, I goofed. But if you want Jim Delancey watched around the clock, you’re going to have to give me two men at least, and please explain to my wife.”

“Okay.” Cardozo’s hands made pacifying, oil-on-troubled-water movements. “It’s nobody’s fault but the economy’s. We’re way under strength. I’ll try to steal a couple of detectives to help out.”

Malloy sat staring at his lap, avoiding every eye in the room, looking absolutely miserable.

“Hold it.” Greg Monteleone was making a face as though he’d bitten into a Tootsie Roll and found glass. “Does anyone know one good reason why Delancey would kill this guy?”

“It could be he’s getting even,” Ellie Siegel said. “I reviewed the newspaper reports of the trial. The defense contended that Nita Kohler was a drugged slut who deserved what she got. The state called ten character witnesses to rebut.”

Cardozo waited through Ellie’s dramatic little pause. “Do we get to hear the names, or do we take a lunch break first?”

“The witnesses were Leigh Baker … Dizey Duke … Benedict Braidy … Tori Sandberg … Annie MacAdam … Gloria Spahn … Sorella Chappell … Fennimore Gurdon—”

Cardozo stopped her. “Who are Chappell and Gurdon?”

“They run an interior decorating outfit. Avalon Gardner also testified. And so did Oona Aldrich.”

“You could be right.” Greg Monteleone shrugged. “But there are eight living people on that list. If Delancey’s getting even, why hasn’t he killed them too? He’s had thirteen days.”

“Does it even have to be the same guy who killed Oona?” Sam Richards said.

“The cuts looked like the same guy did them,” Cardozo said. “The autopsy will clear that up. In the meantime, Ellie, will you check out Gardner’s will. Check out his address book. Draw up a list of beneficiaries and friends.”

Ellie Siegel’s green gaze met his for just an instant of narrow-eyed silence. The ballpoint pen in her hand made a swift notation in her notebook.

Cardozo rose to his feet. “That’s it, guys. Meeting adjourned, full steam ahead.”

Ellie rose from her chair, but she didn’t leave with the others. “I don’t suppose you saw Dizey Duke’s column yesterday morning?”

“Did I miss something?”

She fixed Cardozo with a look that was not quite a smile. She opened her purse and handed him a neatly scissored clipping.

Talk of
le tout
Park Avenue is the scrumptious dinner Annie MacAdam is serving
chez elle
tonight. Annie’s eight-room duplex has been newly decorated by the hot, hot interior design firm of Gurdon-Chappell, who (don’t tell a soul) were called in last season to rescue Prince Charles’s London digs. Cahn’t wait to see the blue on that trim, said to be a dream. Bets are being taken as to dessert, with the smart money favoring ginger crème brulée. Poor Annie must be limp after the awesome task of whittling down the guest list to 80 very close friends, but then she’s had to do it often enough before.

He handed back the clipping. For a moment his silence flowed into hers.

“Twice in a row, Vince. My instinct says he’s getting his coordinates from Dizey’s sneak previews.”

Cardozo’s phone rang. He lifted the receiver. “Cardozo.”

“Vince.” It was Captain Reilly’s assistant. “The captain wants to see you right now. In his office.”

“
YOU KNOW DEPUTY COMMISSIONER
Bridget Braidy,” Tom

Reilly said.

“Yes indeed,” Cardozo said. “We met at the PBA banquet.”

Bridget Braidy rose from her chair. She wore a loosely fitted dark blue business suit and a blouse with an enormous matching floppy bow tie. Her broad, wide-nosed face was smiling, and the smile showed slightly discolored, stubby teeth. “It’s good to see you again, Lieutenant.”

They had to shout. A mass of radio and TV people, newspaper and wire-service reporters had jammed into Reilly’s office. Two dozen voices were screaming at once. Flashbulbs popped, mini-cams fought for good angles, microphones thrust themselves into the air.

“Commissioner Braidy has brought some terrific news,” Tom Reilly said. “We’re getting fifty men.”

Cardozo shook Bridget Braidy’s hand, a thank-you for the string-pulling he knew it had taken. “Believe me, they couldn’t have come at a better time.” There was no such thing as extra men in New York’s permanently understaffed police force. The mayor’s new budget had slashed the carotid artery of support services, and contrary to media hype, the latest increase in police funding had been gobbled up by a City Hall salary-and-perks grab.

“Okay, okay.” Tom Reilly came around to the mike that had been set up in front of his desk. “A little order, please.”

The sound of shouting died down to the sound of talking.

“We’ve got a very important announcement and we want to just make it briefly, so we can get on with our work of protecting the public and you people can get on with your work of informing the public.” Tom Reilly smiled broadly at Bridget Braidy. “I don’t suppose I have to introduce Assistant Deputy Commissioner Bridget Braidy to any of you.”

Braidy took the mike. The talking stopped. With an almost coquettish movement her hand went up to pit-pat her hair. In the glare of photographers’ lights the hair was a strange dark brown with glints of a stranger, darker brown. Tiny, barely noticeable diamond earrings made two little glints in the lobes of her ears.
I’m a woman,
they seemed to say,
but see? I don’t flaunt it.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Bridget Braidy said, “we’ve all been outraged, and rightly so, at the killings of Oona Aldrich and Avalon Gardner. The mayor and the commissioner have asked me to announce that an enlarged task force is being established, effective immediately, to cope with this crisis. The mayor and the commissioner are contributing twenty-five detectives each from their personal-security forces, a total of fifty men and women. Heading up the task force will be one of the Department’s most experienced and distinguished officers, Lieutenant Vince Cardozo.”