McNally's Secret (27 page)

“What happened to him?” Al asked me.

“Testicular trauma,” I reported. “Resulting from a sudden, sharp blow from the toe of an Allen-Edmonds cordovan kiltie, size ten-and-a-half.”

The sergeant grinned at me. “Thank you, Bruce Lee,” he said. “Dollars to doughnuts he sues you for causing him emotional distress.” He turned to the other two cops. “Get the bum out of here. Take him in and book him.”

“What’s the charge?” one of the officers asked.

“Impersonating a human being,” Rogoff said. “Just sit on him till I get back.”

We watched as the two hauled Bodin to his feet and dragged him to their car. He was crouched over, feet dragging, and he was still whimpering.

“Thank you, Herb,” I said to the guard. “You behaved splendidly.”

“Happy to be of service, Mr. McNally,” he said. I believe that if he had a forelock he’d have tugged it.

Al and I sat in the Miata. He lighted a cigar and I an English Oval.

“The girlfriend talked?” I asked him.

“Yep,” he said, “but didn’t spill much we didn’t already know. She claims Bodin gave her the stamps to sell.”

“Did she know they were counterfeit?”

“She didn’t say, and I didn’t tell her. But I think both she and Bodin thought they were the real thing. By the way, those Inverted Jennies
are
fakes, according to the expert we called in.”

“Did Sylvia tell you where Bodin got the stamps?”

“She says they were given to him by an elderly man who was staying at the Horowitz place. That would be Angus Wolfson—right? The deal was that Bodin was to get ten percent of whatever he sold the stamps for.”

“You’re telling me Wolfson lifted the Inverted Jennies?”

Rogoff laughed. “I know what a keen student of human nature you are, Dr. Freud. You already told me it would be completely out of character for Wolfson to steal anything. But in this case I’m afraid you have more crap than a Christmas goose. Wolfson pinched them, all right.”

I thought he had it wrong, but I wasn’t about to tell him that.

“Speaking of Wolfson,” I said, “I hereby confess I was mistaken about his death. You were right; it was suicide.”

He looked at me quizzically. “What convinced you?”

I related what Roberta Wolfson had told me about her brother’s terminal illness, his refusal to undergo radiation and chemotherapy, the constant pain he suffered.

“Reason enough to shuffle off this mortal coil,” I said.

“Uh-huh,” the sergeant agreed. “But he had another reason.”

“Oh? And what, pray, was that?”

“Guilt. While we had Wolfson’s body, we took his fingerprints. They matched up pretty well with the prints we took off the glass paperweight that caved in Bela Rubik’s skull.”

I hadn’t anticipated that, but I wasn’t shocked. The stamp dealer would have unlocked his door for Angus Wolfson, but not for a bruiser like Bodin.

“You’re sure, Al?” I asked. “About the prints, I mean.”

“Seventy-five percent sure,” he said, “and that’s good enough for me. This case is officially closed as far as I’m concerned. Rubik’s homicide is cleared. The killer, Wolfson, is dead. Lady Horowitz gets her fake stamps back. Maybe Bodin will do some time, but it won’t be heavy. Now the PBPD can concentrate on important investigations, like who’s been swiping kiwis and mangoes from the local Publix.”

“Do me a favor,” I urged. “Tell me how you figure the whole thing went down. From the top.”

“Sure,” he said genially, puffing away at his cigar. “Wolfson had a lot of medical expenses, and he wasn’t a rich man to begin with. As you would say, he was getting a bit hairy about the heels. So he swiped the Inverted Jennies, figuring Lady Horowitz had zillions and could stand the loss. Then he does something stupid: he tries to peddle the stamps to a local dealer. I figure he left the Inverted Jennies with Bela Rubik, giving him a chance to make an appraisal. Rubik already had the stamps when you first met him.

“Wolfson goes back to Rubik’s shop on the afternoon the yacht cruise was canceled. Rubik tells him his stamps are forgeries. Knowing Rubik, I’d guess he got hot about it and threatened to tell the police that Wolfson was trying to sell counterfeits. Wolfson panicked and bounced the paperweight off Rubik’s skull. I don’t think he meant to kill him. Just knock him out, get his stamps back, and lam out of there.

“Then Wolfson reads the local papers and realizes he’s a murderer. Also, he hasn’t got the wheels to get around to other dealers, and he knows he’s getting weaker. So he makes a deal with Kenneth Bodin, a money-hungry sleaze if ever I saw one. The chauffeur agrees to sell the stamps for a piece of the take. It’s the best Wolfson can do. The rest you know. How does it sound?”

“Did Wolfson tell Bodin the stamps were forgeries?”

“No. Bodin and Sylvia thought they were handling something of genuine value. Look, maybe even Wolfson himself thought Rubik was wrong, and that he had stolen the real thing. Well?”

He had some of it right, but not all of it. But I had no desire to point out his errors; most of the mistakes were due to information I had not revealed. If Al’s scenario was going to be the official version, so be it. It hurt no one. And I had other fish to fry.

“Yes,” I said, “everything sounds plausible.”

“No objections?”

I knew he’d be suspicious of total agreement. “A few minor questions,” I said. “Like Wolfson’s relations with Kenneth Bodin. I think he really had a thing for that mug.”

“Sure he did,” Rogoff said, nodding. “That’s why he picked him as an accomplice and offered a piece of the pie. Hoping for favors in return.”

“Yes,” I said, “that makes sense. Was Bela Rubik really going to turn Wolfson in?”

Al gave me a twisted smile. “Only after he examined the stamps and saw they were counterfeit. If they had been legit, Rubik would have made a deal even if he knew they were stolen property. He was that kind of guy.”

I sighed. “Well, I guess that wraps it up. Sorry to have dumped this mess in your lap, sarge.”

“It comes with the territory,” he said shrugging. “I’m leaving it to your father to tell Lady Horowitz her stamps are forgeries. I’m taking a week of my vacation starting tomorrow. I want to be out of town when she hears that. There goes her insurance claim!”

I laughed along with him. He got out of the Miata, lifted a hand in farewell, and strutted toward his squad car, still chewing on his cigar. I had a brief pang at not revealing the whole truth, but consoled myself with the thought that it would cause no loss to him and might benefit others.

Suddenly I yelled, “Al!” I got out of the car and trotted after him. “Did you remember to ask Sylvia about Thomas Bingham?”

“I remembered,” he said. “She claims Bingham is a drinking buddy but knows nothing about the Inverted Jennies. Disappointed?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “Will you ask Kenneth Bodin?”

“You never give up, do you? All right, I’ll ask the master criminal.”

He got in his car and backed up the ramp. I glanced at my watch, muttered a curse (mild), and hurriedly transferred my binoculars to the Ford Escort. Then I set out in pursuit of Lady Cynthia Horowitz.

I just did make it. I was heading north on Ocean Boulevard and as I passed the Horowitz gate I saw the Jaguar heading out, Lady C. at the wheel. She turned south, and I averted my head as I went by, hoping she wouldn’t spot me.

I continued north for about fifty yards, made a screaming U-turn, and set off after the Jag. It wasn’t difficult to keep it in view; the madam’s hair was bound with a fuchsia scarf, and on that dreary day it glowed like a beacon in the fog. Traffic was light, and I thought it wise to hang back. I knew where she was going; there was no need to tailgate.

Sure enough, she eventually turned into the driveway of Hillcrest. I drove slowly past and was delighted with what I saw: The Jaguar had not been driven around to the rear of the house, facing Lake Worth, but was parked in front on the brick driveway. Lady Cynthia was out of the car and just entering the front door as I went by.

I drove back and forth a few times, considering my options. Not many. My notion of lurking in the underbrush with my binocs was nutsy. The homes north and south of Hillcrest were occupied, and if I was seen slinking furtively about, the gendarmes would have been summoned for sure.

I finally decided my original fear of looking like a demented bird-watcher wasn’t such a bad idea after all. So I drove north to a small area that provided parking space for beachgoers. I locked the car and hiked back to Hillcrest, the binoculars hanging from a strap around my neck. Occasionally I paused to use the glasses, scanning all the foliage in sight and sometimes peering eastward, pretending I was looking for seabirds. What a performance! Stanislavsky would have been proud of me.

I came to Hillcrest and casually examined the surrounding trees. In the process, of course, I took a good look at the house itself. The Jaguar was still parked in front, but I could discern no action, no one moving behind any of the windows.

I continued my impersonation of a birder, parading north and south, using my binoculars until my eyes began to ache. I wondered how long I would have to maintain this charade—an hour? Two? Three? It turned out to be exactly one hour and forty-three minutes. I knew; I looked at my watch often enough.

I was then south of the house, standing on the eastern verge of the corniche, partially concealed by a row of big-leafed sea grapes. I was watching the house when the front door opened and Lady Cynthia came out. Her hair was unbound; she was carrying the fuchsia scarf. She paused on the portico, turned around, and spoke animatedly through the opened door to someone within.

I used the zoom lever and adjusted the focus to bring her into closer and sharper view. She was laughing, shaking her head prettily, and once she pouted and stamped her foot. I saw her reach out to the person within.

“Come out, come out, whoever you are,” I sang aloud. And then, unsure of my grammar, I sang again, “Come out, come out, whomever you are.”

Out he came.

My father.

I watched, glasses trembling slightly, as the two clutched in a fervid embrace and kissed. That was no fond and friendly farewell between attorney and client; it was an impassioned grapple and the osculation seemed to go on forever.

What may amuse you (or possibly not) was that my most convulsive shock came from seeing my father tieless, vestless, and coatless. Prescott McNally in shirtsleeves at midday! I can’t tell you how
lubricious
it made the scene appear to me.

Finally they drew regretfully apart. Lady Horowitz went down to the Jaguar and gave father a final wave. He waved in return, went back into the house, closed the door.

She turned northward, heading for home. I sprinted for my Escort. I figured my father had parked the Lexus behind the house and soon he too would be heading north. I wanted to be long gone before that.

I drove back to the McNally Building at an illegal speed. I couldn’t seem to cease brooding on the fact that I had recently witnessed two illicit embraces: Angus Wolfson-Kenneth Bodin and Cynthia Horowitz-Prescott McNally. Sgt. Al Rogoff had claimed that things happened in threes. I had a gloomy premonition of who might be involved in the third doomed embrace.

I pulled into the garage, and Herb hustled over before I got out of the Escort.

“You feeling all right, Mr. McNally?” he inquired anxiously.

“Tiptop, thank you, Herb,” I said. “Couldn’t be better.”

“Glad to hear it,” he said. “I should have shot that no-good. He deserved it.”

He went back to his booth, still muttering. I climbed into the Miata and lighted a cigarette. I was pleased to see my hands were steady. I slumped, put my head back, stared at the sprinkler pipes overhead. I found that my reactions to what I had just seen took the form of an interrogation, a personal Q-and-A.

“What amazes you most about the affair?”

“The logistics involved. The planning! They had to find a place relatively safe from public view and gossip. So she rented an old house away from Palm Beach. And he arranged his absences from the office so no one might suspect.”

“Why didn’t you? After all, on at least two occasions he was not available at the same time she was mysteriously gone. And he was quick to correct you when you thought her older than she really is.”

“That’s right, but it just never occurred to me that they might be having a thing.”

“Why not? Because of their age?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You think there’s a certain cutoff point in everyone’s life when the dreams end? They never end. (I hope.)”

“How long do you think their liaison has been going on?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Probably for months. I could find out by asking Evelyn Sharif how long Hillcrest has been rented. But what’s the point of that?”

“Be honest: You really have a grudging admiration for your father, don’t you?”

“I guess I do.”

“Because you have inherited his propensities?”

“The turd never falls far from the bird.”

“Are you going to tell him you know?”

“Good God, no! I happen to love the man, despite his faults. Maybe because of them. He and I have a very special relationship.”

“What you just learned—won’t that end the relationship?”

“Of course not. It may change it, but it’ll remain special.”

“Will you tell your mother?”

“She already knows. I realize that now, from things she’s said recently. How do women
know?
But for all her nuttiness, she has a wisdom that eclipses mine. And she has love and patience. She knows he’ll come back to her.”

“So you’re not going to tell anyone?”

“I didn’t say that.”

The questioning ended, and I knew what I was going to do. I derived a sour amusement from recalling the scam I had used with Connie Garcia—that someone was blackmailing Lady Horowitz. It had turned out to be true. The blackmailer was me.

I drove out into a mizzle that swaddled the world in a foggy mist the color of old pewter. It wasn’t drizzling hard enough to put on the Miata’s hat, but I could see moisture collecting in pearls on windshield and hood. It became thicker as I neared the coast, and when I turned into the Horowitz driveway I headed directly for the garage to get my baby under cover.