Marked Man (26 page)

And yes, it was fresher than I remembered, if the scent of death can ever be described as fresh.

I turned on the lights. The lights of the kitchen, the old pewter chandelier in the green-walled dining room. I turned on the lights to protect me from what I now was certain I would find.

I scanned the living room from the dining room archway and saw nothing, and relief frizzled up my spine, and then I saw the leg with its khaki pants sticking out from the edge of the easy chair, the shiny brown loafer resting flat on the floor, as if someone were sitting in that chair calmly waiting for me to come around and say hey.

“Hello,” I said. “Mr. Quick?”

No answer.

Stanford Quick was sitting
in the easy chair, the same chair I had sat on when I tried not to throw up on my shoes. Khaki pants, plaid shirt, blue blazer, a drink in his hand, something brown and watery. He was leaning back comfortably, and there was in his expression something of a man telling a humorous story, who had been rudely interrupted. Interrupted with a bullet in his skull. I guess it wasn’t such a humorous story after all.

A flash whited out the entire scene, and then it came back, just as strange. Just as bloody. Flash flash.

“Can we go over this one more time?” said McDeiss, grabbing my lapel and pulling my attention away from the blood-spattered chair and the corpse of Stanford Quick as the photographer worked. Police were swarming once again in the Ciulla household, dusting for fingerprints, searching for blood. Outside, the carnival was in full swing—the boisterous crowd, the reporters, the television trucks with their microwave dishes pointed high. It’s funny how fast a murder brightens a slow news night.

“You were driving around looking for this Stanford Quick,” said McDeiss.

“That’s right,” I said.

“And you came up with the bright idea of looking for him here.”

“I thought there might be a connection.”

“And lo and behold you found the car that Mr. Quick’s wife had described.”

“It’s funny how when you tell a story ten times, the details stick, isn’t it, Detective?”

“And so, quite in character, you stepped right inside what was still a sealed crime scene.”

“The tape was gone, the door was open.”

“And you climbed the stairs and turned on every light in the place.”

“I’m afraid of the dark.”

“Leaving a trail of your fingerprints.”

“My little gift to the crime-scene search unit. At least I didn’t throw up, I know how much they love that.”

“And then you found him sitting on that chair, just like that, and called the police.”

“I poured him a drink first.”

“Excuse me?”

“He looked thirsty.”

“And you didn’t touch a thing when you found him.”

“Not a thing,” I said, which wasn’t exactly true, because before I called the cops, I had searched for something and I had found it and I had checked it out and then wiped off my prints and put it back.

“You want to tell me now about the connection you mentioned between Stanford Quick of Gladwyne and Ralph Ciulla of Tacony?”

“I thought I’d wait for Slocum and Jenna Hathaway. You know how I hate telling the same story over and over and—Oh, look, they’ve arrived.”

Slocum strode into the house like a captain striding onto the quarterdeck, his eyes behind his glasses alert, his beige raincoat swirling dramatically around him. It wasn’t chilly out and it wasn’t rainy, which sort of dampened the effect of the swirling coat, but still, you could tell that a crime scene had become a natural part of his habitat. Not so, however, with Jenna Hathaway, who walked hesitantly inside and stopped cold at the door when she saw the corpse. She stared at it for a long moment and then turned away as she put a hand up to her nose. Her father had been a regular at such scenes, but I suppose you don’t get to see too many dead guys on the tax-avoidance circuit.

“I’ll be back,” said McDeiss. “Wait here and don’t move.” He
started walking toward the prosecutors, stopped and swiveled his head toward me to check that I had listened.

“What?” I said.

“Don’t even twitch,” he said before continuing on his way.

When I had placed the call about the dead man in the easy chair, I placed it directly to McDeiss. Whatever we felt one for the other, my feelings were charged with a professional respect. And I had asked McDeiss to call both Slocum and Hathaway to the crime scene, because with two corpses, a killer on the loose, and my client still trying to come home, it was time to stop dicking around.

“Any idea what happened?” said Slocum when the four of us were finally together in the kitchen and I had gone through the whole finding-the-corpse business for the eleventh time.

“I’d guess murder,” I said.

“You think?” said Jenna Hathaway. “What was it that gave it away? The bullet in the forehead?”

“Any ideas on who did it?” said Slocum.

“Same guy who killed Ralph,” I said.

“Why?”

“Well, it’s the same room and the same house and, from what McDeiss has told me, it looks like the same caliber of bullet coming from the left side.”

“No, I mean why would the same guy want to kill two characters so different? Ralph Ciulla was a blue-collar guy from Tacony, and Stanford Quick was a high-powered corporate lawyer from Gladwyne. Where’s the connection?”

“The Randolph Trust.”

“Stanford Quick was the trust’s lawyer. Ralph Ciulla was maybe involved in the robbery twenty-eight years ago. That’s a pretty tenuous connection.”

“It goes deeper than that, and farther back into the past,” I said.

“No more dancing, Carl,” said McDeiss. “You’re going to tell us everything you know.”

I checked my watch. “It’s a little late for a story, don’t you think?”

“You can do it here and now,” said McDeiss calmly, “or later from a jail cell.”

“Now’s good,” I said quickly. And with that, I relayed to them the whole story, as much as I knew, about the Randolph Trust robbery, the five neighborhood losers who planned it, and what happened to four of them after they pulled it off.

“So what you’re saying,” said McDeiss once I had laid it out as best I could, “is that Ralph Ciulla, Joey Pride, your client, and this Stanford Quick were all part of the crew that pulled the heist?”

“That’s right.”

“So why are some of them showing up dead?”

“To keep them quiet. To keep the whole thing quiet. To keep Charlie away, to keep the painting hidden, to break any link that still existed between the Randolph heist and the one guy out of the original five who is still not identified. It was this final guy who arranged for Stanford Quick to show up at Ralph’s old house for some reason and then had him killed right here, in the very same room as Ralph.”

“Teddy Pravitz,” said Jenna Hathaway.

“So you think he’s back, killing all his old friends like Jason with his ski mask?” said McDeiss.

“Something like that, yeah,” I said. “Or he hired someone to do it for him.”

“But the statute of limitations on the robbery has long passed. Why does he care so much to drop a couple of corpses and make it all matter again?”

“Because it’s not just a robbery, is it, Jenna?”

“No,” she said.

I turned to her. “He was with her. Her brother told us what he told your father, that he had seen them together. And after the robbery that bastard took her, I’m sure of it.”

“You think he still has her?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s been twenty-eight years.”

“I know. But we need to find out.”

“How?”

“Enough already with cooperation agreements being tossed back and forth like a football,” I said. “Two men are dead, and more will die if you and I and Slocum don’t get together right now to make a deal.”

“Can someone tell me what the hell you two are talking about?” said McDeiss.

“She will,” I said. “After we make a deal.”

Slocum stared at me for a moment, trying to figure out how much of what I had just said was the truth and how much was utter bullshit, and then he turned to Jenna and nodded.

“What do you need?” she said to me.

“Immunity,” I said. “And witness protection. Someplace hot, but with a dry heat, for his sinuses. You give us that, he’ll tell you everything about the mob, the heist, and the girl.”

“And the painting, too,” said Slocum. “Don’t forget that little detail.”

“Has he agreed to your offer?” said Hathaway.

“I’ll get him to.”

“And what will he tell us?”

“I don’t know yet, but I’m going to find out, I promise you.”

“Okay. We’ll give him immunity on everything not having to do with the girl. And if he cooperates on her and we end up with the true story and an arrest, depending on what actually happened and his role in it, I promise nothing more than a couple of years in protective custody and then relocation.”

Slocum turned back to me. “Will that do it?”

“That will do it.”

“And who will bring him in?”

“I will,” I said.

“You?” said Slocum with a derisive edge to his voice.

“Yeah, me.”

“You got any body armor?”

“No.”

“Better get some.”

“This is all very pleasant and cordial,” said McDeiss, “and you better tell me what the hell you’re talking about, and soon. But first can you answer two questions for me? One: Who the hell is going around killing these guys?”

“Did you check that note Joey Pride gave me for fingerprints?” I said.

“Two matches,” said McDeiss. “Yours and prints from the phone where the 911 on Ralph Ciulla was called in.”

“That would be Joey, who is not the killer but instead is in line to be the next victim. The guy who did this is most likely an old hit man from Allentown, a Korean War vet with a buzz cut and gnarled hands, hired through and getting help from the remnants of the Warrick gang. Two hoods from that gang, named Fred and Louie, have been following me tighter than my shadow.”

“You see them around again, will you kindly give me a call?”

“With pleasure.”

“And question two,” said McDeiss. “What the hell was Stanford Quick doing with a pickax in the back of his Volvo?”

To avoid the crowds
and reporters waiting outside, they let me sneak out the back of the Ciulla house while Slocum was on the front steps making a statement and saying nothing. Sure, I wanted to avoid the snap, snap of cameras and shouted questions that make even the pope look guilty of something, but I also wanted a moment to check out the basement on my way from the house. I had hoped I’d be unescorted, but they sent a uniform named Ernie along to make sure I found my way out. Nice of them, don’t you think?

With the light on, the basement was an altogether less ominous place. The shadowy boxes were now just cartons of stuff. The heap of bizarre implements on the makeshift worktable were welder’s tools, a torch, a mask, an igniter, spools of solder, all covered with a layer of dust and debris. The sad remnants of Ralph Ciulla’s failed dream.

When McDeiss had asked about the pickax in Stanford Quick’s Volvo, I had simply shrugged and mentioned something about the gardens at Quick’s Gladwyne estate. I purposely hadn’t told McDeiss about the equipment, clothes, and guns buried in Ralph Ciulla’s basement, and I had my reasons. Sheila the Realtor was doing me a favor and keeping tabs on any potential buyers for the Ciulla house. There was surprising interest in the property, she said. I didn’t want word to get out that the cops were digging up the basement before I discovered from where the interest was emanating.

I had hoped the uniform would point me to the door and then head back upstairs, giving me time to explore, but it didn’t seem to be happening.

“Out this way, Mr. Carl.”

“Thanks, Ernie,” I said. “You can go on up if you want. I can get out from here.”

“That’s all right,” said Ernie as he led me forward and pulled open the door for me. “I’m glad to help.”

Ernie stood in the rear entryway and watched as I opened my car door and waved. He was still watching as I started the car and pulled out of the parking spot beside Stanford Quick’s Volvo and into the alley. They seem to be training them better these days.

I was just reaching the end of the alley when a shadowy figure jumped in front of my car. I slammed on the breaks and just avoided slamming into the intrepid Rhonda Harris.

I rolled down my window, she came around the side and leaned on the sill.

“Can you give me a ride?”

“You’re missing Mr. Slocum’s statement,” I said.

“Is he saying anything?”

“No.”

“Then I’d rather talk to you.”

“I don’t think so, Rhonda. I have nothing to say to the press.”

She gave me a sly smile. “I felt bad about walking out on you that night.”

“It was a bit abrupt.”

“The business I had to deal with was completed sooner than I thought. I slipped over to your apartment, but you weren’t there.”

“You really came over?”

“Yeah. Where were you?”

Screwing Sheila the Realtor, I thought but didn’t say. “I called a friend.”

“Someone I should be jealous of?”

“No,” I said.

“Good. What about that ride?”

I thought about it for a moment. Everything told me it was a mistake to put a reporter in my car, but she had come to my apartment looking for me, she had sought me out. The old weakness started shaking my knees.

“Sure,” I said, and her smile was bright enough to hurt.

She said she was living in the Loews Hotel on Market Street while she was working on the story. As I headed for I-95 and then drove south into Center City, I could feel her sitting next to me, her heat, her spicy red scent, the sensuality that she seemed to broadcast into the very air about her.

“What was it like in that house?” she said.

“Let’s just say you have a nicer fragrance than the dead man.”

“You want to tell me who he was?”

“Have the police announced his name yet?”

“No. They say they’re waiting until the family is notified.”

“Then I’ll wait, too.”

“Is this also about the painting?”

“No comment, Rhonda, really. I thought this was just a ride.”

“It is, but I am a reporter. Why don’t I make a few statements? If I’m completely off base, you’ll tell me. If I’m not, you won’t say anything.”

“Is this a trick you learned in journalism school?”

“No, from Robert Redford. You ready?”

“Go ahead.”

“The dead man was somehow associated with Ralph Ciulla.”

“No comment.”

“And he, too, was somehow involved with the painting.”

“Still no comment.”

“And the rumor swirling around the press corps was that he was some prominent lawyer.”

“I have nothing to say.”

“And other people are at risk, including your client.”

“Can we stop now?”

“And it’s all about someone who is desperate to get the painting for himself.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” I said. “I don’t think it has anything to do with the painting.”

“No? Then what is it about?”

“I’m not answering questions, remember?”

“But it is all somehow related, the robbery and the painting and your client and the two dead men, right?”

“No comment.”

“Okay, that’s great. Wait a moment, I have to make a call.” She took out a cell phone, pressed a button on her speed dial, waited for someone on the other end. “Jim? Rhonda. It’s just like I told you…. Right, it’s all connected. So along with the Rembrandt and the hood on the lam who wants to get home, there are two dead guys already and probably more on the way…. Yes, wonderful, isn’t it? I don’t think weneed to wait and see if I can get the interview anymore, let’s get it done…. Great. Let me know…. Ciao.”

“Who was that?” I said. “Your editor?”

“No, my agent.”

“Your agent?”

“We’re packaging this whole thing as a true-crime book: art, death, sex.”

“Sex?”

“There’s always sex,” she said as her hand distractedly fell on my knee, as if she were going to put sex in her book right then and there. “A couple publishers have already bid, but the offers have been limited because they all thought the scope was too small and they were waiting to see if I could get access to Charlie. With another body they won’t care about that anymore. I should have an advance by tomorrow afternoon.”

“There’s a man dead in that house. He had a wife and kids.”

“Yeah. That’s a shame, isn’t it?”

“How’d you get so hard on the art beat?”

“Artists are a bitch. Okay, no more business, I promise. How are you?”

“A bit rattled, actually.”

“Oh, Victor, I’m sorry,” she said. She lifted her hand from my leg, put her palm on my cheek. “I forget that you have a weak stomach.”

“It’s just that I was feeling really envious of him for the whole day until I found him dead. It was like he had the life I always wanted, the house, the job, the family life.”

“And now it’s available.”

I laughed. “Oh, so I should give the wife a call?”

“After a suitable mourning period.”

“And what is that?”

“Depends. Was she good-looking?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Then don’t wait too long.”

“You are hard, aren’t you?”

“It’s a hard world, Victor. You have to take what you want.”

“Do you think I’m tough enough to do that?”

“Victor, are you okay?”

“I’m just asking. What do you think?”

“No comment,” she said.

“I guess that’s my answer.”

When I pulled up in front of her hotel, she sat quiet in the car for a long moment. The Loews was in the old PSFS Building, a classic of modern design. The building was sleek and spare, with clean lines and big windows. I couldn’t help but think that making love in the Loews would be like making love in a Swedish movie. And Rhonda actually did look a little like Liv Ullmann.

“Do you want to come up?” she said finally.

“I don’t know. Maybe not tonight. I can still see him sitting there. He was in a chair. He still had a drink in his hand.”

“A drink in his hand? Oh, that is terrific. I have to call back and tell my agent that. It’s the details that make a story. When the book comes out, Victor, I’m going to make you a star, I promise.”

“I don’t feel like a star.”

“Not yet, you don’t. And an interview with your client would really seal the deal. Will you ask him?”

“Yes, I’ll ask him.”

“Thank you,” she said. She leaned over and gave me a kiss. It started out like a little peck, but it evolved. Her lips on mine were hard, angular. She leaned her upper body toward me so that her breast pressed into my chest, and when she opened her mouth, our teeth clacked. Her tongue was strong and rough. You could almost hear the sproing of arousal in my pants.

“Come on up,” she said, her voice suddenly husky. “We could order room service. Champagne and strawberries, what do you say? To celebrate my pending book deal.”

“I don’t think I should.”

“Oh, Victor, don’t think so much.”

“I can’t help it. It’s been my lifelong curse. So I’m sorry, really, but I have to decline. Besides, I have to pack. I’m heading out of town.”

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know yet,” I said. “But I’m finding out tonight.”