1 Runaway Man (12 page)

“That whoever pushed her off of her balcony was someone who she knew—or felt she had no reason to be afraid of.”

Legs looked at me doubtfully. “It could be just exactly what it looks like.”

“Trust me, it’s not. Did anyone sign in downstairs shortly before her death? Someone who came to, say, visit another tenant or repair somebody’s cable TV?”

“Absolutely. It’s a huge building. A hundred and sixty-one tenants. We have a list of everyone who signed in with the doorman in the two hours leading up to her death. And we’ve got a man checking them out, one by one, just to determine if they saw or heard anything.”

“Can I see the list?”

“I don’t have it on me, but I can get it for you.”

“Was anything missing from her apartment?”

“You mean like jewelry?”

“I mean like a laptop computer.”

Legs stared at me. “Now that you mention it, I didn’t notice a laptop.”

“How about her cell phone?”

“I don’t know. They’re still cataloguing everything.” He reached for his own cell. “I’ll check.”

I sipped my coffee while he did, serenaded by the cheery sound of soup spoons bouncing off of artificial teeth.

“No cell phone,” Legs reported after he rang off. “Not in her purse. Not anywhere.” He peered at me suspiciously now. “Where are you going with this? Because to me it plays suicide all of the way.”

“Of course it does. That’s what they want you to think.”

“Okay, who is
they
?”

“Will there be an autopsy?”

“Has to be. It’s an unnatural death.”

“Will the autopsy results be made public?”

“She was a Kidd. We’re talking about the wealthiest, most politically connected family in the city.”

“Does that mean no?”

“It means,” Legs replied, “that the family lawyer has already done some heavy leaning on Commissioner Feldman. Her autopsy results are to be kept sealed. First thing I was told when I was handed the case.”

“That’s because the Kidds know what it’ll show.”

“Which is?…”

“That Kathleen had a baby at a certain point in her life.”

“
What
point in her life?”

“I’d say right around when she was thirteen years old. This Kidd family lawyer who leaned on Feldman—was his name by any chance Peter Seymour?”

“How did you know that?”

“Because he’s the classy cocksucker who set me up.”

Legs Diamond took a slow sip of his coffee before he turned his penetrating gaze on me and said, “Start talking, little bud.”

I started talking. I told him everything I could, which is to say everything short of the name Charles Willingham and why Bruce Weiner had been staying in a borrowed guest cottage on Candlewood Lake. There was no need for Legs to know that. But I told him the rest. How Mr. Classy Guy had shown up at our office two days ago offering us big bucks to find the elusive Bruce. How I’d found him at the Warfield place on Candlewood Lake with three nine-mil slugs in him and his laptop and cell phone gone. How I’d learned from his sister, Sara, that Bruce had been adopted. And that Bruce had been approached on campus before Thanksgiving by a woman claiming to be his birth mother. Sara had seen a woman in her thirties approach Bruce at a mall in Willoughby over Christmas. And had heard the woman say, “You’re a kid and you always will be.” Kid as in Kidd. She’d identified the woman from her DMV photo as Kathleen Kidd.

“My car was bugged,” I informed him. “A three-watt UHF transmitter and a GPS tracker. Our office and our phones were bugged. The whole thing smells of the Leetes Group. We know that they’re involved—Seymour had them prepare the file he gave us on the Weiners. He used me to find Bruce so that Bruce could be taken out. And now Kathleen is dead, too. There’s no way her death is a random, coincidental suicide. It’s all part of a calculated plan to keep some awful secret from coming out.”

Legs let all of this soak in, his head nodding. “Yo, I see where you’re coming from. It plays. But it’s pure speculation. If I take it to my captain I’ll get nowhere. Not without hard evidence. And I’ll for damned sure get nowhere with Jake Leetes. He’s as tough and nasty as they come.” He paused, mulling it over. “Who’s handling the Weiner shooting out in Connecticut?”

“Some total prick on the major crime squad in Litchfield.”

“He’s not a Battalino, is he?”

“Yeah, how’d you know that?”

“Because half of the guys who have juice out there are Battalinos. They’re one big happy family. Which one is it—Rico, Tommy, Richie?…”

“Marco. Since when are you such an expert on the Connecticut State Police?”

“I’ve been seeing a woman named Claudia who’s a homicide investigator on major crimes out there. Met her on a case a few weeks back.”

“Hey, that’s great, Legs.”

“Well, it is and it isn’t,” grumbled Legs, whose relationship train always seemed to come grinding to a halt at dysfunction junction. “She lives three hours away. The best we can manage is weekends, except we’re both workaholics so who has a weekend? Mostly, we just sext back and forth twenty times a day—which gets old in a hurry, believe me.”

“Oh, I do.”

He shot me a look. “You mocking me?”

“Never.”

“Good, because I can still pound the snot out of you.”

“What you two need is a week in the Bahamas together. Why don’t you both put in for vacation time and book a trip?”

“I have a better idea. Why don’t you and me get back to what we were talking about, okay, Dr. Phil?”

“Whatever you say.”

He tugged at his goatee thoughtfully. “If he’s a Battalino then he’s probably not overly blessed in the smarts department.”

“You can just go ahead and dispense with the word ‘probably.’”

“But he’ll be turfy. It’s
his
case and he won’t want any hotshot from New York City within ten miles of it.
Maybe
I could sell him that our two cases connect up. But first I’d have to sell my own captain. And I’m going to need more before I can do that.”

“You have two dead bodies. Kathleen Kidd’s is in the custody of the Manhattan medical examiner. Bruce Weiner’s is at the State of Connecticut’s lab in Farmington. Can’t you just take a DNA sample from each of them to verify that she was his birth mother?”

“Yes but no.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’d have to fill out a requisition. That means it has to be part of an official investigation. And there
is
no investigation into Kathleen Kidd’s death. If I mess around in this it could cost me my shield. By the way, did I remember to thank you large for dumping it in my lap?”

“I wouldn’t think of dumping it anywhere else. Can you do it or not?”

“Only if it’s off the books,” he replied, puffing out his cheeks. “It’ll have to come in through the back door on tiptoes. I’ll talk to my girl Claudia. See if she knows someone in Farmington who’ll do her a solid. And there
might
be someone in our ME’s office who’ll help me out. But I’ll still need a whole lot more to get my captain on board.”

“Like what?”

“Like a paper trail. Bruce Weiner’s birth certificate, the adoption records. All of that ought to be recorded somewhere. Trouble is, if you’re right about any of this…”

“Oh, I’m right.”

“Then as soon as I start nosing around a really loud alarm bell will go off and the Kidd family will shut me right down.” He stared down into his coffee cup. “This sister of Bruce’s…”

“Sara? What about her?”

“If they’ve got her on tape talking to you then her life may be in danger.”

“Legs, if anything happens to that girl I’ll never forgive myself.”

“Same goes for her parents,” he added. “They’re the ones who legally adopted Bruce. They know a lot. Too much, maybe. Where is it that they live?”

I gave him their address in Willoughby.

“I’m going to ask the Willoughby PD to keep an eye on that house.”

“Does this mean you believe me?”

“It means I’d rather be safe than sorry. Who was Bruce tight with?”

“His roommate, Chris Warfield.”

“Okay, I can reach out to the campus police. Anyone else?”

“No one else,” I stated firmly.

He looked me in the eye and said, “Yeah, there is.”

“Legs, there’s no one else.”

“Yeah, there is.”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because you suck as a liar.”

“Really? I always thought I was pretty good.”

“Maybe with other people. Me, I can see right through you. Who else was Bruce tight with? And don’t you dare hold out on me.”

“Charles Willingham,” I said, swallowing. “
The
Charles Willingham. The two of them were extremely close, okay?”

He stared at me. “When you say ‘extremely close’ are you saying?…”

“I’m saying it.”

“Okay, that particular nugget we keep to ourselves.”

“Thank you.”

“But I’m for sure putting a man on him. Any idea where he?—”

“He’s staying with his mom, Velma, for a few days. She lives in the Martin Luther King projects. And Charles confides in her.”

“Anybody else?”

“That’s everybody.”

Legs shook his head at me. “Not so, doofus. There’s
you
.”

“They could have taken me out last night at Candlewood Lake. If they wanted me dead I’d be dead.”

“Don’t be too sure. That was last night. Today’s a whole new scenario. Kathleen’s dead. And now you’ve reached out to me. That might change everything as far as they’re concerned. Are you packing?”

I patted the pocket of my duffel coat, nodding. “But Mom never carries a weapon. Neither does Rita.”

“I’ll ask somebody to keep an eye on them off the clock. For Meyer Golden’s widow I bet I can scrounge up more than three-dozen volunteers. Your father was beloved. I was proud to know him.”

“So was I.”

“I’ve been granted some brief, respectful face time with Kathleen’s mother, Eleanor, tomorrow morning. It falls under the category of routine follow-up. I’m guessing that Bobby the K and Meg will be there. Also this attorney of theirs, Peter Seymour.”

“Wait until you get a load of his shoes.”

“His what?”

“You were saying?…”

“Maybe I’ll find out something about Kathleen that’ll shed a light on what’s going on here. But I’ll have to tread super careful or Seymour will show me the door.”

“That you can count on. Any chance I can tag along?”

“In what capacity?”

“I’m working for the Weiner family.”

“You are?”

“Well, no. Although Sara did try to hire us last night.”

“Did I remember to thank you for dumping this in my lap?”

“I believe you did.”

Legs Diamond drained the last of his coffee, looking down into his empty cup. “Let’s say, just for the sake of argument, that Kathleen Kidd
did
have a baby way back when she was thirteen. Let’s say she
was
Bruce Weiner’s birth mother. Why suddenly take them out now, after all of these years?”

“Her brother does intend to be our next governor.”

“Yo, I totally get that. And I get that the tabloids would go hog wild if this ever came out. But so what? The Kidds have been tabloid fodder for as long as there have been tabloids. What’s there to be
so
afraid of? Seriously, who cares if his emotionally unstable sister got herself knocked up twenty years ago?”

I drank the last of my own coffee. “Good question, Legs. I don’t have an answer. But
somebody
cares.”

*   *   *

SHE LIVED IN A FOUR-STORY
brownstone on West 12 between Fifth and Sixth, which happens to be a really nice Greenwich Village block of really nice brownstones. Hers was especially nice. It had tall windows with window boxes. A polished hardwood front door with gleaming brass work. I tried the door but it was locked. There was no walk-in vestibule with the usual row of mailboxes and apartment buzzers. There was only the hardwood door and one buzzer. I pushed it and waited there on the front steps. But I wasn’t buzzed in. That’s because it wasn’t a buzzer. It was a doorbell.

When she opened the door I was pleased to discover that Sonya Posner was the exact same height as me in her bare feet. Mind you, I was wearing my thick-soled hiking boots. But it was nice to know that I could go nose-to-nose with her. It made it that much easier to get lost in those utterly mesmerizing pale green eyes of hers. As I stood there, gazing into them, my heart went pitter-patter all over again.

“I was
so
glad you called, cookie.”

“Really? I was afraid it was kind of short notice.”

“Are you kidding me? I was sitting here by the phone, praying it would ring and it would be you inviting me out to dinner tonight. I’m the one who came by your office, cupcakes in hand, remember? Come on in. It’s
freezing
out here.”

I followed Sonya into the entry hall, careful not to tromp on her slender bare feet. Her toenails were painted lime green. She was wearing a pair of tight jeans and a burgundy silk blouse with nothing, but nothing, underneath it. I heard music playing somewhere inside—the cast album of
Gypsy
.

“Your mom told me you’re huge into Ethel Merman,” Sonya explained. “So I downloaded a bunch of her Broadway shows from iTunes. Seriously, are you
sure
you’re not gay?”

“Positive.”

“I’m so glad.” To show me just how glad Sonya gave me a friendly, full-body hug—then drew back from me, arching one eyebrow. “Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

“Actually, it’s a gun in my pocket.”

“Shut up! Let me see!”

I pulled it from the pocket of my duffel coat and showed it to her.

She gaped at it. “What do you call that thing?”

“It’s a Chief’s Special.”

“Is it loaded?”

“Yes, it is.” I returned it to my coat pocket.

“Forgive me for asking, Benji, but why are you carrying that?”

“There’s been a bit of trouble with a case I’m working on.” I took off my coat and hung it from the peg rack in the entry hall. “I’d rather not go into it if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind. Are you kidding me? You’re gorgeous, dangerous
and
mysterious. Men don’t come any hotter. And I just love what you’re wearing.”