Toured to Death (16 page)

T
he Cindilu Dairy was a Greenwich Village institution, a one-story, shingled structure that had the well-weathered look of a country general store plopped down on a New York street corner. Local legend stated that this had been the favorite tobacco shop of Edgar Allan Poe when he lived on one of the neighboring streets. In fact, the decor seemed little changed from Poe's heyday, which was how the current owners liked it. Lou and Cindy Halpern presided over the dusty shelves and the lunch counter and the cats that lounged like furry mannequins in the storefront windows.

The Halperns were twins, both single, probably in their late forties; that was Amy's guess. Their parents had been television writers during the Red Scare, when Joseph McCarthy was engaged in rooting out subversives from the ranks of the artistically employed. The Halperns became late victims of the blacklist, forced to retire their typewriters and take their socialist views into the grocery/delicatessen trade, where they named the store after their twins and left it to them, along with their deeply rooted views.

All through her childhood, this had been Amy's hangout, the sanctuary where she and her friends would try on lipstick and talk endlessly about boys. On rainy Saturdays she would come in alone for hot cocoa. Cindy would sneak her a few leftist comic books featuring such superheroes as Samuel Gompers and Emma Goldman. For hours she would sit contentedly, sipping and reading, while the grown-ups lounged in the windows, like the cats, and complained about the weather or the government.

Amy pushed open the screen door and immediately spotted Frank in the remotest of the high-backed wooden booths. She signaled Lou for coffee, then joined the patrolman, scooting Alhambra off the cushioned seat and back to her spot in the sunlight.

“They have good muffins here. You want a muffin?”

Frank nodded.

“Lou, two of your best blueberries.”

“Nice place,” Frank said, crimping his face into a smirk.

Amy turned her head, following Frank's line of sight. “Which one?” he asked.

Amy looked up to see the sign on the wall above her own head. A familiar bumper sticker was hanging in a frame: IMPEACH THE PRESIDENT.

“Any. Lou doesn't play favorites.” She settled into the prewarmed seat. “So, what's the deal? You sounded so mysterious on the phone.”

“You got the rest of the morning free?”

“I told you that last night. Yes.”

Frank sighed. “Okay. We got a meeting this morning with Sergeant Rawlings of Manhattan South Homicide Division.”

“Rawlings?”

“We gotta handle this right.” Frank seemed edgy, and Amy was beginning to share the feeling. “Manhattan homicide is not my beat. You know, protocol and all that. They have this status thing, more like an attitude. Too smart and tough for the rest of us. So here I am, you know? A Bronx patrolman sticking my nose into a Midtown murder?”

“Midtown murder?” Amy choked on the words.

“That's what I wanted to warn you about.” Frank leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “Martha Callas called me from Rome and asked me to do a little checking.”

Amy's heart sank. “She told you about the Otto connection. And you went to Rawlings.”

“We're all on the same team, right?” He paused and leaned back into his booth as Lou delivered their mutant, blue-speckled muffins and two cups of much-needed coffee.

“You in trouble with the pigs?” Lou's tone was at once aggressive and protective. The fact that Frank was out of uniform didn't fool him for a minute.

“It's all right,” Amy said, shooing Lou away. “Frank is a friend.”

Frank took his muffin and began to pick at the paper baking cup, waiting until Lou was out of range. “Strange bird.”

“Look, Frank, I don't want to seem ungrateful. . . .”

“I can help, you know. Rawlings is gonna extend me some courtesy. Hey, I had to tell him. I'm an officer, for Pete's sake.”

“There's no proof the murders are connected.” Amy sighed. She had been hoping to keep the two halves of the case separated, without having to deal with the NYPD. “I'm sorry. Maybe you're right.”

“I'm right. We can't solve this on our own. Of course we gotta be careful. I mean, with New York and Rome both investigating, it could get complicated.”

“So we're going to Rawlings's office.”

“Don't underestimate him,” warned Frank. “Okay? It's not like on TV, where the cops are gruff and dumb and can't put two and two together. These guys are smart. Rawlings wants to know what you know. You act like a harmless, curious female, and maybe he'll give you something in return. You were in Monte Carlo at the time of Otto's murder, so there's no chance of you being a suspect.”

“God, I hope not.”

Frank flinched at the profanity. Amy wondered how the man survived day to day in a Bronx precinct house. “Just stay calm and honest. If you're unsure about something, shut up and let me do the talking.”

Amy nodded. She would have felt more reassured if all throughout his words of comfort, Frank hadn't been unconsciously tearing off bits of the muffin baking cup and scattering them over the tabletop. The spot in the wood where Amy's first boyfriend had carved their initials was already covered up with the blueberry-stained litter.

“Is there something you're not telling me, Frank?”

“Not telling you? The reason we're here is for me to tell you. What ain't I telling you?”

“I don't know.”

Amy watched as the table's oak surface became a mess of paper and crumbs.

A
detective squad room wasn't like TV, either, Amy discovered. She had been looking forward—well, not looking forward; expecting—a large, open floor chock-full of camaraderie, with action and flying wisecracks, with swaggering perps sitting across from gruff detectives who banged away on triplicates stuffed into their Remington Rands. Okay, maybe computers. This wasn't TV Land.

Instead, the homicide squad room was a warren of quiet cubicles, essentially small, depressing, sound-insulated booths. Each cubicle had walls about seven feet high and was outfitted with a desk, three chairs, a computer terminal, and the few touches of home that office workers everywhere bring in to humanize their little corners. In Sergeant Rawlings's case, this included a triptych silver frame encasing the smiling faces of his blandly attractive wife and two young daughters.

As she sat in the chair opposite the desk, Amy proceeded to notice other unexpected touches. Rawlings was apparently without a partner, a television no-no, and had the wrong appearance and style for the job. To start with, he was too friendly. With his sandy hair cut stylishly short, his open Midwestern face, and a white, tapered shirt, tie, but no jacket, the homicide detective had the amiable look of an actor/waiter about to introduce himself and take your drink order.

He seemed about the right age for an actor/waiter, in his early thirties, with an ingratiating enthusiasm just right for selling the daily specials. His eyes were a sincere gray blue, with pale, almost invisible eyebrows that served only to increase his look of wide-eyed wonder. Amy recalled Frank's warning and reminded herself not to underestimate him. The last thing she wanted was to spend her next few breakfasts picking apart muffin cups.

“When we talked on the phone . . . What was it? Two weeks ago . . . ? You didn't tell me you had a city police officer on the tour. Trying not to ruin Frank's vacation, huh?” The tone was gently chiding.

“I didn't even think about it.”

“You can imagine my surprise when Patrolman Loyola called me Sunday night and told me about your situation in Rome. Sounds like you had your hands full.”

Amy threw a sideways glance at Frank.
Sunday night?
Frank must have squealed the second after hanging up from Martha. Would it do any good to change the subject? “By the way, my mother . . . You made quite an impression.”

Rawlings stretched his thin lips into a smile. “Yes,” he drawled. “Fanny. Be sure to give her my best. Now, Amy . . .” He leaned across the desk. “I spent some time on the phone to Captain Boido in Rome. He speaks excellent English. And Lieutenant Jorgenson in San Diego. His English is even better. At one point we had this conference call going. New York, Rome, San Diego.”

“San Diego,” Amy repeated. This didn't bode well.

“Yes. A murder there five years ago. But this is stuff you already know. I'm still getting up to speed.”

The sergeant took a file folder from his top center drawer and opened it, covering up the faint water rings on his desktop. “I'm hoping you might be able to confirm a few facts. We're in the early stages, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't repeat any of this. We don't want to go upsetting people.”

“I understand,” Amy lied.

“Good. First off, I guess you should know we're starting to build a case against Marcus Alvarez.”

“But isn't that Italian jurisdiction? Georgina was killed there.” Amy frowned. It took her several seconds to fit the pieces together. “Oh, you're talking your case.” She swallowed hard. “You're accusing him of killing Otto Ingo?”

“We're not accusing anyone of anything. But . . .” He referred to the open folder, half reading from a report. “People in Otto's building remember seeing him enter Otto's apartment quite a few times. Boido faxed us his prints, which match prints lifted from the deceased's living room. There was no forced entry, no wounds to indicate a struggle, which leads us to suspect a friend or associate. Mr. Ingo had precious few of either. And finally, we have a definite sighting of Marcus there on the morning of the murder. He didn't fly off to Monte Carlo until late afternoon.” Rawlings looked up with a satisfied grin, as if he'd just rattled off all the chef's specials. “It's a good start.”

Amy was stunned. “Marcus worked for Otto. Naturally he'd visit. Naturally his prints would be in the apartment. What possible motive could he have for killing him?”

“Motive indeed. We're looking into the possibility that Marcus was hired by the Carvel family to assassinate Ms. Davis.”

“Assassinate?” Amy was doing her best to keep up. “What are you talking about?” In seconds they'd gone from one murder to two, from shreds of circumstantial evidence to a theory of Marcus Alvarez as a hired hit man.

“I'm sorry. Let me start at the top.” The sergeant leaned across his desk, smiling. He seemed to enjoy Amy's confusion. “Lieutenant Jorgenson faxed us the file from five years ago.”

“San Diego.”

“Correct.” Rawlings reached into his top drawer and pulled out a file folder. “No arrest was made in the Carvel case, but they did have a prime suspect.”

“Marcus, yes. Why not?” Amy said, impatient with this absurdity.

“No. Georgina Davis.”

“Oh.”

“I'm not going to go into the evidence,” he said, tapping the file. “Jorgenson wanted to pursue an arrest, but the district attorney refused. The evidence against Ms. Davis was circumstantial at best, and she'd hired some impressive legal talent. Budgets were being slashed at the time. A lot of California DAs were getting gun-shy of these expensive, high-profile cases.”

“Georgina killed Fabian Carvel?”

“The police theory.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. The detective /waiter was definitely enjoying this.
I'm sorry, ma'am, we're all out of the special salmon. Might I recommend the liver?

“Georgina? That's ridiculous.” She turned to Frank for help, but the patrolman was staring at his feet, refusing to speak or look up. “Why would she kill Carvel?”

“That's not important,” Rawlings said with a dismissive wave.

“It was to her.”

Rawlings slipped the file back into the drawer. “So, five years go by, and Otto Ingo starts looking into the Carvel murder. Maybe Marcus Alvarez talked him into it. Maybe not. That's not important.”

“It was to him,” Amy said. Well, it sounded good.

“In creating their game, Otto and his employee uncovered new evidence. Very possible. After all, Otto was a mystery expert, and this employee was intimately connected to the case.” The sergeant looked up from his hands and into Amy's eyes. “In your game, who wound up being the killer?”

Amy hesitated. “Dodo Fortunof.”

“The Georgina Davis character.”

“Correct.”

“And so, if Jorgenson is right . . . You can see why Ms. Davis signed up. Someone was making a game based on a murder she thought she'd gotten away with.” He let the sentence hang.

Amy nodded absently, her thoughts flying back to the tour. Could it have been Georgina all along? Ditzy, harmless Georgina, following them to the garden and throwing the rock. Arranging the robberies. She wasn't about to tell Rawlings any of these details. He was doing fine on his own.

“Marcus Alvarez visited the victim's widow,” the detective continued. “His phone records show several calls to the Long Island house. And, most persuasive, there was a deposit made in his account two days before the tour began. Twenty thousand dollars. We're trying to subpoena Mrs. Carvel's bank records.”

“You think Marcus told Mrs. Carvel about the evidence,” Amy mumbled.

“Or her son, Daniel.”

“And they paid him to kill Georgina.”

“We should know more in a day or so.”

“But before killing Georgina, he had to kill Otto Ingo.”

Rawlings nodded. “Doesn't that make sense?”

Unfortunately, it did. Otto had to have recognized the evidence, whatever it was. He himself had picked Dodo as the fictional killer. If the real Dodo was murdered during the game, the game master would undoubtedly take it personally. He would go to the police. So he had to die as well.

“It makes perfect sense.” This was Frank's first contribution to the debate, and Amy was taken aback by the adversarial tone.

Rawlings ignored him. “We need to find whatever evidence Mr. Ingo might have uncovered. But we haven't been able to locate his research. We searched his apartment. He's got master scripts to all his previous games, but not to this one.”

Amy felt a little weak in the knees and was glad she was sitting down. “Maybe his killer took it.”

“We considered that.” Rawlings's focus shifted to a moving object: Amy's knee, bobbing up and down, up and down. She couldn't help it. Amy followed the sergeant's gaze and did her best to stop. “You don't know anything about that, do you, Ms. Abel? Mr. Ingo's master script?”

“How could I?” Amy placed her heel flat on the floor and concentrated on not moving it. “Otto never gave us a full script. That's not to say that he might not have sent us a copy right before he died—you know, as a memento, maybe. But we haven't yet received one, if he sent it. Of course, you know the post office, always screwing things up. If we ever do get a copy in the mail, we'll be sure to give it to you. Right away.” She couldn't stop herself from babbling. “We won't even look at it.”

Rawlings's face was unreadable, but Frank was thoroughly confused. “What are you saying? Otto mailed you a copy of his script?”

“No! But he might have, right before he died.”

“But that was weeks ago. You would have gotten it.”

“You're probably right.”

“Did Otto say he was sending you a script?”

“No. Forget I mentioned it.”

Frank didn't. “Maybe he put on insufficient postage, and they returned it to sender. Then let's say his super was a nice guy and put on a few extra stamps and sent it back. That could take weeks.”

“Forget it!”

“You're the one who brought it up,” Frank said.

And you're an idiot.
It felt good just thinking it.

“Excuse me.” Rawlings raised a finger, as if warning the kids in the backseat to stop fighting. “We're straying from the point.”

“The point is you think Marcus is a hired hit man.” Amy was raising her voice and regretting it even as she did. “There is nothing—absolutely nothing—in his background to indicate that. Am I right?”

“How do you know about his background?” Frank demanded. “Just because you played hanky-panky with the guy doesn't make him innocent.”

“Hanky-panky? What are you talking about?”

“Had sex with him.”

“I know what
hanky-panky
means.”

“Everyone on the tour was talking about it.”

“What? We did not hanky-panky—which is none of your business, anyway.” Amy glanced to the cubicle walls. Maybe she should lower her voice. “Does he have a criminal record? Anything that would point to him being . . .” She gritted her teeth. “What makes you think we slept together?”

“Oh, come on,” Frank said with a snigger.

“No,
you
come on.”

“People!” It was no longer “Excuse me.” “You're right. He doesn't have a sheet,” Rawlings said, his tone so calm it was almost eerie. “But you'd be surprised how many murders are committed by first timers. As for the term
hit man . . .
what we're suggesting is that Marcus went to Mrs. Carvel. That's been established.”

“To do research.”

“Shut up,” Frank ordered.

“You shut up.”

“Guys!” It was no longer “People.” “Mrs. Carvel might have been distressed to hear Georgina Davis named as her husband's killer. Her son, Daniel, might have been present. At some point, the subject of retribution might have come up. We'll know more when we find out where Marcus's twenty thousand came from.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Amy asked.

“What do you mean?” Rawlings asked.

“Do you usually call people in and tell them your unsubstantiated theories?”

“Ms. Abel.” Rawlings seemed to measure his words. “You worked closely with Marcus Alvarez on this tour. Correct?”

“We didn't sleep together,” Amy shouted.

“Good for you,” barked a voice from the next cubicle.

“Smathers, butt out,” Rawlings said and slammed an open hand against the particleboard partition.

“Yes, sir.” Smathers sounded unrepentant.

“What I'm saying”—Rawlings lowered his voice—“is that you want to help your friend. Understandable. But you have to realize we are pursuing a case against him. Any cooperation will be appreciated. Any interference or withholding of evidence will not be appreciated.”

“You're trying to intimidate me.”

Rawlings lowered his voice even further. “How am I doing?”

Frank chuckled through a nasty grin. Amy didn't know why she was letting Frank get under her skin. Maybe it was just the shock of being betrayed by a man who was supposed to be helping.

“Some friend you turned out to be.”

Frank bristled. “Hey. No one believed in Marcus more than me. But that was before I knew the facts.”

“What facts? There are no facts. If you stopped to think—”

“Shut up.” Frank's thick hands flew to his armrests, tensing, about to push the rest of his body to its feet. “You and your sophisticated, know-it-all friends. The whole trip long making fun of me. Don't think I didn't know. Well, for your information, you don't know squat about real homicide. Not squat.”