Neal Rafferty New Orleans Mystery #1: The Killing Circle (A Neal Rafferty New Orleans Mystery) (8 page)

It was better that I'd hoped for. “Maurice, that's the best news so far today and there hasn't been much. Do you know of any link between André and Fleming's son?”

“No. Look, Neal, I'm glad that was such good news, but give out with the stuff.”

“You know you can't stand speculation not based on hard facts, Maurice. I'll be talking to you.”

I got back in the car and pointed it once again in the direction of Audubon Place. I pushed on the accelerator considerably harder than I had before I made the detour to the phone booth.

10

My Son, My Son

Audubon Place is a quiet, wide street divided by a grass-turfed median called a neutral ground by Orleanians. Azaleas and myrtle trees dot the ground, and in the spring and summer the area turns into a muticolored floral show. Some of the grandest houses in the city are majestically spread at decent distances from each other along the street, their lawns tended to and manicured in a landscaped perfection reminiscent of a Los Angeles cemetery.

Audubon Place is also exclusive. Guards are stationed at both ends to keep out the riffraff. Once when I was a kid I was busted by one of them for using the private street as a cut-through from Freret to St. Charles Avenue. He had me for no headlight on my bicycle and no ID. I didn't know that he really couldn't do anything to me, and even though I gave him a phony name and address, for the next few days I was terrified that the old man was going to find out anyway. He wouldn't have cared about the headlight or ID, but I would have been black and blue for traveling so far from home.

Once again I was asked for an ID as I pulled up to the medieval-looking stone guardhouse on the St. Charles side, but this time I got no trouble. Fleming, thorough as always with never a moment to waste, must have told the guard to let me through and then phone him that I was on the way. The guard told me the Fleming house was the one with the towers. It was easy enough to spot. I walked up the marble steps to a fantastical gabled mansion with three turrets.

I presumed that she was Mrs. Fleming. She had blue-white skin and blonde hair that was as stiff and well-shaped as a shrub. She looked very tense.

“Oh,
M
r
.
Rafferty,” she said in a drawl that under the right circumstances could have oozed Southern charm and hospitality, “thank goodness you're here. Carter is just beside himself.”

Fleming came flying across the marble foyer that was as big as my apartment. “Goddammit, Rafferty, where the hell have you been? And what's the idea—bringing the police in on my business? If I had wanted to handle it that way, I would have called them myself. I want answers and I want them goddamn fast.”

I wouldn't have expected a big man to quiver quite like that. There was nothing to do but work some pure Rafferty logic on him.

“Mr. Fleming, when there's a case of murder, if I refused to tell the cops who my client is, if I withhold information, possibly suppressed evidence, what would you expect them to do to me?”

“Haul you in and take your license.” He started to go on but I interrupted him.

“And what would you have done if that had happened?”

“Christ, Rafferty, I'd have had it fixed up in no time.”

“Well, then, why in the world would you think I had told them anything?”

He looked confused, but he was beginning to get it. He was also considerably calmer. “You didn't?” he asked.

“No. What do you think, I walked into the nearest police station and laid it on them?”

He didn't like my tone of voice. “So how did they find out?” he demanded.

“They have their ways. You could figure it out if you thought about it. What I want to know is what did you tell them?”

“I didn't tell them a goddamn thing.”

I grinned. “I knew you wouldn't.”

“So they don't know anything?” He was looking rather pleased.

“I told them I'd come clean after I talked to you. And I'll have to—we'll both have to.”

“So you have talked to them?” There was a hint of an accusation in the way he said it.

“Sure I talked to them. I had to let them know Garber was dead. Since I found him.”

He was actually sympathetic. “I didn't know that, Rafferty.”

I shrugged. “You had no way of knowing.”

“What do they think? What do you think? Who do they suspect?”

“They don't exactly confide in me, you know, but just assume they suspect everybody who had any involvement at all with him. If you ask me, the body's been locked up in that store a good week. They'll probably start there.”

He must have thought I was going to get graphic about the body. He glanced nervously at his wife. She didn't appear to be in the least disturbed about the body. She was looking at us both in a most pleasant way, the tension gone. I guess she was relieved that Fleming wasn't storming around anymore. I could imagine that it wasn't much fun for her when he was out of sorts. I guess, too, that a week-old body just wouldn't have much significance in her happy, tea-filled life. I hoped it would keep on not having much significance to her.

Fleming patted her on the shoulder and told her that he and I were going to talk things over. She took her cue and went to the back of the house.

Fleming and I sat in the Victorian parlor; me on an uncomfortable brocaded love seat, him in what looked like an equally uncomfortable matching high-backed chair. I was concentrating on gracefully keeping my hip pockets stable on the slippery material covering the narrow seat. Fleming picked at his thumbnail, his brow furrowed in concentration. He had just given a low whistle, not at his thumb, but at my stating that André had made the offer for the Blake books. We had finally gotten around to the books, and Fleming had been upset that they hadn't been at the store.

“Robert André? That old coot inherited all his money and has never done a thing in his life but pretend to write his memoirs for the last twenty years. He had to get rid of all his domestic help a few years ago and that house is going to pot. He couldn't raise a couple of thousand dollars on short notice and not ninety thousand on any notice at all, and I'm sure that's not just hearsay.”

“Why couldn't he? Maurice described him as a strange bird.”

“Well, he and I were members of the same men's club and the treasurer of the club told me, confidentially of course, that André had been dropped from the membership roles for nonpayment of dues.”

“Maybe he got tired of looking at the same hands clutching the daily newspaper”

Fleming shook his head. “It's the money.”

“What happened to his wife?”

“Died in childbirth.”

“The only child?” He nodded, looking strangely preoccupied.

“Where's your son, Fleming?”

His head jerked up. “I thought we were trying to get to the bottom of this Garber business.”

“We are.”

“Well, I don't think a discussion of families is pertinent.”

“Pertinence is relative,” I said.

“Not my son, Rafferty. A discussion of my son is not pertinent.”

“Since you hired me to do this job, why don't you let me decide what's pertinent?”

“Since I'm paying your fee,” he shouted, fingering himself in the chest, “I'll decide what's pertinent.”

“I didn't realize that your fee entitled you to play Watson to my Sherlock. I prefer to work alone. If I didn't I'd have joined up with Giarrusso's Security Service.”

Fleming glared at me. “My son is living in New York now. He doesn't have anything to do with this and I want him left out of it. Do you understand?” He said it quietly, menacingly.

I got up. “I can find my way out.”

I went through the foyer to the door. He started up the circular stairway. I was halfway out when he called to me from the top of the stairs, “And, Rafferty, you keep in better touch. I like to know what's going on blow by blow and that ain't playing Watson.”

He disappeared. I stepped out but didn't pull the door to. Instead, I went back in and slammed the door from there and made a quick trip across the foyer and out of view from the stairway. I walked to the back in hopes of running into Mrs. Fleming. I pushed the swinging door to the kitchen. There she was, just sitting at the kitchen table.

“Mrs. Fleming, I'll be off now. Mr. Fleming has gone upstairs.”

She gave me a big smile. “Well, I hope you two have gotten your differences straightened out.”

“Oh, yes, indeed we have.” I smiled back.

“Oh, good. Such a terrible thing about Stanley. I told Carter that I just couldn't imagine Stanley being dishonest, you know, about the books, that he must be in some trouble, but I never thought when I said that . . .”

“Well, you were certainly right. He was in the worst kind of trouble.” There was an uncomfortable silence. She got up. “Don't bother to show me out. I just wanted to let you know that everything is okay. Look, I’ll just go out this way.” I moved quickly to the back door.

“Oh, no, Mr. Rafferty . . .”

“No, really, Mrs. Fleming, I insist. I wouldn't want to disturb Mr. Fleming if he's gone to bed.” We smiled some more at each other. “I understand your son is living in New York now,” I said conversationally as I put my hand on the doorknob.

“Yes, he is,” she said pleasantly, like she didn't mind, almost like it was rather exciting.

I shook my head. “That's a big tough town. Does he like it there?”

“He seems to. Very much.”

“Well, he can have it, for me. Too far away. You must miss him.”

“Oh, I do. I know he loves it up there and I know it's selfish of me, but I wish he would come back. I worry about him—he's very young, you know.”

“He'll come back, don't you think?”

She looked troubled. “I don't know. I'm not sure.”

“Well, I hope you had a nice visit with him last week.” I edged it right on by her.

“Oh, we did. He was only here for three days and then he and Carter . . .” She bit her lip as if she'd gone too far. “I'd hoped he would stay for at least a week, but he had to get back.”

I could tell she was embarrassed. “I've spent some time up there,” I said. “Where does he live?”

“On Broome Street.”

“SoHo?” I asked and she nodded. “Isn't that a coincidence. The son of some old friends of my family is living up there, too, right there in SoHo. He's an artist.”

She brightened up. “Really? That's what Carter's doing, too. I wonder if they know each other?”

“I don't know. Why don't we put them in touch? Maybe they'll talk each other into coming home. I'll tell Jim to call him.” Jim is a middle-aged detective I know in the Bronx.

“Carter refuses to have a telephone. That's one reason why I worry. I can't just pick up the phone and make sure he's okay.”

“Why don't you give me his address? They can't live that far from each other.”

She looked dubious. “I don't know. Carter's very determined to be completely on his own. He might think we're trying to check up on him.”

“Maybe you're right. He probably has his own friends there anyway.” I opened the door.

She put her hand on my arm. “Wait, Mr. Rafferty. How old is Jim?”

“Twenty.”

“Well, maybe it would be okay.” She gave me the address on Broome Street. “Do you think you could find out from Jim—without being obvious—what kind of place Carter is living in?” She laughed nervously. “It would make me feel better. I don't know why.”

I told her I thought I could manage that. “When did Carter leave?” I asked. It was a little too casual. She gave me a peculiar look. “You know, is he back in New York yet?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “He's been gone a week. He left last Monday.”

The coincidences didn't like Carter Fleming III very much.

11

Old Friends Getting Together

My plan was to go back to the Euclid to call for a reservation on the first plane to New York in the morning, then go over to Grady's and talk to Murphy about the Boy Scout. I got myself booked on a seven o'clock flight and lay back on the bed with my eyes closed. I was just beginning to relax when the knuckles started pounding on the door. When I opened it I got a perfectly framed picture of Uncle Roddy with his eyes at half mast. A younger, more brutal looking man was standing behind him chomping on a wad of chewing gum. It took me a minute to realize who he was. His name was Phil Fonte, and he was the younger brother of Raymond Fonte whom I enjoyed beating up several times while we were at Redemptorist together. Raymond and I had it in for each other for some unspecified reason. When feelings ran high we would meet after school, each with his group of supporters, being careful to move down the street a good distance so the nuns wouldn't catch us fighting. Little Phil, still at St. Alphonsus, cried one day when I punched his brother in the face and spilled a lot of his blood. He

stood behind Rankin now sneering at me. This damn town is entirely too small.

“Well, well, Lieutenant, what a surprise,” I said cheerfully. Uncle Roddy always liked me to address him formally in front of subordinates.

“Mind if we come in, Neal?”

“Not at all, Lieutenant. It's always a pleasure to welcome officers of the law to my humble house.” I stood back and made a sweeping gesture of entrance.

“Hm,” said Rankin.

We sat around the dining table. “Can I get you boys something to drink? Coffee? Or how about something a bit stronger—if you're going to be calling it quits for the night soon?” I have never seen Rankin turn down a drink.

“A Scotch and water for me,” he said. Fonte nodded agreement. I went into the kitchen and fixed two drinks.

“This is Sergeant Fonte, Neal. He's going to be working this case with me.”

The only acknowledgment I got from Fonte was when he popped his wad of gum at me.

“Sergeant,” I said and handed him his drink.

Rankin smiled at me, a tired, almost affectionate smile.

“Well, Lieutenant, your disposition seems somewhat improved since we last met. I suppose Carter Fleming is responsible for that.”